How to mess up a goat in a few easy steps

It’s pretty easy to mess up an animal psychologically. A lot of animal behavior isn’t instinctual. It’s learned from good old mom. Without her around, or an animal of the same species, it’s easy for any animal to not know exactly what it is. I’ve had a sheep who thought it was a goat, a goat who thought she was a dog, and of course, dogs who thought they were human. Which is why, when Anabel, a day old orphaned goat came to live with us, we proceeded down the road of a psychologically messed up “kidhood.”  Anabel survived, and even I think forgave us, but not without some deep scars.

 

We were living in Urbana, IL at the time in a little development with a postage stamp yard where you weren’t supposed to keep livestock. We decided to raise Anabel in the house, thinking no one would actually see her. Bruce and I had both grown up on dairy farms after all. Calves warming up in the kitchen, horses sticking their head in a window to say hello, chicks in the bathroom, were pretty commonplace. Anabel, we reasoned, could stay in the basement at night and when we weren’t at home. In the evening, she could run around the house with the dogs. No one would be the wiser.

 

Here are a few interesting facts about raising a goat in the house. A baaing baby goat sounds a lot like a bawling infant. That the neighbors never called the police about the screaming baby we kept locked in our basement might be disturbing in retrospect, but at the time I was just relieved.  Also, you can diaper a goat, but because of the way its butt slopes, as soon as the diaper is wet the weight of the thing will make it slide right off. And then there’s the fact that the plastic on a disposable diaper melts every time it comes close to a wood stove, which it does when it’s on the butt of a scampering little goat.

 

Anabel was happy though. She trotted around after the dogs sure she was one of the pack. That they didn’t know how to butt heads with her, didn’t stop her from trying. She came running to the kitchen whenever she heard milk replacer being mixed up. She followed the dogs, waiting to be fed whenever they were. She went out into the yard with the dogs, learning to pee and poop outside right alongside them. She was housebroken in a few weeks. 

 

 Jumping isn’t something goats need to be taught. Playing king of the hill is in their DNA. By the time Anabel was three weeks old, she could jump in one bound on to the dining room table. That she slid straight across the slippery table, wiping out everything on her way, and fell off the other end, was not a deterrent. There was no piece of furniture or counter that was safe. She never made it to the top of the refrigerator, but that wasn’t from a lack of trying.

 

Ruminants, grazing animals with four compartments to their stomach that allow them to digest cellulose, are divided into grazers and browsers. Grazers, like cows, eat mostly grass. Browsers, like goats and deer, eat mostly “browse” better known as shrubs, leaves, bark, twigs, and other things that are chewy and crunchy. Sheep fall somewhere in between eating both grass and browse. The myth that goats eat tin cans comes from the fact that they were often caught chewing on the paper on the tin can. Paper for a goat, is right up there with the crunchiest leaves; something to savor.

 

Anabel understood the concept of browsing, which made her death to my one and only philodendron. Unfortunately, a lot of house plants are poisonous. I moved the plant onto the top of the refrigerator and tried offering other things to Anabel to eat. She was over a month old by then and big enough to start eating things other than milk. But she turned her nose up at everything. We tried it all, grass, grain, shrubs. She just turned her head away and screamed for her bottle.

 

I put grain in Anabel’s milk, thinking I could get a little food into her that way and introduce her to a little texture. She refused to drink it at all. Most animals learn to eat solid food from watching their mothers eat, but Anabel had no mother to show her.  The dogs were the closest thing she had.

 

She nosed the dogs’ kibble, but never eat it. I tried putting hay or grain in the dogs’ dishes, but the dogs wouldn’t eat it and neither would Anabel. Other than the house plants, she wouldn’t consume anything vegetative. By the time she was two months old it was apparent she needed to eat something other than milk to keep up with her growth. Plus, if we locked her in the basement, she screamed non-stop. And if she was upstairs, the furniture, knick-knacks, anything on any surface, was soon flying through the air and landing on the floor. The dogs thought it was great fun, but the house was a disaster.

 

So, we did what all good parents do. We decided to send Anabel to boarding school for remedial training. We had friends that lived out of town and had a pig, dogs, ducks, and horses, but unfortunately no goats. Anabel went to live with them. She started with the pig as a tutor, who by the end of the first week had her eating grain. Moving up to grass and hay was a little more difficult. But by the end of a month, the horses had gotten her to start nibbling on bales of hay.

 

By the time Anabel was six months old, she was almost normal. Well, at least she was eating normally. She still had no idea she was a goat. She didn’t meet another goat till she was over a year old, which was a very traumatic event. But that’s another story.

Some Things I've learned from Dogs

A week after Finn, our eight week old Golden Retriever pup came to live with us, Bruce and I headed east from Oregon to visit family in New York State. Finn nestled on the brown plaid vinyl seat between us, as we drove the rust colored Chevy pick-up through long stretches of empty country. Within a day, the three of us settled into a traveling routine. By the time we reached Wyoming, Finn was truck broken.

The flat, gray-green sagebrush-covered landscape rolled on in every direction; the flat horizon relieved by an occasional tree, or a cow grazing among the sage brush. Finn broke the monotony by changing positions, or rushing to the window to watch the scenery race by. When he needed to go, hid place his paws on the door, press his nose to the window and whining to go out. To take a nap, he’d climb up my shoulder, tight rope walk across the back of the truck’s bench seat. Then plopping down with two right legs dangling over the front and the two left behind, he’d fall asleep straddling the bench seat. Draped over the seat, he’d sleep as we made our way across Oregon and Utah.

            On the third day of the trip, in the middle of Wyoming, Finn woke up from a nap and climbed onto my lap. He placed his two front paws on the window and began to whine. “He needs to go, Bruce” I said.

            Bruce stared straight ahead, his eyes never leaving the interstate that stretched out ahead of us. “There’s a rest area coming up soon,” he said.

            I patted Finn’s head thinking of all the stories I could tell him about driving cross country with Bruce. The first time Bruce and I headed west, I marveled at his organization. None of this “get in the car and go” for Bruce. He pored over maps; planned out the route; memorized the interstate numbers; calculated how far he could get on a tank of gas. Every exit to get gas was predetermined. Every rest area to stretch our legs and go to the bathroom was scheduled. Finn had my sympathy. I’d crossed my legs across many a state waiting for the scheduled rest stop.

The “Rest Area - 2 miles ahead” sign came into view. “Soon,” I whispered to Finn, who trusting that relief was in sight, curled up on my lap and tried to sleep.

            A huge green sign announced the rest area. An orange slash across the sign, proclaimed its closure. A couple large orange barrels blocked the ramp, emphasizing the impenetrability of the place.

Bruce didn’t take his foot off the gas. He drove by at 60 miles an hour. Finn, sensing relief slipping away, jumped up and looked out the window. He barked as the rest area slipped out of view behind us.

            “Bruce,” my voice sounded like a screech even to my ears, “he has to go.”

            “The rest area’s closed,” Bruce said. “I can’t just stop.”

The countryside rolled by us devoid of roads, houses, or cars. “Why on earth not?” I said.

            “A car might come,” he answered.

            My eyes scanned the horizon; not a car in sight. I looked behind us. No one followed for the miles that rolled out flat and unbroken behind us. We hadn’t seen another car all morning. “It’s Wyoming, Bruce” I said.

            “I’ll pull off at the next exit,” he answered.

            “It’s Wyoming, Bruce. The next exit could be two hours away.”

            As if in answer a sign came into view. “Dead Indian Road - 10 miles”, it read.

            “We’ll pull off there,” Bruce answered, satisfied that that was a good solution.

            Finn stood up and circled on my lap. I pet him ineffectually. “Should have warned you buddy,” I thought, “bladders and stomachs don’t usually figure into Bruce’s calculations.” I hoped he wouldn’t pee on my lap.

            As if resigned, he put his paws on my shoulders and pushing with his back legs, climbed up to the back of the bench seat. “Good” I thought, as Finn tight rope walked across the back of the seat to the middle where he usually slept. “He’s going to lie down and sleep a while.” But when he reached the middle of the seat he kept walking until he was balancing on the back of seat right behind Bruce’s right shoulder.

            “What’s he doing,” Bruce asked, as a sizzling sound filled the air, the acrid smell of warm urine floating across the cab. “Stop him,” Bruce yelled, as I watched a dark wet patch spread slowly across Bruce’s shoulder and down his back and arm. Dark yellow urine pooled on the vinyl seat, and rolled slowly toward me. I pressed myself against the door, looking around for something to dam the flood. Finn stood balanced behind Bruce’s shoulder, the stream of warm yellow urine flowing on and on and on. I watched enthralled, amazed that such a little dog could hold so much pee.

“Stop him,” Bruce said again, but I was trying not to laugh, while I pulled a roll of paper towels from behind the seat and mopped up urine.  The pee followed a seam in the vinyl and spilled onto the floor of the cab, avoiding me all together.

Finn finally stopped, turned and walked back to me. He climbed down off the seat and curled up on my lap for a nap.

I mopped ineffectually at Bruce’s soaked shirt with a paper towel. “Maybe you can stop at the next rest area to change,” I said, as Bruce’s unsmiling face stared straight ahead.

I learned more from Finn that I’ve learned from most people, so here’s hoping I can write story animals who are nearly as entertaining.