This will be repetitious regarding regular readers. Thank you for your patience and patronage, watch for the changes and try to keep up as we attempt to bring irregular readers up to speed as painlessly as possible. For those irregulars — welcome, and if irregularity continues… please see your family physician.
And so, it had come to pass that in the year 20 of 20 a plague raged and laid waste to the lands. In its wake, hoarding and buying of panic took hold of the southern realms. In search of provisions, those of the House o’ Saw were forced to travel to the market of flea to explore rumors of the coveted and much sought after paper of toilet that might be found there.
Alas many went unwiped that day. For the stories of two-ply were those of false gods… Bounty and Kleenex. Thus those of Saw were to leave the market with heavy hearts and dirty bums (backsides, not homeless folk). But lo, as they departed there was a baa… The forlorn baa of a small goat of fainting in need of rescue from barbaric conditions, starvation and certain dinner plans …and verily she was… rescued, not eaten. To be taken, loved and shepherded, in the back of yard, at the House o’ Saw.
In those earliest of days, on the darkest of nights, she would relinquish inhuman howls, that sounded all-too-human, into the darkness. She was thus dubbed the Wendigoat after the wailing, cannibalistic creature of Native American folklore. (And the neighbors loved us.)
Within a year’s passage she would travel, in a carrier of dogs, to the bountiful fields and meadows of the Farm o’ Saw. Where verily she might frolic and play the rest of her days. And yet, she was lonely. For though she found kinship in human and canine, she sought companionship of her own bovid kind.
Thus, a consort of her kind and breeding was sought out. And he shall be called Fritz! Because after 3 days of debating that is verily what we settled on. Wendi’s loneliness abated as their twin songs wailed in discombobulated harmony throughout the land.
But lo, maturity and fertility comes quick upon those goats of the faint. And so it came to pass that soon their song wafted to the heavens and became that of Marvin Gaye. And so a decree was set down by Lil Red (that’s the spouse) that all male goats must be… well, you know. But verily I say unto thee finding a vet that makes house calls is like unto a b****.
Still the Little of Red began to brood that Wendi might already be with child… kid… baby goat person? Her incessant concern was that of a plague upon the farm. Thus, she sought advice from the heavens, her father and the infinite wisdom found within the wizened pages of Raising Goats for Dummies.
Therefore, I spoke unto her saying, fear not for I bring you tidings of great relief. For unto this day I have spoke unto Wendi, for verily she is a goat of mine-own. Thus I have told her to hold the child within until the veteran of nary can arrive. And lo, that is exactly what she did.
And now dear reader, verily I say unto thee… we are dropping the faux Biblical verbiage pretense thusly. For verily I tire of it.
After weeks of worry Red finally found and contacted the Henry River Mobile Vet Service. Two lovely ladies promptly arrived at the farm the next day, ready to tend to Fritz’s… junk. And, armed with an ultrasound to either confirm or deny Wendi’s condition. The latter was pointless because as instructed, Wendi went into labor right on cue, the moment they pulled into the drive.
So now we have one male goat stoned on pain meds. One proud mama goat. And one itty-bitty boy kid, all brown save for a sole white patch on his side, Thus the grandson dubbing him Spot. Posts have been driven, fences hung and pasture divided to keep all safe. And though it is fun to share with you how our herd has grown, I can only hope this will be the last article of this variety. Because livestock can be a handful and both mine are.
I welcome almost all questions, and comments via FOCUS, or E-mail me at [email protected].
Hope to hear from ya until then try and stay focused! See ya.
