Bleatin’ Kids

We have more babies.

Last week Leslie and I witnessed the birth of our latest additions to Soleil Farm.  Yes, after living out here for almost three years, we finally decided on a farm name.  Soleil (pronounced so-LAY) is French for, “You’re gonna get skin cancer.”

Anyway, when our doe (Neo, short for Neapolitan, because her coloring resembles the ice cream by the same name) decided to lay down and finally push out the kids she’d been carrying for what seemed like a year, Leslie was right there.  And I mean, RIGHT THERE.

As Neo bleated her imprecations against the father – “You did this to me!  I want morphine!” – Leslie turned to me and hollered, “Go in the house and get my medical kit and some towels.”   She was serious.  I’m surprised she didn’t ask me to boil some water.

Leslie knelt next to Neo and prepared to assist, but I guess her presence was more disconcerting than the labor pains because Neo got up and walked away.

It seems that goats have been birthing kids for many years without the help of a nurse.  Who knew?  So we stood 20 yards away and watched.

For an ex-paramedic who has seen far too many urban babies being born, watching the goats come into the world was rather fun for me.  And I stayed clean, which is always a plus.

A little buck came first and we named him Casserole.  Yes, we’re sick, but we’re fun at parties.  Come on, this is a meat goat.

The little doe is named Oprah.  Now, both Leslie and I like and admire Oprah.  This is in no way meant as an insult.  Just look at the pictures and decide for yourself.

Oprah and Oprah. You decide.

Here are some more photos of the happy family.

Casserole exercises his vocal cords

Oprah poses. Was it Jenny Craig?

Neo feeds the hungry twins

Casserole and Oprah pose

The family poses for pasture paparazzi

We also have another expectant mother in the pasture.  A female Killdeer has made her ground nest only 12 yards from the nursing enclosure.  Why she chose here, I don’t know.  She could have been 100 yards away and much safer from wayward caprine hoofs, but I don’t question a mother’s instinct.

Here are some shots of the Killdeer.

Mama Killdeer sitting on her eggs

Here's the clutch Mama Killdeer is incubating

Mama Killdeer fakes a broken wing to draw predators away from the babies. Amazing!

Mama Killdeer settles down, but still has her eye on me

Casserole and Oprah take a much-deserved rest in the warm sun

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Bumping into Neighbors

Do you know this guy?

Preparing for a rural shopping trip

Leslie and I had just pulled into the Food Lion, and we were discussing what she was going to buy.  Out here, you plan your trips to the market carefully.  At almost 30 miles for a round trip to the closest grocery store, you don’t want to forget anything.

As we sat in the truck debating dinner, one of our elderly neighbors entered the parking lot.  Driving a spotless Buick LeSaber and accompanied by a yappy toy mutt, he came down the aisle in front of us, smoothly pulled into the parking space in front of us and then proceeded forward until he smacked into the front of my truck.

Momentarily dumbstruck, all I could mutter was a John Belushi line from Animal House: “That’s good!”

As we watched with somewhat enhanced attention, the elderly driver put the car in park, switched his lit cigarette from his right hand to his left, and then reached for his open Busch beer, finishing off the can in one long swig while we watched in stunned silence.

He never once looked up at us or even seemed to notice that a big, blue Ford logo was just a couple of feet from his windshield.  I’d like to say that he then unbuckled his seat belt, but out here that would surely be fantasy.

Leslie quickly picked up her lower jaw and quietly slipped out the door.  She hates confrontation, but I don’t think she was worried I’d go postal on some old guy.  She simply knew that anything I said would be clearly audible in the store.

Cigarette firmly between his lips and Busch can drained, grandpa stepped out of the car just as my feet hit the asphalt.

“Hey!” I yelled, and paused while the echo died.  “You might want to consider leaving the beer at home the next time you go shopping old man.  You just hit my truck while parking.”

Leslie will tell you that in the last few months I’ve made several female salespeople cry, so you won’t be surprised to learn that when I feel the Shaft of Life nearing my backside, my brain surrenders command to General Testosterone.  Yet, this 5-foot-6, 130-pound AARP reject didn’t flinch.

Incredulous, he took a few steps toward the front of his car and looked over the hood where our vehicles met.  With an almost imperceptible nod he acknowledged the veracity of my claim and quietly muttered, “Sorry,” then turned and walked into the store.

What was I going to do?  Chase him down?  I thought about calling the police, but by the time an officer got there, the guy would be long gone.  There was no damage to report anyway and the guy didn’t really look drunk.  Besides, out here there are several valid excuses for drinking and driving (like going fishing or running to the store for more beer during a NASCAR caution), so I didn’t see any point.

I gathered my fleeting rage and climbed into the truck.  My dear wife then called me on the cell phone laughing so hard I thought she’d pee.

Grandpa felt numb.  Leslie and the other shoppers felt entertained.  All I felt was the Shaft of Life tickling the back of my thighs.

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