Farm "livi'n" is the life... for ME?

Farm life (not to be confused with it's distant cousin of the same last name, "Thug") is no joke. You get up when the rooster crows, or your 4 year old beats him to it. And you work. You work until it's done. There are no set hours. No holidays, sick days, or "I'm just not feeling it to-days". You have animals and plants depending on you. End of story. Not unlike motherhood, which is perhaps why I felt suited to tackle this challenge.

Not that I deem my "mommy strength" to be any more, or any less for that matter, than ANYONE else's. Just that, it fits the same bill. Both were something I had NO UTTER IDEA of how to really "do" much less be good at. And, in the mommy instance, I had survived it, (and so had my son) at least up until this point, so maybe, just maybe, I could handle a farm?

Somewhere in my 'Hippy-ish' perfect-magic-rainbow-unicorn-who-perhaps-also-flew-and-pooped-out-flowers-world, I had decided that animals wouldn't be as demanding, selfish, argumentative, stubborn or as loud as people can be. And would most definitely NOT require as much work. So, I got em'. Random lots of "em". And I loved it... but the most important part was that my son LOVED IT. And even if I had been wrong, in at least this instance, all actually WAS right with the world.

Things could not have been better. I'm gonna let you in on a little secret... My husband is ex-mil, and now a helicopter pilot who flies powerlines. All over the US. Maybe click the link. Then let's chat. He is seldom at home and with his demandingly erratic schedule, when he is home, we are never quite sure when he's going to get called back to work. Much like the military, but without set leave. He has been known to be gone for the likes of 45 days at a time. And both our families live elsewhere. His in Scotland, and mine in VA. SO, basically that leaves me and "wee man" doing life together. All day everyday (nights too) even bathroom "time" is not safe. It's been challenging to say the least. As I am sure you can imagine. However, starting this farm, has been the BEST thing in the world for both of us. For ALL of us really.

For example, my son has learned, (and has become quite good at) herding goats. Which made me wonder when the last time that was considered a completely "normal occurrence" here in the US. Now granted, I have "leash trained" my ladies. In fact it is not uncommon to see me walking them up and down our road (hence the name The Tethered Goat). However, there is a time for "leash" and a time to graze (did anyone else find themselves humming that one tune by the Byrds?" Just me? Anyway, I digress. There is just something simplistic and magically awesome (and oddly patriotic) about watching a 4 year old lead his goats to safety. All on his very own.

Earlier today, someone hit the nail on the head so to speak with a comment that they made. A friend had stopped by to pick up some honey this after noon and it just so happened that I had a batch of fresh jam simmering on the stove. She admitted that she had never made jam, which got us talking about how   its ingredients consisted of only local organic fruits (minus the organic granny smith apple) and our honey. Her eyes widened, and, her response couldn't have been more perfect, "Wow, things used to be so simple!" And on so so many levels, she was so incredibly right.

We (both as a country AND a family) went from simple to instant gratification, like Dorothy went From Kansas to Oz. Minus the flying monkeys thankfully. Well, at least for now (give Apple a day or two). Anyway, not only has this new venture afforded us a purpose and something that "passes the time" while Daddy is away. But it has brought us closer. Both to each other and to what I think life was truly intended to be like. The "hard" pales in comparison to the "reward". And if you ask me how I know? I can see it everyday on my son's face. I sure hope he can see it on mine as well.

The egg (bad) came first... with a vengeance

And back to our regularly scheduled programing...

If you remember I mentioned a few posts ago that I took little comfort in that the "Chickens were legit." In actuality, this was just barely even the case and thus a VERY good thing. Apparently you can have chickens, just not "too" many. 4 per half acre to be exact. We being 1.25 acres JUST made the cut. Wait, did I mention that we now had 10 chickens? 

Sigh, its been a long month. So, after acquiring Laya, and quasi losing "the artist formerly known as Bess" due to the fact that she was now Brewster. I decided (split secondly of course) that we maybe needed 2 more hens. Partially because Laya's traumatizing introduction had made her a tad bit skittish, and thus she didn't exactly warm up to my son (or anyone) as intended. But mostly because I was at the local feed and seed for unrelated reasons and convinced that they were staring at me, just begging for a home. And so away we walked away with our new "Disney halloween lineup". Two beautiful and very young Americanas. Sally, named after the character from "The Nightmare Before Christmas"and Katrina, after Miss Van Tassel from the"Legend of sleepy hollow".  Both birds seemed at least happily curious about their new adventure. And away home it was for us in order to figure out just where we were going to nestle the new"hatchlings".

One thing was for sure, which we had learned first hand, we could NOT place them immediately with the already established flock. I just really wasn't up for another "into the woods" adventure (especially without comical musings and spontaneous musical numbers).

I built their very own, very private and very TEMPORARY roosting quarters in the manager of our second goat pen. Which currently (as well as conveniently) was not in use. As it was meant to only be sectioned off when the "mommy" needed privacy in order to nurse her babe(s). And since chickens and goats get along quite well, the chickens eat the bugs that bug the goats and the goats don't impale them, it was a good match. I soon discovered what WASN'T a good match though. My son.

I gave him the benefit of the doubt when the first 4 were "stand-offish" to say the least. I again afforded him that same benefit due to Laya's high adrenaline mishap introduction. With Sally and Katrina, it was becoming more of a pattern than a random obstacle to be jumped. Explaining to a 4 year old boy how he is to handle a chicken and how he is most DEFINITELY not to, was apparently more difficult than once thought. For example. How does one foresee the possibility that someone might stuff a chicken in their jacket while leaving to run errands, and then brandish it suddenly in a health food store whilst exclaiming, "EWWWWW IT POOPED ON ME!" Or, how about this treat, while you are busily cleaning the coop, someone (not naming any names) sitting a poor unsuspecting little one, on your monkey-swing (disc swing) and then, spinning it as fast as little 4 -year- old- arms can, sending it flying in order to, "test her Jedi skills." This was definitely a love- HATE relationship and I am pretty confidant you can guess who was hated. My son, even to me, was very reminiscent of this. Still, he wanted "pets".

Thankfully, things were going well with the new temp-setup that I had built, which afforded me time to establish a more permanent residence for them as a structural "add-on" with safety features, to our already existing coop. It worked so well, that there just might have been room for 2 more. Empty space is wasted space right? So we excitedly (some of us more excited than others)  scampered back to the feed and seed and procured 2 more very-very young Americana hens. Lacey and Daisy. Of which I had made a mental note that I would watch him interact with very closely.

He seemed partial to "Daisy". Poor, poor, Daisy. I am fairly certain that inside of 10 minutes, given the choice, she would have more than happily surrendered herself to be used as "nuggets" if only it meant that she didn't have to endure this kid's torment any longer. More than obviously, we had a long road ahead of us.

WE are currently still on said road. And while "Rome wasn't built in a day", IF this were in fact "Rome", my "builder" might need to be fired/beheaded. Which depends, and very much so, on the moment/situation as to which punishment fits that bill...

Getting my goat...(s)

We have always adhered to the "love thy neighbors as thyself" way of life. And thankfully so, because as this new challenge had presented itself, I was able to call upon the advice of one such neighbor who just so happened to be a retired state judge. He was just as shocked as I was to learn about the rezone and even more so that you had to be zoned to keep bees. I explained that while I knew I could just "quietly" keep the animals and that it wasn't likely anyone would say anything especially because, as it turned out, more than half the neighborhood was "in the same boat". I didn't want to be in the wrong, and not complying with the law. He was more than happy to oblige me and sent me off in the direction I needed to go saddled with a handful of names and phone numbers. And with that I got in the car and away I went. 45 minutes later, I was sat in the modest waiting area of the County department for planning and zoning waiting patiently to speak with "Mary".

A kind woman welcomed me to her cubicle and we began. I decided not to mention the bees as of yet, but instead focus on the goats. Upon listening to my predicament, and then reviewing the laws as stated, one thing became apparent. We were not going to get rezoned. She read for me verbatim from a freshly printed piece of paper, that to be rezoned for agricultural use, we needed to be on at LEAST 2.5 acres of land or back up to unfenced conservation property in order for the animals to graze. Her eyes then left the paper and met mine. "So, I'm sorry," she said. "You just can't keep goats." Then suddenly a smile erupted on her face as she excitedly added, "BUT, you CAN keep horses!"HOLD ON A MINUTE. What? You are telling me that on 1.25 acres of land I can keep an extremely large and hungry HORSE but NOT a Nigerian DWARF goat? She then informed me that I could not only keep A horse, but 4. Legally, on my small parcel of land I was allotted the right to house FOUR massive horses. My mind raced. For a brief moment, I entertained the thought of having magically discovered a new subclass of creature called the "Nigerian Dwarf horse" and then I toyed with the idea of just going ahead and getting the maximum number of horses allowed to me and making sure to pile their equally massive droppings in the very same corner of the yard that the bees had briefly once called home. However, that did not coincide with the, "love thy neighbor" mentality that I was accustomed to practicing.

This horse law had been addended after the fact. Obviously. Anyone else think it's a strange coincidence that you can keep a horse, thats's twice the size of any other hoofed animal, but that can't provide food or milk and not ones that can? So, I asked how one might addend to include goats. The lady's jovial expression quickly faded to a thin lipped frown which suggested that their might be a lot of paperwork needed from her end for that to happen. But I wasn't backing down. Sorry trees. She explained the process in great detail, how it would need to be brought before a board etc. And then, somewhat begrudgingly handed me the name and number of her "supervisor" whom I would need to get in contact with in order to start this very long, very paperwork ridden sordid ordeal. I thanked her and walked out of the office already punching the numbers into my phone and before the door even swung shut I had already hit "call."

Voicemail. Of course. I left a message, and then made use of the email address I had also been given. With that being all I could do for now. I drove home, and began looking over the laws pertaining to our current zoning restrictions. And one such law immediately leapt off the page and smacked me in the face. It stated, that one COULD keep farm animals on less than 2.5 acres IF, the animals were necessary to alleviate a "medical hardship". And in order to do so, one would need only to obtain written expression from a medical doctor licensed in the state as to why said animal(s) were needed. And then to disclose the number and type of farm animals being kept on site. It was like the heavens opened up and I SWEAR I could faintly hear the "hallelujah chorus" playing somewhere in the background. I called another neighbor, who graciously agreed to allow me to place my bees on their "AU" zoned un-pesticided farm land which just so happens to very legally be directly across the street from that other neighbor's driveway.

With that being done, I was now free to focus my efforts on my goats, and more importantly the documentation of the "medical hardship" that they were beautifully helping to alleviate (at least while we were working on the law)....

Make the "buzzing" stop

I did it. We pulled into the industrial stock yard (which may or may not have been reminiscent of a zombie priority setting. just sayin) . It was about 7:45 am, and I was ready and raring to go. I mean I did have 2 cups of coffee organically sweetened with a shot of pure adrenaline...After all, I was about to solely attempt to extract a random wild bee hive from within a camper, that no one knew the size of, much less how long it had been there. Did I mention It was just me? It was just me. My support group, consisting of my very tired husband and son who would wait at a safe distance away in all the warmth and comfort that a Mazda 6 has to offer. And occasionally snap a picture if and when one became disenchanted with the status updates that facebook boasted and remembered to do so.

The "gentlemen" that had sought me out and asked me if I would do this were a tad more adventurous, and opted to stay within speaking distance of the extraction. And with that, and both feet, in I went. The more I "chiseled" and removed, the larger the hive began to become. Gently cutting and prying, placing and praying, and all the while chanting, "Must get the queen, must get the queen". One thing I had not anticipated, was that the hive that I was relocating the bees to might in fact, not be BIG enough. This became a more dire concern with each and every "frame" of comb that I removed.

Thank-God-fully, I had brought cardboard file boxes, and then of course, the miraculous "bonus", that the "guys"had duck tape on hand. We then make shifted 2 "hives" within seconds only to discover we still came up short. They offered up a plastic storage bin as a last resort, and with THAT, we were saddled and sent forth. Mobile. Sure it meant riding home with a box full of wild angry bees on my lap. But, hey, small sacrifices. Right?  And home the bees went.

I nestled their hive into a small back corner of our farm, nearest to the garden. Seemed like the completely right thing to do. And all was right with the... I'm not even gonna leave you "cliff hanging" on this one. ALL was NOT right with the world.

The bees were settling, grieving, counting and then recovering from their losses. Not to mention the fact that they had quite LITERALLY just been ripped away from their established home. However, despite the circumstances, they remained calmly vigilant. Not only I took notice, but a neighbor, one who had raised bees "all his life" and had more than graciously, advised and sort of hand-held my "dream" from start until, present. Came by to see how things went. He was impressed with how "docile" (well, as docile as one can imagine a bee to be) the bees were. We talked in length about the weather, acquiring more hives, and the possibilities of building them by hand instead of buying and then he made his way home and I went back to work relocating the bees from within the various boxes. 

Fast forward several hours. The bees must have begun taking inventory and I noticed that they didn't seem as happy about their relocation as they had at first. They were flitting about angrily I'm sure trying to make sense of what had just happened. Once again, apparently I wasn't the only one who took notice. This time, the same neighbor and his son came strolling down the driveway and explained that the bees were throwing their little "bee-temper-tantrums" in their yard as well. I thought about it and immediately offered to relocate the newly relocated bees to another area of my property assuring them that they just needed some time to calm. The offering up of that as the solution was abruptly met with a completely unexpected curve ball of a reply. "You know you're not zoned for bees."

Zoned for BEES? Bees. The little wild flying insects that hop from flower to flower, tree to tree pollinating only the ENTIRE PLANET ensuring that we have the plants that create the oxygen that we are blessed to be inhaling right this instant, the very same oxygen subsequently, that had just allowed you to breath out that poised little threat in the form of a question. You have to be zoned for that? I quickly responded that we were zoned agricultural and shouldn't that cover it? To which I was combatively met with a, "No you're not" retort. Lets pause here for just a second, lest we have forgotten, the man who had encouraged me this entire venture, had single handedly convinced my husband to allow me to place the bees on our property against his better judgement. The same man who had entertained the idea of coming with me to help extract the hive, and who had come over the second we had arrived home to ask how much honey I thought I had gotten, this very same man was now standing in my driveway and telling me "we have a problem." Was this for real? I began to play an "alternate ending" scenario in my head wherein they started laughing hysterically and admitted that they were just kidding and we all had a good laugh while stuffing our faces with fresh honey. I quickly snapped out of that dream to begin to come to terms with the fact that this was a very real situation. I added that I had done my research and knew what our zoning was and with that bid them a good day.

A little disheartened, a little confused, I immediately began once again, moving the bees. First things first, and then I would go read up on this "bee-zoning". As it turned out, the sweet and generous neighbors saved me the trouble and hand delivered to my husband, a printed copy of the zoning map and a detailed rundown of just what we were allowed to (and not to) have within our current zoning classification. Which my husband then gave to me after I was finished resettling the colony. My eyes scanned the map, located our property and my heart sank a little, we had recently been re-zoned from AU (agricultural use) to RR1 (rural residential class 1). This had happened in 2011 When a certain parcel of "conservation land" had been rezoned and sold to make way for the building of a new house. Whose house you might ask? Theirs. My eyes then shifted from the map onto the paper containing our fate and fell instantly on the word "bees" but were quickly drawn to another word two doors down from that. GOATS.

We were also not allowed to farm goats on this property anymore. My husband, seeing my expression quickly added that the map and paper had come with a message. The neighbors (who at times kept hogs that were also apparently contra-ban) on their property had added that they didn't mind anything else being there, just not the bees. I took little comfort in the knowledge that the chickens were legit, my sorrow quickly turned to fury, and my fury to fuel. And suddenly, I was a woman on fire with a mission. 

When life hands you zoning restrictions... YOU MAKE THEM CHANGE.

God save the queen!

It is currently Saturday afternoon, the seconds are slipping into minutes, the minutes to hours and I am wide eye-idly awaiting what tomorrow morning will bring. As most of you know by now, I have begun dabbling in the art of keeping bees a privilege of which affords me the opportunity to offer their caramelistic amber deliciousness for a small fee. This I do in a variety of different ways, one of which is to utilize the advertising capabilities of craigslist. I posted my honey on the site, I let the site work its magic, and everyone is happy.

A few days later I was perusing the emails I had gotten in response. One particular piece of mail caught my eye. The title read, "bees in camper". What? First of all, I do not own a camper. And secondly, if I did it wouldn't be very cost effective for me to use it for bees (or organic for that matter). Curious, I clicked open the letter. A gentleman in the area had discovered a large hive of honey bees that had apparently commandeered the side box in his "tag-along camper". He guessed that they had been there 2 years or more, but the "squatters" were unwanted and being served their eviction notice effective immediately. Here is where I come in. He was contacting me to come and "extract the hive".

Let us rewind for just a second or two. I bought bees on line from SC, they are not here yet. Their hive is here, and all set up, but they are having happy little organic dreams somewhere at "The Z man's" farm until May. I searched high and low to find another organic hive with which to meet the needs of a few amazing clients. Some of this honey had already been harvested without me having to have a hand in doing so. Thus buying me a little more time to truly get the craft of extracting the honey down to a science. In layman's terms, and what all this is adding up to is that I HAVE NEVER EXTRACTED HONEY much less a feral hive of bees.

So I politely declined obviously right? Do you still not know me? I immediately started doing the research and watching the videos on how one might chase somewhere in the possible upwards of about 15,000 wild bees from within a confined space. I also sped up the delivery of the necessary gear essential to completing this task. It arrived yesterday. In order for me to make this work, I know one thing is for absolute certain. I HAVE to get the queen. 

You can have 16,000 worker bees in your hive, but all is for naught if you do not have their queen. They will simply, one by one return from whence they came. Studying bees has REALLY brought loyalty into perspective. To keep this hive, I MUST save the queen.

So, bright and early tomorrow morning, (the earlier the better, it's when the bees are least active) I will be making my way to a random camper somewhere on Florida's east coast with my bonnet, smoker and hive tool at the ready. And I will be darned if I do not come home without a hive full of swarming, honey-making little buzzing bundles of joy in the trunk of my car.

Wish me luck. And God save the queen! PLEASE!

I've mentioned the birds... now lets talk about the bees

I know it may seem like I'm jumping ahead in the story, when in actuality, I'm backing up just a tad. Somewhere after having acquired the chickens, but before having actually secured a goat, I decided that I also wanted to try my hand at bee keeping. Why? More like why not! I had decided that if we were indeed going to run a farm, I wanted the animals on it to "pull their own weight" so to speak. Give back what we put in. A friendship, harmoniously balanced with a give and take on both parts. Bees just sorta seemed to naturally fit in to the equation so very perfectly. Because I had extensive experience handling  them you ask? Absolutely not. What kind of fun would that be(e). I had stepped on several honey bees as a child and lived to tell the tale, what more did one REALLY need to know?

I began the obligatory search for bees on line which then lead me to a small organically raised bee farm out of South Carolina. And I was SOLD. The only "string" attached was that the bees, while an active colony, couldn't be transported down here until May. As "The Z man", (trust me, you'll just want to call him that as his full name can only be understood at a frequency which only dogs can hear) explained in detail in an extremely thick German accent, which I will simplify for you now. Bees "hibernate". Which really just means that they are dormant during the winter months, and live off the precious honey that they have painstakingly worked all the rest of the year to produce. So while an active producing colony, they need what they've got. I understood, we shook hands on the deal vicariously through modern technology and that was that.

I went about designing my website and making folks, "facebook aware" of our new venture, and the spoils that it would entail. I was very pleased, AND surprised to see that it was graciously widely received. Almost TOO widely. I was able to gain access to small amounts of our bee's honey via the United States Postal Service which might have been enough, maybe? Until we somehow caught the eye of an AMAZING fresh, as local as they can get and as organic as they're allowed, restaurant(S) home grown in the Orlando vicinity. RusTeak was interested in OUR honey. Please, can we all freak out about this just a little bit? Sigh. Thanks.

 8 pounds to be exact. Monthly. This is TOTALLY doable when your bees aren't asleep somewhere in South Carolina. However, at the moment,  I could easily produce month 1, the next 3...

This left me reeling, and trying desperately to locate local, organic and TRUSTWORTHY bees (the bees are pretty honest, it's their keepers you gotta wonder about). Eureka! In a very bittersweet form. An amazing man who loved his bees (and they had loved him) just "couldn't" any longer.  And, as it were, his children were left guarding one of the "sweetest" legacies any parent could offer. Of which they (after much conversing) had allowed me to adopt one small piece of over 200 hives. No pesticides, or dyes in at least 45 years had come within MILES of these amazing creatures. Wow. What a legacy.

Some of the seemingly "legendary" honey had already been extracted, Which made life just that much easier. And so, without a thought, or care, the story alone told itself, I went all in on one hive. Greatest, and at the same time, possibly the most insane chance I had ever taken. Still, I had all the honey needed to fit the requirements of the demand... and all was right with the...

Oh and then there was this...

Taking the "chick" outta CHICKen...

So Story and Eve ( named for the night that we found them, and the fact that picking them up on Christmas Day makes for a pretty good story), had rescued poor Sadie from her impending doom. It seemed that our little farm had come together quite nicely. To make it feel even more "official" I planted an organic fruit, vegetable and herb garden. Which the chickens of course found immediately.

Speaking of "chickens". I get asked a lot "how do you tell whether a chicken is a hen or rooster when they are still young." And I can safely say that I have mastered THE fool-proof answer. WAIT till they aren't young anymore. That's it. I could end this blog right here actually, but obviously there must be a story that goes hand in hand with how I discovered that "answer". And lucky for you there is.

The sun hadn't even graced the day with its warm smile yet as I stepped from the warmth of my house into the cool of the barnyard to begin the daily routine of menial "farm chores". By this point we had established somewhat of an "ok-ish" routine, wherein I would not let the chickens out to free range until it was light due to any lingering "creatures of the night" that may perhaps still be present. Yes, I know that Hawks, the obvious predator, only hunt during the day, but I'm not really worried about Hawks. It's the possums.

Possums? No it's not an autocorrect. I really meant possums. They are sneaky little ba$+@?&$ that have been fooling us into thinking that they were vegetarians for centuries. Not unlike the skinny girl in yoga pants who has "suddenly" and miraculously developed a gluten allergy right there in her seat at the restaurant just as the bread hits the table.

A farming friend of mine couldn't figure out what was stalking her chickens and picking them off one by one each night. She had considered a bobcat or coyote, and thus set a trap. The next morning, sure enough, the trap had gone off, and low and behold inside it was, wait for it... a 62 pound possum. And that was without the head on the scale. At any rate, that story was enough to wanna keep my 4 year old inside as long as I could, much less the chickens.

I went about the stall mucking and compost mulching until I was sure the sun was just about to peer over the horizon line and apparently that hunch was right, because as if on cue, something "crowed". Or at least made a sad attempt at doing so. And that "something" was most definitely in my roost. Remember when I had explicitly stated in an undeniably strongly worded, foot down kinda manner via the use of ALL CAPS (completely and universally legit) in a previous post my feeling on this subject? Well apparently Bess is not an avid follower of my blog.

This day that we are referencing shall hence forth be known as, "the day when our little Bess became Brewster the Rooster." What can I say? It's harder to give them away once you've named them.
I decided that there were a lot of things you could hear throughout the day that were way worse than a rooster's crow. For example a screaming goat. And hey, I'll even top that, your 4 year old son yelling, "Look mom, I'm riding Sadie like a horse!" (just to be clear she's a DWARF goat).

"Que Sera, Sera" Bess, Brewster was our Rooster now and that was that. And all was right with the world...

Part deux

Sadie was miserable. And vicariously so were we, and I think it is safe to assume so were the neighbors. Craigslist offered little hope. I was grasping at straws and even considering useless fainting goats. "Fainting goats?" You may have found yourself questionably repeating aloud. Yes. There are goats that have a Myotonic condition that causes them, when over excited, to appear to have fainted. They just fall over like a ton of bricks. And who says God doesn't have a sense of humor? At any rate, this is how desperate to find Sadie a buddy for the holidays I had become.

I was hours outta my zip code into the search. Scouring every abandoned and forgotten nook and cranny Craigslist had to offer. Until finally. I came upon a picture of an adorable tan and white Nigerian. Albeit she was an hour and a half away, and it was Christmas Eve as previously mentioned. I decided to try the number listed on the off chance someone would actually answer. Low and behold he did!

"Chuck" the ole,boy on the other end of the line said that he had just sold his last doelings (technical jargon meaning baby girl goats), but that he DID have 2 "exposed" ( technical jargon for pregnant) does that he would consider parting with. I was thrilled! Sweet baby Jesus on the eve of His birth had seen fit to intervene on Sadie's behalf which saved us all (over again)! Then "Chuck" smacked me with the "catch". This would have to be a package deal.

You see, these does we're "twins" and just simply could not be separated. He made it clear that he was in no rush to let them go, no skin off his teeth either way, and that the price on Craigslist would be times 2. Insert heavy sigh here. We had just shelled out a small fortune on building the pen, the essentials and of course Sadie herself. Not to mention the chickens, their coop and all that entails. Oh, and of course the entire rest of CHRISTMAS. I had led my poor and amazingly supportive husband blindly down the path this far, I was having a hard time justifying, much less "selling the dream" of this sudden added expense. I thanked "Chuck" for his time. Wished him a merry Christmas and hung up the phone. 2 more pregnant goats? As I was mulling it over, as if adding her own two cents, just to make sure we hadn't forgotton, Sadie screamed. Ok. I would run it by my husband.

Say what you will about that man. But he has a huge heart. When we first moved in he had found a field mouse living in our shed. He lifted up the shelving unit that she had found solace inside and discovered that she wasn't alone. A freshly birthed litter of baby mice rested warmly under her body. It was quite cold out, (yes, it does that even in Floirda sometimes). He came in the house to tell me about his find and then swore me to secrecy. He didn't have the heart to evict the little family. And instead, had placed a bit of bread in there near the nesting new mommy. Sorry babe. You had to be "outed"on this one for the greater good. When I told him about my findings and the conversation with Chuck, he didn't hesitate to say, "Ok, when are we picking them up?" I LOVE this man!

I called Chuck back and informed him that we would be taking his goats. His response was, "you haven't even seen em' yet?" He apparently didn't quite grasp the intensity of this dire situation. Regardless, he agreed that we could come and pick them up in the evening on Christmas Day! Which meant only one more loud and lonesome night for our Sadie girl.

As our Christmas celebration wound down, we geared up for the drive to secure the twins. For those of you who ever doubted what you can actually fit into a Mazda 6, let me just tell you that I have continually tested the boundaries and pushed the limits. We once had 6 bales of hay, myself and my son in that sucker. True story. Today it was being used to ferry goats. We happily paid Chuck his steep "ransom" that we watched as he counted dollar for dollar in front of us reminding us once again, just EXACTLY what this was costing, then we loaded the "girls" into the back of the car with my son in the middle and set out for home.

I really wish I had a picture other than the one burned in my mind, of the twins, sat on either side of the floor boards of the car, nose to nose shaking. In that moment I knew we had made the right decision, and as pricy as it was, so had Chuck, in not to separate them. Upon arriving home, it was already dark and so Sadie has settled in for the night. Getting the girls into the car we had had extra hands, getting them out, we were solo and they knew it. We ended up carrying in our arms 2 very pregnant and very stubborn dwarf goats (the bonus of that being we got to smell their "cheeses-ness" yummmm). And we presented Sadie with the best Christmas gift she'd ever had. A herd.

What I heard inspired the herd...

Goats scream. No, I mean REALLY. The kind of "scream" that wakes a mother from a dead sleep because, no matter her location in the world, she is just SURE that dingos are eating her baby. Some of you may already know this to be true, due to the "viral" youtube videos (and poor Taylor swift). If you have not heard a goat scream up close and in person, well... I envy you. It's horrible. And as a mom myself, I feel it in my bones.

Goats (like most hoofed animals) travel in herds. Safety in numbers right? Anyway. This is not just something they "enjoy" on leisurely occasions, ya know, just to be "sociable", long-walks-on-the-beach sorta action. This is their way of life. A built in NEED in order to survive. I knew this. The internet had told me so. Via numerous different sources. However, somehow, when I got to the sweet farm from which we had acquired "Sadie", they assured me that she would be totally fine alone because she was "preggers", and the joy of being so was already overwhelming her heart so much, that any other goat would simply be an unnecessary distraction to her intuitive nesting needs. Sounded legit. So we watched with satisfied grins as they yanked, lead her by "noose resembling lead" into our car and then explained how to return said "rope-of-death" back to them for the next executi... adoption.

We drove her home. She was a little timid, scared, which was ABSOLUTELY to be expected. We lovingly introduced her to her new, handmade pen. She took to it well, and really seemed to enjoy the love and attention being lavished unabashedly upon her. 

You know how most "love" the smell of newborn babies? Well, I LOVE the smell of nigerian dwarf goats. "WHAT!? but why?" you may ask. Answer. THEY SMELL LIKE GOAT CHEESE. No joke. And if you hate "goat cheese" that's ok. However, I have a question for you. Why are you reading this blog? 

Anyway, I digress. They. Smell. Awesome. Back to Sadie.

Things seemed smooth. She was not stand-offish to her new digs, and I felt accomplished. That was, until the moment that I took even a step away from the pen. This was the first time that I heard "it". An undeniable cry-scream (please do not even ATTEMPT to confuse that with ICE CREAM). It was loud, horrible and heart breaking. So much so that it apparently can even stir the sought after heart of the male species. Or maybe he was "kindly" saying, "shut that thing up or I will kill it" ( in-organically).

Sadie would do ^ this, every night until it was totally dark. And then it was silence. The MINUTE the sun fully set, on cue, not a sound. However the guilt still lingered. So, I  immediately did what any other caring human being would obviously do... took to craigslist. And all of a sudden I felt like I was starring in the movie "Big" and craigslist was playing the part of "Zoltar" the disappearing fortune telling machine. All traces of "dwarf goats" in the area had dwindled to nothing. A broader search of "goats" only made suggested "offerings" beginning at more than an hour away. OH. And on a side note, it was Christmas eve...

The fine line between "herder" and "hoarder"

So we were up a dog and 5 chickens now. "Maybe quit while I'm ahead," you say,? You obviously don't know who you're talking to. I never realized how calming it is to watch these animals "do life". There is something mesmerizing about barnyard animals. I mean, we know it as children, but I think somehow we lose that "magic" along the way. That is until it's in your own backyard, and then you can't help but watch, study, like a reality TV show that also provides you with food.

Food. I suddenly flash-forwarded to gathering eggs early in the morning with my son. Taking them fresh from the coop into the kitchen and making yummy egg and cheese omelets with him. 'Mmmm cheeeeeese". Sure wish you could grow that! And like my ADD mind tends to roam, I jumped to the days when I used to serve as "Maitre di fromage" (fancy french speak for "wine and cheese" expert) at a swanky resort in Orlando. I fell in love with cheese for the obvious reasons of course, but I think one of my favorite parts of the job was getting to hear all the "small" and "boutique" farm stories from around the globe as to how, why, and with "whom" they had cultivated their hand-crafted artisanal cheeses. Some of the stories were better than the cheeses themselves. I remembered one story in particular. A farm in Utah that herded "pygmy" goats and milked them for cheese making. And due to their size, it took quite a few to make that cheese. I had always envisioned minuscule bearded leaping goats frolicking through vast fields of flowers and wheat taller than they were and every so often you would catch a glimpse of one as it bounded just above where the grass met the horizon. I quite enjoyed that cheese.

This memory then gave birth to a thought. And if you know me, once I have a thought, it's game over. I run like the wind with that puppy never looking back. I picked up my phone and googled pygmy goats.  I began reading up about their demeanor, needs, milking habits etc. This then lead me to craigslist (naturally). Just to see what, if anything was out there. I began typing, G-O-A... before I had finished the word,  sweet and intuitive little craigslist suggested "Nigerian Dwarf Goat". I starred blankly at the screen for a second, and then said, "sure? Why not?". And, just like that, in the 1/2 second it took for the click to produce an image, life changed.

First thoughts were I'll admit, pretty girly, "they're SOOOOOOO cute!" I said (and yes with the obligatory raise in pitch as to emphasize the word cute). I immediately began looking into milking them, if they were evan milk-able. Turns out that between these and the Nubian goats also of African decent, these were 'THE' goats to milk. Especially for cheese making purposes! Coincidence that I found them available in my area? At least I thought not.

OK. So lets retrace these steps. I liked watching my chickens, which lead me to thinking about the day that they would finally lay amazing free range organic eggs for me just outside my door, this then brought visions of delicious omelets dancing in my brain, and who would dare make such an unholy creation as an omelet WITHOUT cheese? (even fake cheese for those of us who are lactose sensitive) Cheese, ah yes, in a past life (or at least by now it seemed as if so) I had once been a cheese monger privy to tasting cheeses from all around the world and the stories of their creation that accompanied each and every one. Which then drew me to midget-like goats prancing in fields and enter craigslist stage left. Viola! Nigerian dwarf goats! Now if it were only going to be that easy to sell this idea to my husband who was just getting used to the dog and not 4, but 5 new chickens.

After mulling it over for a few minutes, I concluded, being that it was only several days before Christmas, I could easily throw that down as my first card, ya know, lay the foundation. My husband is a "man's man". He likes guns, fast stuff and tools. Tools that he hardly gets to use. Did I not mention that we don't have a fence? Anyway, if we got these goats, he would TOTALLY get to use his tools! Because we would obviously need to build me a pen. And maybe a manger. Regardless, he would get to do man-like-things AND use his tools to do them. If you ask me, I was doing HIM a favor. You're welcome.

So, I did what any good wife does, I waited for the exact right moment to run all this by him. Why, while he was trying to nap of course. One thing about my husband, he LOVES his sleep. So much so that he would do or say just about anything to be left to it. I closed with, "So, I'm just gonna go ahead and call the lady just to see if they are still available." (phone was already ringing).

I played "tag" with the farm owner for a day and a half. Which was totally fine because it gave us time to get the pen started. (smirk) On the eve BEFORE Christmas EVE, "Sadie"was safely in her new (to her AND to us) pen. We were now the proud owners of a beautiful ADGA registered ( didn't even consider that people would pedigree and register goats, but it's a "thing") Nigerian dwarf goat. And all was right with the... wait,

Did I mention she was pregnant?

Sons and Saws

The "girls" (Bess, Dixie, Penny and Nugget) seemed to thoroughly be enjoying their new abode, as well as the new found freedom that came with it. It was only a matter of days before they ruled the roost,  the yard and even the porch. Meanwhile, we were perfecting the details of our very new routine. As we went about the daily chores, I noticed my son longingly wanting to "cuddle" a chicken. Thing is chickens aren't really known for their "cuddling" abilities. And, since I had told him from day 1 that these were HIS chickens, to care for, clean up after, love and feed, I saw no reason as to why he shouldn't also be able to share in the joy of handling them.

I gave it a little thought (because I'm a die hard impulse kinda girl) and decided that our girls, while hatched by an elementary school class, maybe just hadn't had enough exposure? SO after a quick "spec-check" of the coop (I mean it did say 4 TO 5 after all), we closed up shop. Which at this point just meant shutting the chicken coop and away we went to a local "feed and seed" that word on the street said had newly hatched chicks available. 

Moments later and smiles from ear to ear, we proudly walked to our car with a cardboard box containing a beautiful purebred Americana chick. Laya, to be confused with BOTH the princess and the fact that it's kinda what she was born to do. We had been given the rundown on the "Do's and Dont's" of introducing a brand new hatchling to an already acclimated flock. Which pretty much meant that the rest of the day would be spent outside playing referee. But that didn't matter one bit. Because the smile sprawled across my 4 year olds face as he whispered sweet nothings to "HIS" baby bird was absolutely priceless.

We arrived home and excitedly opened her cardboard "cage" inviting her into a freedom she had never known. How could she not love it? From a smelly closed quartered shell, to a steel tub with a thousand other birds and only 1 bathroom ( which was apparently on top of one another) Paradise! Nope. 

"Laya" made it 2 steps from the car before she darted into the thick palmetto plants that line our entire property. Now. If you live in Florida, you have likely encountered one of these plants. They are also known as "saw"palmettos for a VERY valid reason as I was about to discover. "Saw" Palmettos have sharp teeth, not unlike a... ___. If you guessed Piranha, please stop reading this now. The healthy green ones are not too bad. They are kinda like the little "mouthy" guys at a bar, the "all bark no bite" seeming ones. So you press on and ignore. That is until their 6'4 built -like-a-stallion "buddy" slips in outta nowhere and you black out after that. The "ole' boys", the brown, dried out, last gasp-at-glory-days ones. Yep. Those will kill you on site if given even half a chance. I have the battle scars to prove (working on the t-shirt).

SO.  Laya gets herself nestled in there. I mean IN. And, after a 45+ minute chase, and several gushing wounds, (after all she was my son's new "baby") and secondly, hadn't even been introduced to the coop or shelter of any kind. I gave up. I had to. We went back about our daily obligations, with heavy hearts I must say, and a very active watch on the Palmettos. 

5 hours passed. Nothing. Not a "cluck". I began the, "she must've missed her family SO much, and gone home", talks with my son. It was time to walk Callie. All leashed up and ready to go we paraded out the door when suddenly Callie froze. Ears perked with a purpose, nose held high, deciphering what we could never. I tugged semi impatiently at her collar, "c'mon girl". But then I heard it too. Dried leaves both crunching and flying, and, just as quickly as she had disappeared, very "holographically" Laya emerged from the "death" plants. What she did for the last 5 hours was thrown aside. We were just happy to have her HOME. 

So that evening, Laya was treated to the 2 mile walk with us. Yes, that's what I'm saying, we walked a dog, a chicken and a stroller. Heaven....

Which came first, the chickens or the goats?

A week had passed since we had welcomed "Callie" the canine into our little family. She had adapted quite well, and so had we. Actually, things had been easy. Perhaps a little too easy.

When my husband had first suckered me into moving out here, (thats a whole other blog in and of itself) I had briefly toyed with the idea of having chickens. Being zoned agricultural it just seemed like "the thing to do". I had even gone so far as to humor a good friend and glance at a coop that she had found for sale. However the thought of having to care for any other living breathing thing aside from my "handful-and-a-half" son wiped that pipe dream quickly off the plate. Wayyyyyy off.

"2 years animal free" is what the sign on our wall might have read. And then along came the dog and it was like something snapped. I feel like one of those people. You know the ones who try plastic surgery for the first time. Just a small procedure to "test the waters" and then the next thing you know you're Renee Zellweger, and you've "botoxed your botox" into unrecognizability. Yep, just call me "Renee".

Because not even 8 days after adopting the dog, I'd ordered the coop online and had begun scouring the ads on craigslist for prospective inhabitants. I mean I only wanted 4. 4 seemed like a good starter number? Right? And ABSOLUTELY NO ROOSTERS.

I was in charge. I knew exactly what I wanted and that was that (crosses arms and sticks foot out for tapping). Or was I? Because I once again found myself in a fly by the seat of the pants impulse situation, in a neighbor "has this friend, who had these chicks" type-a-deal.

I seem to be doing all of this in a "mommy to be" sorta manner. And by that I mean, you have an idea that you may want to have a baby, you then discuss with your partner and "procure" said baby. And while baby is "baking" THEN you make the nest. So, I found myself racing around the clock and sourcing out hard labor to my poor 80 year old neighbor in order to get this coop built. I'm not gonna lie, there were moments that I felt as if I were running some sort of "senior citizen sweatshop"operation. "Make it look PRETTY I SAID!" *insert whip crack sound here* A day and a half later, the coop was finished and 4 young ladies were comfortably inside. And all was right with the world...

Or was it?

The day I sold my soul

If someone 5 years ago, had told me... no, wait. If someone LAST YEAR , had told me that I would EVER be running a farm, I would have immediately starred them down as if they had just wished the plague upon my entire household and then graciously offered up that I don't even want a gold fish in a bowl much less a hooved mammel running around loose in my yard.

Jump forward to 2014. I don't know what came over me. Seriously, your guess is as good as mine. But there I was perusing the "clearance" jewlery at Target ( a favorite past time of mine) when all of a sudden I heard my mouth utter aloud, "maybe we'll swing by the animal shelter today." Which of course fell immediately on the ears of my now overly delighted 4 year old son (first time in history he's heard anything I've said). So overly delighted with joy that in the midst of his ADD induced frenzy he was willing to forgo the usual "mommy wants 5 uninterrupted minutes to look at pretty things that she will never find time to wear-bribe" in the form of cake on a stick ​from Starbucks, in order to move on to the new and "shinier" thing.

Meanwhile, I was still reeling about the fact that my brain and mouth had somehow pulled a "dish ran away with the spoon" move outta nowhere and hadn't thought to keep me in the loop about it.

So, off we went to the  shelter on the premise that we were "just looking". Upon arriving we were ushered to a large, loud "Science experiment" type looking room by a woman in a lab coat, and I half expected to find the animals in straight jackets and strapped to back boards. The room boasted a very distinct and pungent aroma that one can only liken to that of a hearty balance of chemicals, feces and fear. And as pleasant as all of these things already were, my son was now covering his ears and adding to the choir of baritone and bass disgruntled complaints in the form of howls and voicing his own, that he in fact wanted to leave. To which I may or may not have been relieved a little.

The winding maze of cages lead us to a small door which read​ EXIT. When, in hindsight, it really should have had the disclaimer of "at your own risk" printed somewhere on it. Because it lead to a room of small dogs and puppies. With one foot out the door, I heard my son yell, "WAIT!!" which for a split second I hoped meant that perhaps he had spotted a vending machine or something shiny. However, much to my dismay, (at least at the moment)  I turned to see that it was in fact no vending machine, but a quiet docile dog with her head down pressed up against the front bars of her crude home.

She did not greet us when we approached, merely lifted her deep brown eyes up to meet mine. You could see that she must have JUST had puppies as her very swollen "udders" ? (seemed like the most appropriate and family friendly word) could not be missed. We offered her a treat as to entice some glimpse of personality other than "rock bottom". Which she did not accept, but still I decided to seek assistance from the "asylum lady" to bring her out of the crate for us to formally meet.

Not even 20 minutes later I had my second out of body experience of the day as I found myself pulling into the "Petco" parking lot with a dog at my feet. Callie to be exact. I had barely come to terms with this split second decision myself much less know exactly what it was that I was going to tell my husband. "Merry early Christmas unless she craps on the rug"?  I dunno, something to that effect. At any rate, we were dog owners now and I was attempting to mentally prepare myself for the challenges that that would bring. I had NO idea that this was just the beginning of a story that seems to still be writing itself on a DAILY basis.

So, on that note. come enjoy this adventure with me!

And tune in for my next installment. 

"Which came first, the chickens or the goats..."