Murder & Mayhem

The only thing worse than stumbling to the barn in the morning fog and finding all the goats missing, is stumbling to the barn in the morning fog to find only one goat missing. If they are ALL gone, you can assume that they got out, but if only one goat is gone - He's dead.

I stood in the barn this morning and watched as three goats dutifully filed into the barn (with an extra spring in their step) and went into their stall (prison). Three goats? Counted them again. I hadn't finished my coffee and Math is not my forte before 8 AM. Three goats. Hmmmm.... That can't be good. Listened carefully. No bleating. That was definitely Not Good.

So I locked the inmates inside their prison, grabbed up my coffee and headed out to the pasture. Noted a large pile of feathers behind the barn. Hmmmm.... My mother raises a rare breed of Heritage chickens in my pasture. Apparently Spotted Sussex Chickens are a bit rarer after this morning.

Saw a suspicious lump in back pasture. I'm a crime scene investigator; even before I've finished my coffee, I can spot a goat stomach at 40 yards. (no specialized training is really needed for that!)

En route to the stomach I found more feathers. Subtracted another Spotted Sussex. Found what's left of a Boer goat. Not much but a head, a backbone and three feet. Even I was impressed at the way poor Ken looked. The Boogey Beast may not have been too keen on goat entrails, but the rest of the goat was pretty much gone. I had turned that goat out to graze at 12:30 AM last night. By 7:30 AM this morning, Ken looked like a lion kill that had been picked clean by buzzards. Impressive. Very impressive.

Started poking around the pasture and found bits and pieces of Ken all over. It would appear that the Boogey Beast was actually a collection of Boogey Beasts. Canine paw prints marked the area. And more dead chickens. Actually, they were just piles of chicken feathers - no bodies. A trail of chicken feathers led out of the pasture and into the canal. Okay then. I could accept that coyotes had come in and stolen my livestock. I live in the country. If you live in the country, those things happen. I even happen to like coyotes. I could donate a goat from time to time to wildlife. (Ken would vote differently on that issue.) I decided that I would just have to make sure to keep the goats in their stall at night, and make sure that the chickens were not released until well after the sun was up.

I was comfortable, (not happy, but comfortable) with that idea until the rancher next door shot a hole in it when he pointed out that the tracks were not coyotes, but dogs. "WHAT!!! YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT DOMESTIC DOGS JUST KILLED FIVE CHICKENS AND ATE AN ENTIRE GOAT!!"

Rancher informed me that he'd been having a problem with dogs coming from the neighborhood across the canal. I looked down at what was left of Ken and started to get mad. Rancher put on rubber boots and followed the trail of feathers through the fence, across the canal, and up to the neighboring street. It appeared that Fluffy and Friends got tired of eating Purina and had decided to cross the canal and hunt in the Serengeti.

Those goats have been a pain in my butt, but come on - Ken was in his own pasture, minding his own little goat business (for once in his life!) and the chickens were simply early risers (undoubtedly they had not finished their coffee either) who had unfortunately been invited to breakfast by Fluffy and his friends who were still picking their teeth.

I was ready to follow the feather trail myself to find Fluffy's owner and inform him that he needed to confine Fluffy and Friends.

Rancher pointed out that I didn't want to do this since it could cause me to lose my job. I followed his train of thought for a moment and realized that perhaps he was right. There was a strong possibility that Irrate Farm Girl With a Badge And a Gun was unlikely to be amused when Bubba informed her that this was a free county and it was his God-Given Right to let his dogs run free. It is also highly unlikely that the Police Dept, my employer, would be amused when we had to extract my gun from Bubba's butt. Yes, Rancher was probably right about this one - let Animal Control handle it.

So now the remaining four goats are locked in their stalls (and are apparently quite happy to be there!) After six hours the Animal Control guy still hasn't showed up. I figure they're busy and Fluffy is not a high priority. But since Ken was eaten a mere baseball throw from my barn (and a $7000 horse,) I can assure you that if I catch Fluffy chasing that horse, lead will fly.

And I hate to even think about what my mother will do if she catches Bubba. Exactly how far can a cane go up someone's butt?

Well... despite the fact that I've been going to work with a fever and a head cold all week, the moment my 25 year old stallion announced that he was sick (and would undoubtedly die if I did not drop everything to attend to his needs) I called the office to inform them that I would not be coming to work today because I had a sick horse. Yes... my horse's life IS more important than anyone else's life in the City of Houston.

So I quickly called a friend to advise her that Sultan was down and he had informed me that he was probably dying and may need assistance getting up and into the horse trailer. So... Helen arrived with the troops. And the horse decided that since he now had an audience, perhaps he wasn't dying. In fact, he could stand and walk to the trailer on his own. (I think Helen's teenaged son was a bit disappointed.)

We arrived at the vet's, and Sultan decided that not only was he not dying, he was still a sexy stallion and perhaps he should use this opportunity to "get his groove on." Since he is a polite stallion, this consists of standing tall (he's a short 15.0!), arching his neck, preening a bit, and nickering to other horses. (Sultan loves to visit the vet. It's party time.)

I reminded him that we came to the vet because he had announced that he was dying. He informed me that he felt much better now, and would I please keep it down, as he was trying to get his groove on. Dr Gladson listened to me explain that the lying creature standing beside was indeed SICK! He batted his eyes at her. She was not impressed and pumped Pepto Bismal up his nose. He knew the party was over when she donned a glove and stuck her hand up his rectum. Yep.... hard to look sexy with a vet stickin' out of yer butt.

Even after suffering the indignities of the examination, Sultan kept his good humor. At this point we don't know what caused the colic. It could be the melanoma. Tumors are popping up on the outside, so it's safe to assume that they're growing inside too. It could be the weird weather. It could be a change in the brand of oats he eats. After a fecal exam, we've ruled out parasites. So now he's happily standing in the back yard where I can see him. I've had to put trash bags over the bird feeder since I'm absolutely certain that Nut & Berry Songbird Mix is not on his approved diet this evening. Hopefully when the banamine wears off, he won't colic again. Dr. Gladson has assured me that she is on call all weekend and my Sexy Senior Citizen is welcome to spend the weekend with her. I did not tell him this as he may have another episode just to cruise the vet's stalls for ladies.

sheridan

"Trouble is a sieve through which we sift our acquaintances. Those too big to pass through are our friends." Arlene Francis

Some time ago I moved the goats into the pasture with my stallion who is not nearly the elitist that Montoya has shown himself to be. Sultan is very patient and polite with 'hard-working country folk.' Unfortunately this is proving to be a problem, since the Peasants are getting a bit too pushy.

This morning I fed the animals and was about to leave the barn when that little voice that whispers, "Take another peek at the horses," tapped me on the shoulder. Sure enough, a very unhappy stallion was standing in the corner of his stall while the peasants were running amok in the palace! Like Barbarians, the hordes had rushed in and were knocking each other over as they spread his hay about the stall in a feasting frenzy. Poor Sultan, who has only lived with cats and chickens, had no idea how to behave when Peasants storm The Palace, so with eyes like saucers, he stood in the corner, deposed and dejected.

In the next stall, Montoya thoughtfully chewed his hay and watched all this great interest. For a moment, I seriously considered switching the animals around; perhaps the Peasants needed the taste of a different kind of Aristocratic Authority. But while Sultan is a benign monarch, Montoya's leadership style is a more like Attila the Hun, so I opted against it. Instead, I got Sultan a haybag and put it high enough that the peasants couldn't reach it. Then I reminded him that it took more than pedigree to be a ruler, and clearly democracy wasn't going to work to his advantage.

We'll see how it works. If the Peasants continue to act like Barbarians, Attila will be happy to be their new King.

After the death of my 30 year old mare, I considered letting the goats become companions for Montoya, my four year old gelding. Here is how that worked out:

Montoya has been quite lonely since we lost Sonny. Sultan ignores him and I can only occupy a small part of his day, so I decided to let Montoya in with the goats to see if they might make suitable companions for him. I walked him into the goat paddock and we stood together while the goats gaped at us:

"Look, these are your new friends," I told him.

He pointed out that these were peasants and were thus not fit companions for an Andalusian, the Horse of Kings. I reminded him that he was only half Andalusian. He ignored me.

"Come on, you could be their king," I told him as the goats, friendly and welcoming, as most hard-working country folk are, cautiously approached to welcome Montoya to their humble little paddock. He glared at them.

"You know, Thoroughbreds all over the world have goats as companions," I said.

He reminded me that race horses are not generally bred for their brains. Touché. The goats stopped at a respectful distance to examine their new king. While they gazed up in wonder, Prince Brat looked down in disgust and once more informed me that horses of his breeding do not associate with such low class individuals. I pointed out that since he had been rolling in the back yard, His Royal Highness had doggy poop smeared in his mane. Again, he ignored me. The goats quickly decided that this new ruler wasn't here to feed or entertain them, so they soon wandered off and got back to work.

Montoya gave a disgusted sigh. Because he didn't appear to harbor any genuine animosity toward the goats, I released His Royal Highness in the goat paddock. For a moment, he watched the goats as they stood on their hind legs and stripped a tallow tree.

I swear I heard him snort, "Peasants!" And since he considered an Arabian stallion to be a more suitable companion for royalty such as himself, he trotted off to the back of the goat paddock and called Sultan. The stallion ignored him. Again. So His Highness spent the day ignoring the goats, and they spent the day hard at work. I guess the up side is that since he thinks he's too good to associate with the lower classes, I'm spared having to drag along four goats when I want to take Montoya away from the barn.

Bullfighting

Montoya, my four year old gelding, provided me with his version of bullfighting last night:

I am a cop. I get home late and tired. Walk in barn. Notice that goats have gotten out of their pen and are inside Montoya's paddock. Hmmmmm.....that was probably entertaining at some point. Goats are happy to see me. I am not as thrilled to see them. Herding goats is not an activity anyone wants to do after midnight. Goats want in their stall, but cannot figure out how to get into their stall so they are huddled in the stall with the chickens. Huddled... Hmmmm...

Note that Montoya is in the stall beside them looking a bit peeved. There is a board across the chicken's stall doorway to keep His Royal Highness out of the chicken scratch. Goats are huddled safely behind this bar. Feed horses so His Royal Highness is occupied while I try to figure out how to easily move four billy goats into their paddock. Decide best course of action would be to just lock goats in chicken stall and figure out where they got out when the sun comes up.

Go to shut stall door. One goat decides that I really want to barbecue him and thus he must race out of stall before I can shut door. Other goats panic and want to follow but I slam door in their faces. Now they are screaming. Chickens are clucking because goats are stepping on them. His Royal Highness has decided that this is FAR more interesting than his supper, so he exits his back door to come investigate.

HRH notes the loose goat. I swear, horses have "Spock" eyebrows because His Royal Highness gave Nitwit Goat the"Spock" eyebrow. Nitwit Goat screamed in terror. HRH lowered his head and charged Nitwit. I yelled at HRH. Colt looked at me with complete innocence. Nitwit continued to bleat in terror while his caged friends scaled the wall of the stall. His Royal Highness peaked into their stall. There was a moment of silence. I yelled at HRH. He gave me a look that only chaplains and little old ladies should wear. I yelled at him again and ordered him back in his stall. He shrugged and walked inside. I opened back door to goat stall. Nitwit was too scared to enter. He continued to run around bleating while his compadres answered in sympathy. I tried to herd him inside.

Convinced that I was the Spawn Of Satan with a Fork, Nitwit Goat ran from me in blind panic. Barbecued goat was beginning to sound good. Nitwit began running in circles farther and farther from the opened stall door. This proved too much temptation for His Royal Highness. Like a gray Specter of the Night On Wings, His Royal Highness glided out of the stall. Nitwit decided that perhaps I was not the only Spawn of Satan in the pasture. He screamed and ran for the barn. With a move that would make any cutting horse proud, His Royal Highness swooped in front of him. This was the stuff of Nitwit Nightmares. Alone, away from the herd, a Giant Gray Demon toyed with him. Nitwit was beside himself with horror. His Royal Highness was having the time of his life..... until I yelled at him. The Choir Boy stopped and looked at me.

"Huh?"

"Quit chasin' the goat. We'll be out here all night."

"Not if I catch him."

"Touche"

"So can I kill him?"

"No, then we'll have a dead goat in the pasture."

"I have no problem with that."

"I'll give you an apple if you'll go in your stall."

"DEAL!"

So His Royal Highness hustled to his stall. Nitwit grabbed that opportunity to race into the goat stall. And I finally got to go to bed.