Should'a Known

I knew that first milking went too smoothly and it couldn't last.  Yesterday was a total disaster.  Poor Tessie's udder was shiny tight and I was working as quickly as I could to relieve the pressure when it was her turn on the stand.  It was going pretty well and I could fend off the occasional stamping hoof as long as she had food in the dish, but when she ran out, trouble started.  I discovered it is impossible to get a shoulder under the belly of a bucking goat to keep the back feet in the air and still milk an unhappy doe.  The inevitable happened and nearly a gallon of milk went flying.  It occurred to me once again that it is a good thing there is no one in hearing distance.  Fortunately, I was within a couple of squirts of being finished with Tessie, and I decided we could both live with that and I turned her out.  I had really wanted to save that last day of colostrum (produced for about three days after birth), but at least I had a quart left from the day before in the refrigerator.

The rest of the day went by in a blur of milk and water.  In the heat that has arrived again, everything needs watering at least once a day; plants, chickens, dog, cats, and goats (and sheep).  Every time I turned around, it was time for another bottle for Twenty-Two.  As it is for people babies, the bottle needs to be heated (what did we do before microwaves?), washed, refilled.  Trekking down to the barn, I am accompanied by the pushing, shoving herd on each visit.  Poppy has figured out that there is nothing in it for her and goes on about her business in the field.  Waking from a nap, Twenty-Two takes time out to pee.  And pee.  And pee.  He must hold it in between feedings, and we have a couple of minutes of silent communion, just looking at each other, before he finally comes to sit in my lap.  It's really pretty funny.  He has taken to the bottle like a pro, chugging down all but about an inch every time.  It's like watching a balloon as his belly swells with the intake.  It's hard to leave him, as he's started crying, not wanting to be left alone, when I go out of the stall.  It's a drawback to being a surrogate mother, as he gives a very human-like "ma-a-a-a," and I'll admit to giving a momentary thought to putting him in the laundry room (the chickens aren't using it).  Sanity returned just in time.

The midnight marauder got really ticked off.  I'd put an empty, covered plastic container that used to hold dog treats in the recycle bag on the deck by the kitchen door.  Yesterday I found the container all the way around on the other side of the deck, the lid covered with teeth and claw marks, but intact.  Unlike someone who shall remain nameless, the marauder must do his cussing under his breath because neither Bessie nor I heard anything in the middle of the night.

I'm holding the good thought for the milking this morning, but....