This year brought a lot of kids, and a lot of adventures, but there is no doubt that one doeling sticks out of the bunch. A little darling that was born dead, and once revived, reminded me that the bad can always be balanced by the good.
The day the insane buck JP (reminds me I need to write about him sometime too) left, I bred him to two does – Orchid and Crown Royal. Orchid unfortunately passed away from a sudden heart related event, but Crown Royal, one of the dairy’s top milking does and favorite La Manchas, carried her pregnancy without issue, and went into labor late one night.
Crown Royal has always kidded without assistance, so I left her to herself while I worked on other necessary chores during my overnight barn shift. However, as time passed and no kids arrived, I became concerned.
I checked internally to see what was going on, and unhappily, all I found were legs. Too many legs! At this point it was nearing 3:00AM in the morning and no more time could be wasted. As poor Crown Royal groaned in discomfort, I began the arduous task of sorting out what these legs belonged to. It was quite a tangle in there – all I could find was legs legs and more legs. It certainly felt like even more legs than eventually came out, but with time, I was able to shift everything around, and trace a pair of front legs up to a chest, neck, and finally head. Triumphant, I helped Crown Royal deliver the first kid, a massive buckling that looked just like his father.
He was alive and alert as I dumped him into the bedding, still steaming in the cooler barn air. Right away he began to try and jump to his feet and Crown Royal knocked him back down in her eagerness to lick and clean her new son. We didn’t have much time to appreciate the scene, as there was still at least one kid in there that needed to come out. So I went fishing again, and found some hind legs and a front leg. Two kids? No, just one I discovered, but it took time – too much time – to get it readjusted so that it could come through the birth canal easily.
That night was a strange one – I was already bone tired, even though we were just a couple weeks into kidding. I was dealing with some frustrated feelings, having just been through the Toggenburg troubles, which had been an immense amount of work that left the entire dairy with no reward in exchange. The time of year that was normally my favorite had become just another tiresome chore that I wanted to be done with. Time had no meaning, and I just closed my eyes and felt my way to bringing this goat kid out of one world and into mine.
Finally, things aligned and with a final grunt from Crown Royal, out the kid came. I was filled with disappointment and anger – the kid was limp and didn’t take a breath. I’d taken too long. This was our last JP doeling, from a great doe, and I blamed myself for losing her. I rained admonishments upon my own head in those brief seconds the dead doeling lay on the straw – why hadn’t I checked sooner. Why hadn’t I worked harder. Why had I failed? Failure is something I often don’t handle as well as I should.
I wasn’t ready to give up on her just yet though – I snatched the slimy kid off the ground by the hind legs and swung her back and forth in an effort to clean the fluid from her lungs. I massaged her little chest, and blew a couple of breaths through her warm wet nostrils, trying to get her to breath on her own. Finally, I thumped her sides, and my eyes filled with boiling hot tears that spilled over as I continued to blame myself.
I don’t know how long I worked on that doeling – longer than I normally would. But finally I dropped her onto the bedding and admitted defeat.
Then she kicked her hind legs and took a breath.
In that moment, it was like the world shifted – the tears were still coming, but now with relief as I returned to rubbing and encouraging the little doeling to keep breathing. When she let out a soft wobbly cry, my heart wobbled right along with it. Crown Royal was busy with her buckling, who by now was on his feet and thrusting his muzzle at her swollen teats, so I picked up the little doeling and took her to where I had a heater set up for just these instances. I worked on her until she was dry and breathing well, but I could not get her to latch onto her mother’s teats. So I fetched the syringe and tube and filled her little belly with Crown Royal’s rich colostrum.
I realized then that it was almost 5:00AM and my shift was ending. The doeling was weak and Crown Royal had paid very little attention to her, but I had done everything I could do. I warned the next shift that she would need help, and I honestly admitted that I was not sure she would survive – it had been a struggle, one that was only starting for the weak baby. I went to bed, certain that the morning report would include her passing away.
She did not, and in fact, by the time I returned to the barn in early afternoon, she had a suck reflex. I helped her nurse from Crown Royal, but it became pretty clear that her mother was not interested in her. By removing the doeling and drying her myself, I had broken the bond that’s created when a dam licks off her doeling. However, Crown Royal being the patient good doe she is, she would allow the doeling to nurse if I asked. Otherwise, the poor dear was butted away and ignored.
So now we had a bottle baby – just what I didn’t want! Although I admit, she rarely got a bottle – most of the time I just held Crown Royal and the little doeling would fill her belly until Crown Royal kicked her away and let me know that lunch time was over. This situation would continue until her weaning, and I thank Crown Royal for her patience and willingness to please.
The doeling came to recognize my voice very quickly, and her long legs made her terribly clumsy and endearing as she ran over to me anytime I came out. As she grew stronger, so did my affection for her, and as she bumbled about the barn attempting to play with the other newborns, I knew I had a good name for her already. Bumble!
As she grew, I wanted to ensure she got enough nutrition to live up to her large heritage, so we began to allow her into the dairy during milking. It was often easier to just put her on the stand and let her have her milk that way. Soon enough, she discovered a taste for grain as well – and the Bumble invasion of the dairy really started.
Not only did the little bugger decide that she was allowed to run into the dairy parlor anytime the door was open, nothing was off limits to her. The grain became a sandbox to play in when she was finished picking out what she wanted – she’d dig her front hooves in and send it flying across the floor. The floor that I would need to clean afterward, I might add!
Too, she realized very quickly that the really good stuff was on the milking stanchion. One milking she slipped into the holding pen with the other milking does, and all by herself, galloped onto the stand and stuck her head through to get her share, imitating her older working relatives. I couldn’t even begin to control my amusement at the sight of her little face poking out one end.
It became a habit to take pictures and post them on Facebook to “complain” about my little dairy pest. Spoiled brat! I would shout at her as she scrambled out of my reach after dumping a scoop of grain all over the floor. Pesky pain in my tail! I lamented as I shoved her butt out the door for the third time in one milking. Annoying little urchin! I grumbled when I needed to extract her from the stand so that legitimate milkers could take that spot.
I was relieved I tell you, when weaning time finally came and I unceremoniously dumped Bumble into the pen with the rest of the distressed kids her age.
Yet, milking time just wasn’t the same. A bit dull, to be honest So Bumble spent just a short time with her agemates, and now she’s back to her usual antics, brightening each and every day for all of us here on the farm.