Merry Christmas!

The Merriest of Christmases and the very Happiest of New Years to each and every One of you!!!!! May your stockings be FULL of Peanuts that come 3 to a shell ( or more :))!!!

Winter Wonderland ... I Think

Yesterday was the first day of Winter. Now I always thought it was March that was supposed to come in like a lion and go out like a lamb, but somebody got mixed up. Why? Because last night a Blizzard Warning was issued for the Pacific Northwest Coast. Now we are not on the coast and so were not included in the warning. Besides, this is the Pacific Northwest, not Montana or Minnesota. Piece of Cake. No problemo. But guess what? We had the blizzard. Here.

It started last evening and continued through the night. At 1:15 a.m., the goatmother got up to take Cabra out. Snow was plastered on the window screens all the way up to the top. When she opened the door, a small wall of snow had to be removed before the Cabrarator could get through the door. Our highest wind speed was 46 mph, but there were places that had 100. I suppose we should be thankful for small favors, but the truth is snow blew into the barn via every crack it could find. It managed to find its way all the way to the back of the right side and managed even to infiltrate the sacred hay space despite the door being shut. I guess it wouldn't have been so bad except that an already small sleeping area got even smaller once everyone crammed into the no-snow zone. By morning things had calmed down considerably and we could venture out to survey the aftermath. Well, some of us ventured out.

Nothing stops the moles. They are like the U.S. Postal Service.

Everywhere, like valiant little soldiers, leaves were stuck upright in the snow, a testament to the fury of the blizzard.

Our beloved tire stood stoically, looking oddly like an iced Christmas pudding.

The goatfather's truck became stuck trying to get up the driveway. The neighbor had to come help. It's a darned good thing, too, since the goatfather's 'unsticking' efforts were causing the truck to slide sideways toward the pasture fence.

Naturally the goats ventured out to see what all the commotion was about. (Please note who is conspicuously absent. I am, in fact, firmly ensconced in the warm hay, but I did peer out once or twice just to keep up appearances.)

And there were tracks in the snow. There were large doggie tracks.

And there were small doggie tracks.

And there were bird tracks.

And then there were these tracks. Can you see them heading out toward the road through the grass? No?

Here's a better look. Notice the rather large size and the rather large claw marks at the front? Yes, my friends, this is the track of none other than a Black Bear. I thought all this time they were hibernating. Who knew? ...Oy...

The tracks went up the road and finally wandered off back into the woods. I say. OY. Obviously the guy was hungry. At any rate, I sure hope he doesn't have a taste for Peanuts.

Well, now, Winter. No wonder, waaay back in September, those Woolly Boogers, were trying to hide in the barn. Take my advice, Y'All. I've said it once, and I'll say it again. Always, but always trust a Woolly Booger when it comes to Winter.

It Came Upon A Mid-Day Clear

It was a cold December morning. Snow lay sparkling like iridescent ice-cream atop every inanimate object (and some animate ones too). It covered the fence posts with a frosty sheath, freezing everything it touched. That's how it happened.

What happened, Marigold? I think you've had one too many Peanuts.

No. Trust me. It was beyond anything. You see, in the morning the goatmother came out and opened the barn door. In order to do this, she must first pass through a gate into the paddock. The gate opens in either direction and has a latch mechanism on both sides. That is how it happened.

Oh, good grief! Will you just get on with the story.

Okay, well, the gate was opened this morning. In the afternoon, the goatmother was sitting at her computer when she heard the Mighty Quinn begin to whine desperately. She trudged dutifully down the stairs to let him out. That was the first problem because, in fact, it was really the parakeet, Crenshaw, imitating the Mighty Quinn whining and was not the Mighty Quinn at all. Nonetheless, the goatmother opened the door to let the dogs out and looked up just in time to see us coming up from the snow laden, brushy pasture.

Now I realize I said I would never set foot outside the barn as long as there was snow on the ground, but, well, frankly I just couldn't stand it in there with Ella a minute longer. Anyway, as the goatmother watched, she suddenly realized that no one was stopping at the gate and everyone was proceeding, in an orderly procession, toward the snow-blanketed garden. She dropped everything, grabbing for her boots and coat, and yelling to the goatfather that indeed, 'Houston we have a problem!' - the goats are out!!!

Really I don't understand what all the fuss was about. It's not like we were going very far. After all, there is snow on the ground. Plus, surely someone must have meant for us to explore new territory or the latch would never have inadvertently frozen open. I don't know how it took us so long to discover , but I blame Boo. Honestly, no one can see around anything that size.

So, the four of them, the goatmother, goatfather, the Mighty Quinn, and Cabra, came charging toward the barn. The goatfather was in the lead and Ella ran around to meet him (the turncoat). The Mighty Quinn veered off and that's when it happened.

There you go again. Get to the point already.

The goatmother looked up in time to see everyone (except Ella, of course) running for the lot. She wasn't really surprised until she saw Peanut run by the fence inside the lot so fast that he caused it to sway. Why was he running? That's when she saw the little tan ball of fuzz hot on his heels. HOLY FINKELBINDER! The downy dirt devil can HERD! We knew it was a possibility (remember this?), but we hardly expected her to live up to the image. I am ashamed to say that we allowed ourselves to be manipulated by a ball of fuzz with snowballs hanging off of it. How humiliating. Oh, the embarrassment that is mine.

Life will never be the same. The goatmother says it just goes to show: "Don't tell people how to do things. Tell them what do do and let them surprise you with their results." - General George S. Patton.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

You see, it snowed. And then it snowed some more. Actually it snowed more than they said it would snow. Who knew? The Woolly Boogers, that's who! Perchance you remember that only two Woolly Boogers were viewed this last Fall (refresh your memory here), and there was speculation as to what exactly it meant that both were found inside the barn. At any rate, it is now official. They were getting the hay out of Dodge.

Anyway, below is me. You don't see me? That would be because I am behind the door, inside the barn like the Woolly Boogers. What is more, I don't intend to be seen outside the barn anytime soon.

It isn't so bad...really. There is lots of hay, and water that isn't frozen due to the goatmother's enlightened acquisition of a heated water bucket. Thank Goat! she has a few brain cells left.

Still, there is a downside, and that is being stuck inside the barn with Ella. Miss 'Good Egg', (who bragged about herself here) isn't such a 'good egg' anymore. In fact, I would put her into the 'bad egg' category and in the 'Cabra house'. Why? Well, since we are more or less 'confined to quarters', when it came time this morning for our meager pittance of Peanuts, someone decided she would get more if she bit the hair on Peanut's back and performed one of her relentless slam-dunks on Watson's mid-section. He always freezes (Oh, please forgive the pun) and can't get out of the way. No one likes a bully, Ella. The goatmother was most displeased and said as much. In spades. Ad infinitum. Ella spent the remainder of the time following the goatmother around trying to rub her head on her - a blatant display of 'frozen-brown nosing' and quite nauseous.

So it is only 19 degrees after an overnight low of 18. What's up with that? It is supposed to get warmer during the day, but only up to 20 something. The forecast says more snow for this weekend and perhaps even up to Christmas. I'm all for a White Christmas, but you know, living with the Grinch of Goatdom just isn't that much fun. Still, with Christmas coming and all, perhaps some little corner of her heart will melt and the rest of us can find a little peace. It could happen.

The Snow

This is what it looks like when it snows. Can you see all that white stuff in my pasture (lower right corner)? Oy and brrrr.

But as bad as it is for a goat, this is what it looks like if you are a fuzzy little farm dog that loves romping in the snow almost as much as romping in the mud.

And this is what your face looks like if you are a fuzzy little farm dog, who loves romping in the snow, and your buns are frozen along with the snowballs.

Quite sad, really. "It doesn't matter if the water is cold or warm if you're going to have to wade through it anyway." - Teilhard de Chardin, French Geologist, Priest, Philosopher and Mystic.

The Return of the King

When you've got it, you've got it. That is a two-fold sentiment, since the Ruby-Crowned Kinglet is back visiting his mirrored buddies, AND the goatmother was actually fast enough to catch him at it.

Take a bow, little guy. We're mighty glad to see you back.

The Herding Ultimate

Marigold here. Just a brief note to say that I most SINCERELY hope the goatmother does NOT get any ideas from THIS. 'Nuff said.

The Mysterious Case of the Marauded Mirror

It appeared one day. It had not been there before and then, all of a sudden, it simply was.
"What's this?", asked the goatfather. But, I knew what it was. Yes, indeed. I recognized the tell-tale signs right away. I turned to Watson and said, "Ah, Watson, my good man! Another mystery is afoot!"

So, to begin, allow me to provide you with photographic evidence of the occurrence. What you see below is the side-view mirror of the goatfather's truck. Mind you I do not pay attention to THE TRUCK as a matter of course. This is due to the fact that I had to ride in it once upon a time. I can't say it is my fondest memory, yet it did hold a certain air of adventure. Nonetheless, when I observed the goatfather's dismay at the obvious violation of his sacred vehicle, I knew my services were required. So who or what had come to leave this dastardly, excremental affirmation of its existence? It was a conundrum.

Watson and I set up round-the-clock surveillance of the area. We noticed right away that the other vehicle bore much the same deposition. It was obvious to us that extreme vigilance would be required in order to catch the culprit.

Finally the little blighter was caught in the act. It was, in fact, a small, yet nefarious ornithological specimen. (No. The goatmother did not take this photo. She is not nearly fast enough.)

It was a Ruby Crowned Kinglet. It seems he had wandered by the mirror one day, only to note that an infidel in a small, shiny box was trying to gain access to HIS territory. To make matters worse, there was not only one but four of these heathens! The nerve! Naturally, the Kinglet felt it was his bounden duty to rid the premises of these inferior feathered would-be usurpers and proceeded to take matters into his own hands - er feet. Again and again he flew at the fellows only to be beaten back.

Then Watson, the goatmother and myself noticed the Kinglet at the barn. He was on the ground. A strange place for a bird. He seemed to be trying to get up next to the barn as though to get warm. The goatmother noticed that he did not look well and, in fact, seemed hurt - perhaps the victim of battle fatigue or Gulf War Syndrome- who can be sure. She scooped him up and made a small nest in the hay in order to keep him warm. A day passed. The goatmother went to look, fully expecting to find the cold remains of the intrepid, albeit confused, mirror marauder. Instead, the nest was empty! A crime, but no body. Oy.

Later, as she was looking out the window, who should appear on a branch and fully fit, but our brave little friend. Our hearts were gladdened, for even though he left a mess in his wake, we had all become rather fond of him.

A light broke in upon my soul –

It was the carol of a bird;

It ceased – and then it came again

The sweetest song ear ever heard.

- Lord Byron

Good Egg, Bad Egg

Goat Evening. Ella here. Really. Ella. You know why? Well, today was 'jour de soin de pied'. In other words, it was hoof trimming day. Guess who was such a very good girl, hopped right up on the stand, and allowed her hooves to be trimmed tout de suite with absolutely no problems? Not Marigold, that's for sure. As a consequence, the 'bad egg' has been banned from blogging and I am allowed to write in her stead. Isn't that simply brilliant?

After all, "...after observation and analysis, when you find that anything agrees with reason and is conducive to the good and benefit of one and all, then accept it and live up to it." - Buddha. That's my philosophy and I'm sticking to it. Besides, I love my goatmother. :)

On Being Thankful

It's Thanksgiving. I bow my head. (Notice the white patch on my head even looks like a monk's tonsure.). Don't I look humble? As a matter of fact, I am very thankful for quite a few things.

First of all, I am very thankful that I am not Watson. Afterall, I wouldn't make a very good punching bag. Yet such is the way of life for my good man, Watson. At any given moment, one can enter the barn and hear thunderous bangs and crashes. One might surmise that an earthquake is in progress, or ninjas have moved in, but, then, one would be wrong. What the ruckus would, in fact, be is Peanut butting Watson ... against the wall ... the fence ... the hay rack ... the gate. Really it seems to be Peanut's mission in life to man the buttle stations whenever possible. Of course it is all in good fun (at least for Peanut), and Watson does give back some of what he gets. Despite his efforts, however, when one is prone to freezing and fainting at the drop of a Peanut (the eating kind, not the goat kind), well, what one gives can hardly be equal to what one receives. At any rate, I am very thankful I am not Watson.

This year I am also thankful that I am not the one responsible for the goatmother's recent solo flight through the barn. You are probably wondering what that's all about, and I am here to tell you that the journey was one born, not of choice, but of sabotage. Guilty parties are unknown - or at least unconfessed. It happened one evening when the goatmother unlatched the bottom half of the gate separating the two halves of the barn in preparation for the night. She proceeded to grab three particularly succulent flakes of hay for our repast, and started in to place them in the hay racks. Unfortunately, unbeknownst to her, someone had closed the bottom gate. She never stood a chance. With an armload of hay, she didn't notice the closed gate, hit it full force, and flew into the other side of the barn with moves even Terrell Owens couldn't make. Boo and I ran. Watson froze, only remaining standing because he was next to the fence. Ella (that suck-up) stayed by the fallen goatmother. Boo, deciding that demons must surely have entered the barn and attacked the goatmother, refused to go back in. IT WASN'T ME!!! I SWEAR! But I am really thankful it wasn't.

I am also thankful for Peanuts. That sort of goes without saying, really, but I thought I would mention it just in case. Christmas is just around the barn, you know.

So, I am thankful for a lot of things. I am thankful I can write this blog and that there are actually people who read it. I stand on my stump (I am exceptionally thankful for my stump), and words come to me. I hear the thoughts, and bada bing, bada butt!, the words are there. Really, "Many people hear voices when no one is there. Some of them are called mad and are shut up in rooms where they stare at the walls all day. Others are called writers and they do pretty much the same thing." - Unknown. Oy.

Whatever. Still, there is one thing I am probably more appreciative of this day than anything else in the world. Today, I am extremely and greatly goatful that I am not a turkey.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Bette Davis Eyes

In life, there are often traits that make one stand out from the crowd. Take for example, Bette Davis. She was known for her eyes. And while Bette's eyes were quite outstanding (as humans go), I just don't think they can come close to the exceptional peepers of goats. Goats' eyes are just remarkable any way you look at it (she said modestly).

For example, did you know that a goat's eyesight is the equivalent to what a human sees with 8x or 10x binocular power? Take that, Spidey!!! This means that a goat can see and recognize things from great distances. As an example, Ella quite regularly spots the goatmother moving about in the kitchen eventhough the house is somewhere in the neighborhood of 50 yards away. And those Caprine orbs work just as well close up. Boo can often be seen tracking small insects as they ascend the wall of the barn. Of course we are talking about Boo. This means one must consider the possibility that the insects may not actually be there. Nonetheless, that is entirely irrelevant here.

Anyway, goats possess horizontal, slit-shaped pupils which serve to increase peripheral depth perception. The goatfather describes them as 'Octopus eyes'. For you herding types, this means you won't be sneaking up on any goats any time soon, so you might as well stop trying. For the rest of you, it means that a goat will ALWAYS know the location of the Peanuts no matter how hard you try to hide them.

At any rate, I've put together a little pictorial to help you better appreciate the ocular magnificence that is the eye of the goat.

They come bewildered and surprised.

They come maybe-not-so-innocent and full of curiosity.

They come with long lashes - always a hit with the girls.

And a little eye make-up can go a very long way.

But in the end it is important to remember, " Eyes are more accurate witnesses than ears." - Heraclitus of Ephesus. What better reason to believe in the humble musings of someone possessing such a superior pair?

Search and Rescue

Dogs like to work for a living - unlike goats - or at least most goats with any sense. This is one reason I believe that goats are superior to dogs. (No offense intended to any of my beloved dog readers. It is just one of those facts of life like 'the early goat catches the Peanut', or 'behind every good goatmother stands a great goat'.) Anyway, you might recall that I have commented from time to time on the training progress of the Mighty Quinn. It is to that end that I speak to you now.

To re-cap, the Mighty Quinn, while showing excellent potential early on, has never quite mastered the art of herding goats (to my relief) thanks to...er...due to an unfortunate meeting with my nephew, Peanut, and the electric fence. Nonetheless, he has persevered in his work ethic by achieving highest marks in the Dervish Herding School method. Still, herding has all but eluded him, except in pursuit of a rather unique prey. In this, we have discovered, lies the Mighty Quinn's true talent. For you see, the Mighty Quinn has begun to excel in the area of Search and Rescue. You know, these are the dogs able to locate 'victims' lost in the wilderness or buried under tons of disaster-related debris?

Of course the Mighty Quinn has not had any actual disasters with which to train. (Unless, of course, you count the time Boo tried to go under the gate between the two sides of the barn, knocking it off its hinges in the process, and nearly taking me out.) Despite this lack, a certain natural talent has come to light. For example, one day the neighbors' Brussels Griffon, Oscar, went missing. Everyone ran hither and yon frantically calling his name in an effort to locate him. The Mighty Quinn realized the gravity of what was happening and wandered off into the woods. Moments later he returned with Oscar trailing behind. Another day, Cabra became frightened of the John Deere pulling an empty garden trailer. As it came careening down the road driven by the goatfather, (I say 'careening', mind you, because you have never witnessed the acceleration and wild abandon exhibited by a man who has just realized the load is light and the way is absolutely clear. Trust me, it pays to get the hay out of the way.) Cabra became cognizant that her life was in danger and promptly disappeared. The goatmother called and called. The Mighty Quinn, taking one look at the desperation that was the goatmother's face, trotted off toward the house, expiditiously returning with Cabra in tow. What a guy.

So, as you can see, Search and Rescue seems to be the Mighty Quinn's natural forté. Allow me to jar your memory a bit by returning to the previously pursued DHS 'prey' which can be reviewed here. It is now Autumn. The leaves have fallen and cover the ground in thick blankets. Locating the 'prey' has become quite a challenge, particularly since there is such a large target area. Nonetheless, it has been discovered that all one need do is stand back, scoop in hand, and say, 'Find the Poop'. No kidding. 'Find the Poop'. Gauche, I know, but there you have it. You say the magic words, stand back, and the Mighty Quinn goes to work. His success rate is phenomenal. Fortunately, Cabra provides us with enough training material to cover the need. And what's in it for him, you might ask? What reward could possibly exist for such an undertaking? Why nothing more than the chance to perform the Dervish dance that accompanies each sacrificial conveyance. Not even a morsel of food or kernel of Peanut is required. (This, by the way, naturally supports my original supposition concerning the superiority of goats. A goat would merely look at you and say, 'Find the What?! I don't think so.)

Anyway, who knew such a latent talent lay undiscovered in the Mighty Quinn for so long? Granted some of you might not see the merit, but I can assure you that this is only a stepping stone to higher ground. The next step is to learn to 'sit' as a signal that the target has been located. From there, it is a mere hop, bound and a butt to finding other objects and maybe even people...or lost goats...or lost Peanuts! YES!!! So, my friends, do not mock what you do not understand. A noted Native American, Iron Eagle, once said, "God doesn't give people talents that he doesn't want people to use." I'm reasonably sure that applies to dogs too - maybe even to goats.

A Rose, Is a Rose, Is a....Marigold.

Ola!, my friends. Today I will enlighten you with a bit of history. No, not a history of the goat. That would be, I am quite sure, most exciting. However, instead, my mission is a bit more defined. For you see, today I am going to tell you a bit of the history of the Marigold. My sobriquet is not just the stuff of history, but is, in fact, steeped in legend.

Marigolds originated in Central America (probably Mexico), and were introduced to Southeast Asia by the 16th Century. They have naturalized there, and are used in India and Pakistan as a medicinal, flavoring, dye and ornamental. I do not know, personally, if they are tasty or not. However, it is on my 'to-do' list.

Now, then. It seems the humble Marigold is one of the traditional flowers used in offerings in Southeast Asia. The Gonds, an aboriginal tribe in Central India, connected the flower with their God, Gondmuli. Gondmuli stole another god's wife and the battle was on - in fact, Gondmuli sort of lost his head over it. The abducted wife was sad for the loss, dropped her hairpin as she was dragged back, and a marigold sprung up where it landed. I would like to point out, that the word Gonds is very close to the word Goats. No doubt there is a connection here. Although, I must say that I am not acquainted with any wife-stealing goats. If anything, it is the other way around. Given the situation with my beloved Gun-Bun, it is clear that it is husband or boyfriend stealing that goes on. Nonetheless, sad though I may be, I have not noticed any marigolds springing forth. For that matter, come to think of it, I haven't even noticed any Peanuts sprouting up. Perhaps the Peanut doesn't enter into the legend. I can't be sure.

Anyway, another legend says that back in Biblical times, the marigold was known as 'Mary's Gold'. Now there may be some validity to this legend seeing as how my original goatmother's name is Mary and she is the one who saddled...er...blessed me with my name. At any rate, the legend goes that Mary (the Biblical one, not the goatfarmer one) used the blossoms as coins during the 'Flight into Egypt'. (Oddly, I am sure Mary, [the goatfarmer one and not the Biblical one] wishes she actually had some of this floral fortune given the state of the economy and the price of hay.) That aside, the Holy Family was set upon by thieves who took Mary's purse (the Biblical one, not the goatfarmer one) and when they opened it up, marigolds fell out. I am struck here by two things. First of all, why would Mary be carrying a purse? Didn't Joseph have any pockets? Perhaps there was no place to carry a wallet in those long gown thingies. And second, why would she be carrying flowers in there instead of something meaningful like Peanuts? Goat figure.

So there you have it. See? My name is not so trivial as you once thought - not that anyone with an iota of intelligence would think such a thing. Clearly I have a heritage to uphold - one divinely inspired. Marcus T. Cicero said, "There never was a great soul that did not have some divine inspiration." I think that sums it up pretty nicely, don't you?

Nubian Voting

MY NAME IS BOO AND I APPROVE THIS MESSAGE.

Psst....Where's the message?
Message? What message? Oh, for Goats' sake!

VOTE.

Vote? That's all?! Just VOTE?!
Well, goat grief. What more do you need? I'm a little nervous, you know. You've never let me talk before. Oh, all RIGHT.

VOTE FOR SOMEONE.

Was that better? Can I have the Peanuts now?
Oy.

Cutest Kid ...Ever!

Hey, ho! Peanut here! Guess what? Yes, I won the contest for Cutest Kid Ever born at Herron Hill Dairy. Of course it was a fierce campaign. Aren't they always? Anyhow, I want to thank ACORN (Ardent Caprine Organization of Revisionist Numerators) for their very non-compliant help. Special thanks go to the Mighty Quinn of that body. I would also like to thank all my constituents in the great states of CA, OR, WA, NC, WVA, TN, ME, VA, NV, TX, AR, KY, SC, FL, CO, MA, OK, MO, WI, PA, MN, IL, OH, NH, GA, NY, and the countries of Switzerland, Germany, Israel, New Zealand and Canada for their votes and support. I apologize if I have neglected to mention anyone. It has been a long, arduous journey, and I , for one, will be glad to get back to watching television without infused political propaganda. Truthfully, I find eating far more fascinating than politics. After all, as Groucho Marx once said, "Politics is the art of looking for trouble, finding it everywhere, diagnosing it incorrectly and applying the wrong remedies." In the end, I find animal cookies a lot more satisfying.

Countdown to Halloween (Minus 1) - The Spooky Castle

Now that Halloween is over, we still have to celebrate El Dias de los Muertos (the Days of the Dead). Granted most of them are past (the days, not the Dead. Ha! I kill me!) but we still have today! So with that in mind, I bring you the above pictured castle. Okay, I didn't go there. I mean they wouldn't let me in, but the goatmother and the goatfather went. You see the goatmother has this idea that every year, during the Halloween season, everyone ought to do something at least a little spooky. Hence a visit to the place you see pictured above. This is the Manresa Castle in Port Townsend, and yes, it is purported to be, you guessed it, haunted. ooooooooooooooooooo!

Of course I could spend a lot of my Peanut-eating time telling you about the history of this establishment, but it is so much easier to just send you here. Naturally the history doesn't tell you anything about it being haunted, but I assure you it is written up in many books on the paranormal. It is now a hotel, and contains an excellent restaurant (even though, as far as I know, they do not serve any Peanut dishes. They do serve a most delicious salad featuring strawberries, spinach, baked garlic, nuts and fabulous little fried goat cheese medallions.).

So, this is where the goatmother and the goatfather decided (Okay, the goatfather says it was ALL the goatmother's idea) to go for dinner. Now some folks say they have experienced phenomena here, and some folks say that is all totally absurd. At any rate, the goatmother reports that nary one spooky thing happened. Poor goatmother. I confess I know what the problem is. John Keats said, "Do not all charms fly at the mere touch of cold philosophy? There was an awful rainbow once in heaven: we know her woof, her texture (must have been that fuzzy little dirt-devil); she is given in the dull catalogue of common things (now there is an understatement if I ever heard one). Philosophy will clip an angel's wings, conquer all mysteries by rule and line, empty the haunted air (See? I told you.), and gnome mine unweave a rainbow.(That'll teach the goatmother to put those stupid little gnomes all over her garden)" Obviously the goatmother has spent far too much time around some philosophical goat, who shall conveniently remain nameless here. Oh, well, goatmother. C'est la vie! At least the food was good.

Countdown to Halloween - It's He-ere!

It's finally here! The witching hour! Hey, Ella. Do you suppose there are any Peanuts in there???

THE Election

Please join myself, Bung Ari Jan Gab, renowned Caninaturalist, and Huffle Mawson, Explorer Cat, as we pose questions to candidates, Turbo, the Sibe, and Dyson the Vacuum, in this year's most important Presidential debate, Saturday, November 1st, 2008, HERE. We thank you.

No one really approves of this message.

NEWS FLASH!!!

Hey, ho! Peanut here! You might remember that I won the award for Cutest Kid last year at Herron Hill Dairy, where I was born. I got my picture on the cover of the calendar, which according to some isn't 'all that and a bag of Peanuts', since the cover gets turned over immediately and is never viewed by anyone ever again. Nonetheless, I was very proud. Now, it seems, my title is being challenged by Smidgen, the supposed cutest doeling ever born on the farm. Please, please, please, in this year of overdone elections, take the time to go HERE and vote for me!

My name is Peanut and I approve this message...and so does Marigold, who says to say 'Oy'.

Countdown to Halloween - The Scary, Scary Dream

Halloween time would not be complete without a few scary dreams, and I am here to tell you that last night was no exception! I had one of the SCARIEST dreams I could ever have imagined. In fact, it was one of the scariest dreams anyone could imagine. I woke up in a cold sweat (which is extremely hard to do when you are covered with hair and it is only 37 degrees outside), and my heart was pumping at a rate equal to a steaming locomotive flying downhill and carrying a full load of Peanuts! Oy.

By now you are probably wondering what there could possibly be that would elicit such a response in someone as obviously brave as myself. Allow me to explain. You may remember, some time ago I posted a picture of my much-beloved, ever-so-manly Gunner. In case you have forgotten, (and so that I may gaze upon his perfection once again) below is the Gun-Bun.


I dreamed of my Gunny-Honey, but naturally that wasn't the problem. The problem came later...much later... Gunny and I strolled through pastures in the warm October sun, gazing into each other's eyes and each reveling in the other's company.

Soon, the day turned cold. The Gun was no longer there, having succumbed to the charms of another, and I was left quite alone with what you see next. It was hideous. It was beyond hideous. It was surreal. It was little Marigun and Gugold.

"Those with the greatest awareness have the greatest nightmares." - Mahatma Gandhi

This makes me pretty darned great. Ooookay. I'll eat a Peanut to that!!!

(Our kindest thanks to our good friend, Wendy in Oregon, for dreamographic assistance)

Countdown to Halloween - One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish

According to Tsimshian legend (an indigenous tribe of the Pacific Northwest coast), Salmon were originally Salmon People. What is it with these Pacific Northwest legends anyway? I mean, Stick People and Salmon People? What's next, Peanut People? (Ohhhhhh! I sure hope so!) Anyhow, the legend goes that the Salmon People were living in five villages. The five species of Salmon represented the five villages - the Iyai (Spring Salmon), the Mesaw (Sockeye) the Werh (Coho), the Stemawn (Pink), and the Qanees (Dog Salmon). In the spring, they changed into their fishy forms and started their journey, each group at a different time.

You see, Salmon were a major food source for Pacific Northwest peoples, much like Peanuts for goats. As such, there are really quite a few legends amongst the tribes featuring Salmon in starring roles. One legend has it that the Salmon People lived in beautiful cities below the ocean and chose to come back every year in the form of fish to feed the people on land. Again, much like the humble Peanut, which spends most of its life below the earth's surface, only to emerge (maybe on Halloween night like the Great Pumpkin) in hopes of nourishing thousands of adorable, but starving, goats. That's pretty darned noble , if you ask me.

But I digress yet again. (Who, me?) Anyway, every year around mid-October, the Coho Salmon make their way up the Sol Duc river to the place they were hatched. Actually it is a pretty magnificent site watching fish risk tail and fin in order to make it back upstream against horrendous odds. Just the heights these guys tackle to get where they are going, not to mention going against the tremendous power of an authoritarian river's constant bombardment, is a feat of Olympian proportions. I can tell you that no goat would even think twice about such an endeavor (well, unless upstream there happened to be the most ginormous stockpile of
Peanuts ever in the history of the world.) Even Michael Phelps wouldn't go there.

At any rate, below is video taken by the goatfather when he and the goatmother went to watch this yearly miracle in action.

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Okay, it isn't very spooky, but sometimes in life you just have to stand back in awe of Mother Nature whenever she chooses to touch your life. As for the Salmon, well, "Success is not measured by what you accomplish, but by the opposition you have encountered, and the courage with which you have maintained the struggle against overwhelming odds." - Orison Swett Marden
Mazal tov!, Salmon. Mazal tov!!!

Countdown to Halloween - the Chupacabra

Oy. El Chupacabra. What the hay is that, anyway? Well, you see, this word is used to describe a repulsive creature that sucks the blood of goats. WHAT?!!!!!

First of all, we will be having NO sucking of goat blood around here! Period. End of story.

Now, that being said, allow me to explain a little about this creature. You see, tales of this creature emerged in Puerto Rico in 1994, where something was killing goats by draining them of their life forces. Some reports say it flies and some say it walks upright. Some say it is grayish and some say it is green. Who knows for sure, but since that time, reports of killings by the legendary Chupacabra have appeared all over the world. There are even reports of Chupacabral slayings of sheep and, get this, dogs. Ah, ha! Just who around here is it whose name is 'Cabra'? Ah, yes. So if ole' Chupacabra decides to come calling here, we goats have absolutely nothing to fear. After all, I am sure it would be far more interested in seeking out it's sorta-kinda' namesake. Works for me. Still, I suppose, just in case, it might be a good idea to keep a little snack on hand. Something like the product pictured below. ... just in case.

Nonetheless, some of us might still be just a little worried.
Look up. Be watchful. Look up into the skies. Oh, "By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes." - William Shakespeare, Macbeth.


Spooky, huh?

Countdown to Halloween - The Pukwudgie

In keeping with Halloween, there is something quite supernatural and odd going on at our place. Witness the photo below. Indeed this is but one example of the eerie phenomenon. You see, in a normal household (which no one here ever considered even a remote possibility) a dog might go to the door to indicate a need to 'go out'. That is in a normal household. However, in this household, the downy dirt-devil exhibits an aberrant behavior in this regard. You see, Cabra goes to a blank wall and begins to whine or bark.

No one could figure out this strange behavior, and it wasn't just one wall, but any blank wall. No, no one could figure it out until I, superior intellectual that I am, discovered the existence of the Pukwudgie.

You see, the Pukwudgie is a spirit of the Wampanoag Nation of Massachusetts and Southern New England. It is between two and three feet tall, looking and acting much like a troll, with large ears and gray, washed-out skin that sometimes 'glows'. They can appear and disappear at will, can transform into other animals, and possess magical, poison arrows that can kill or create fire. They are known to lure victims to cliffs and push them off, or use balls of light to entice victims into the woods to kidnap them. (Oooo! Just like those Stick People, except those wimpy Stick People just whistle.)

So, by now I am sure you are quite afraid, and quite convinced that I am out of my ever-Peanut-loving mind. After all, these Pukwudgie polter-people live in New England and this is Washington, for goats' sake. Oh, ye of little faith!!! Have you never heard of a vacation? Don't you think even a Pukwudgie gets tired of the same old scenery and decides to go on a walk-about every now and then? My theory is that the afore-mentioned visitants go all invisible and plaster themselves to the walls. When they sense a need for an impending No. 1, they begin to taunt. If a No. 2 is in the offing, those magical, poison arrows come out. Resistance would be foolhardy, to say the least.

Now you might question why it is, then, that the Mighty Quinn is not affected by their menacing motivational endeavors. I have been able to discern that this is due to the susceptibility of the downy dirt-devil to influences by Stick People. You see, I have recognized that a sort of 'reciprocity' exists among Native American mythical creatures - much like the Teamster's Union. Jimmy Hoffa was probably really a Pukwudgie and is now residing in our walls. Hay!, it's possible.


At any rate, as you can see, it can be a hair-raising actuality, no matter what the cause. Whatever. It works for Cabra and it works for us. After all, "Take time to deliberate; but when the time for action arrives, stop thinking and go ..." - Andrew Jackson