The Face of Change

What we have here might possibly be the biggest change that has happened around here in a long, long while.  As I said before, we lost the Mighty Quinn.  To be exact, it was on Halloween day and has been quite the seismic upheaval in our lives.  After all, the Mighty Quinn was with us for almost 15 years.  Like Betty White, he didn't quite make it to the mark, but we cherished every single moment we had. We are so lucky to have been able to share our world with such an exceptional guy. 

Cabra adjusted, but was fairly subdued.  So after the shock wore off a bit, I began to consider two things: 1) Maybe another dog would help Cabra.  You know, give her a new lease on life sort of like The Ottoman had done for Peanut.  Cabra is just a year younger than Quinn, so she is 14.  I hated the thought of her spending time alone when she had been with a companion virtually her entire life;  and 2) Maybe it would help the Goatfather and I.  There would never be another Quinn, but perhaps it would help to somehow fill in a bit of that huge hole in our lives. Maybe.

So the search began.  We didn't want to find another Australian Shepherd because it would never measure up to Quinn.  Plus, well, there is that whole thing about not being as young as we used to be.  (Now I've done it.  I've actually admitted this twice now.  Is this becoming a habit?  Oh, crap.)  No, we decided.  We can't keep up with another Australian Shepherd.  What we need is a 'lap dog'.  Uh. Huh.

After awhile, I happened to see an ad in the paper for Shih Tzu puppies.  Hmmm...we actually had owned a Shih Tzu in the past.  His name was Chester.  He was never the brightest bulb, but he was terribly loyal and loving.  Hmmm...  And maybe being a puppy, and being more like her, as in another 'mop' dog (Cabra is 1/2 Bichon and 1/2 Havanese), as well as more her size, Cabra would readily accept such a dog.  Trouble with that was, we forgot to consult Cabra. (More on this later... is your curiosity piqued?)

Long story short, enter Mochi, the Shih Tzu, with 1/4 Havanese mixed in.  Have you ever gone to a Japanese restaurant and had Mochi for dessert?  If you don't know what it is and have never tasted it, you are missing out!  Mochi is an umbrella term for all kinds of Japanese rice cakes, but usually, in a Japanese restaurant, it means a small ball of ice cream (green tea, red bean, or mango) covered with a sweet glutinous rice flour. It just seemed to fit this little guy.

Of course he is a bit bigger in this picture, but when we brought him home, he weighed a mere 4 pounds.  So far he has been quite an adventure.  At times he is incredibly sweet and loving and at others it seems the demons are at his heels as he races hither and yon in fits of the 'zoomies'.  (Really.  'The Zoomies' is a bona fide term.  I Shih Tzu not.  Google it.)

Remarkably, Mochi has many traits that the Mighty Quinn possessed.  Who knew?  I don't know if this is because he is a male or if somehow the Universe has a sense of humor.  Like the Mighty Quinn, Mochi started playing fetch almost immediately (so much for not having to keep up).  And, like Quinn, if you get ready to throw the fetchable object, he runs about half way and stops, looking into the distance for said object to come zooming over his head and land.  Plus, Mochi cocks his head to the side when he recognizes a word ... Just. Like. Quinn. Coincidence?  Hmmm....

Mochi has more than met our expectations.  He is cute, outgoing and friendly.  He has quite the personality.  So much so that on a recent visit to the vet, when I called to say Mochi was here for his appointment, the response I got was a resounding 'Yay!'.  Everyone loves Mochi.  I just wish people could figure out how to pronounce his name.  We have heard everything from 'Moh-kee (like Mocha but with the ee on the end), Moo-chee (wasn't that a Disney kid??), Mo-gee (as in emoji?).  Nope.  It is Moh-chee.  Just like the Japanese treat. 

So, yeah.  This has been quite the change.  Once again change created a loss but at the same time, created a space.  One available to be filled with something new.  "Loss is nothing else but change and change is Nature's delight". - Marcus Aurelius

The Loaner Goat

 

When Ella went to butt ...  I mean be with Boo, Marigold and Watson, Peanut was distraught.  Change with a capital C - that nasty word reared its ugly little head once again. Suddenly the youngest member of the troop and the littlest kid to have ever been born at his former home (though I expect that record has since been broken) was utterly alone.  It was very sad.  He wouldn't even venture out of the barn. After all, as Bilbo Baggins said, “It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door, ... You step into the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to."  

So after a lot of serious thinking, wailing and gnashing of teeth, and a whole lot anxious consulting by me, Peanut and Marigold's former Goatfarmer, over at Heron Hill Dairy, offered a 'loaner' goat.  What in the world is that, you might wonder?  Well, a 'loaner' goat would be one that is graciously loaned until such time as the remaining resident goat (that would be Peanut) passes on to that great peanut factory in the sky.  Said loaned goat then goes back from whence it came thereby eliminating the perpetual cycle of one goat alone.  For all my love of goats and the many wonderful adventures we have had together, alas, I am not as young as I used to be. (Did I really just admit that?  Talk about change! OY, indeed.)

 Anyway, now, about 'The Ottoman'.  That is a strange name for a goat. But after all, one must understand that her sister is The Footstool.  What can you expect?   Apparently The Ottoman was fatter.  The Ottoman was deemed  the best choice for a 'loaner' because she likes people and would likely follow me (the Goatmother) out of the barn.  Peanut, definitely not fond of being left alone, would thus be lured outside.  And it worked.  Mostly. If it is a just a little bit too cold, or a little too damp, or just a wee bit early or a tad too late, The Ottoman has to go it on her own.  Apparently some things don't change.  A man has to have his standards.

The Ottoman is much smaller than Peanut (if you can imagine).  A veritable lightweight weighing in somewhere in the range of 65ish pounds on a fat day.  (You know about those.  We all have them.  The day after you had that one piece of cake that turned into two, or those three, or four or five ... maybe that  sixth ...whole bag of cookies?)  Let's just say she is small enough that, upon arriving home, I was able to lift her out of the back of the truck and carry her to the pen.  Who knew?  ( You still got it goin' on, Goatmother! ☺) And after Ella the Giant, well, The Ottoman's size took a bit of getting used to.

All in all, Peanut has come to accept her, though he learned his lessons well from Ella.  He really gave The Ottoman 'hay', as Marigold would say, for the first few weeks.  Change.  There it is again.  After years of being last at everything, Peanut was now first.  Still, gradually he slacked off his reign of terror, and The Ottoman began to give back as good as she got. Yet another change. Peanut has regained his former zest for life and will probably outlive us all. Sometimes change is a good thing.

So there you have it.  The Ottoman: a change of the auspicious variety. Peanut is no longer lonely and no longer last.  He is first for treats, the best places to lay in the sun (if there ever were any sun), and first for Nacho flavored Doritoes.  He has learned all too well:

"Your life does not get better by chance, it gets better by change." —Jim Rohn

Change

 

C leverly

H idden

A uspicious

N ever-ending

G rowth

E vents

Good day!  It is I, the Goatmother... Well, former Goatmother...  Well, maybe still a Goatmother...   Of sorts.  But I digress.  Since the passing of our beloved Marigold , there have been many changes.  I don't know about you, but I am not overly fond of that word..  Change.  It seems a bit of a pox. Yet, it is the only constant in life.  Or so they say.  But then they never seem to remember laundry or dishes. Still there you have it.  Change.

After the passing of Marigold, you may remember our dear Watson tried, or maybe didn't try so hard, to be a conduit for Marigold's wise and instructive thoughts from beyond.  I guess she made the afterlife sound a bit too enticing for not long after, Watson joined her. He was followed by Ella and  I  do so hope the great beyond was prepared for her.  Alas, poor Peanut was left all alone.  He refused to even venture out of the barn.  Taking pity, Marigold and Peanut's former Goatfarmer gave us a 'loaner' goat in the form of The Ottoman. (more on this at a later date).  After a period of adjustment, Peanut finally quit butting her all over the place and things settled down to a tenuous calm.  At any rate, this is why I am a former, but still sorta' kinda', Goatmother.

Things weren't too bad until our equally beloved Mighty Quinn developed heart problems.  We managed things for quite awhile, but last Halloween, he too went to join the others.  I imagine the goats are none to happy about this since there are no electric fences across the Rainbow Bridge and the Mighty Quinn is no longer hindered by that fear.   I am quite sure  his natural herding instincts are now in full force and the goats' only hope of respite lies in somehow managing to figure out how to throw a frisbee.

So there you have it.  That dirty little word - Change.  No one likes it, but I guess we need to somehow learn to accept it.  And maybe even laugh about it while we're at it.  In the time since Marigold's passing I have decided two things:  

1) Llfe goes on and we need to look for the good.  As the late Thich Nhat Hahn, Buddhist monk, wrote: "No mud, no lotus".  The beautiful lotus flower blossoms, transcending the tenacious and unforgiving mud from which it grows.  Perhaps, as my wise neighbor says, the lotus flower is always there and we are like the man thirsting but up to his neck in fresh water. Hmmm....

2) Change is simply an acronym for what appears at the beginning of this post - C leverly, H idden, A uspicious, N ever-ending, G rowth, E vents.  Things that occur to challenge us to become better.  To find the joy in our life instead of constantly ruminating over what we think isn't now, or hasn't ever been, right.  Joy is contagious, just like laughter.  If we find it in our life, it will fan out away from us just like ripples on the water.

So stay tuned, please, because I'm Movin' On.

 

Never Say Die ...

Hallooo!  It is I, Watson.  You haven't forgotten me, have you?  Well, come to think of it, maybe you never really knew me?  I am Watson.  I am a fainting goat and I was Marigold's right hand goat ever since I came to live in Washington - and that was ever so long, and so many Peanuts ago.  I was born in Boring, OR (Really.  There is such a place. Seriously. Look it up.), but that doesn't have any bearing on my personality.  Whatsoever.  I don't think so anyway.

Now you are probably wondering why I am even writing anything at all on this blog. After all, Marigold has gone on to greener pastures (so to speak) and this was her vehicle of self-expression for something on the order of ten years.  But the truth of the matter is, I felt compelled to write.  And when I say compelled, I mean that in the strictest sense of the word.  In fact, impelled might be a better term.
But perhaps I'm getting a bit ahead of myself.  Allow me to impart to you a tale of the most strange and extraordinary kind.

Being a fainting goat, I am prone to well, fainting. I've gotten better over the years.  When I was a kid, I used to faint if a bird flew over.  Now I pretty much just freeze in the hindquarters.  Still, once in a great while, something (like an Alpine) catches me off guard and over I go.  What can I say?  It goes with the job.  So shortly after Marigold passed from this world, I was out grazing when Ella saw her chance and came at me.  Being an outright onslaught, I naturally lost all semblance of control in my haste to get the hay out of the way.  And that is when my life changed.  Utterly and oh so completely.

After the blitzkrieg, I stirred and began to rise.  Once on my feet, and  realizing Ella had thankfully become distracted by something else, I put my head down (with a wary eye) and began to graze again.

Pssstttt ....

What the hay was that????

Pssstttt ....  Watson!

Who said that???!!!!

Pssstttt ....  Watson!  It's me, MARIGOLD!

What!!!????  I must be going in-sane! 

Pssstttt .... WATSON!!  PAY ATTENTION HERE!!!!  It's ME, M.A.R.I.G.O.L.D!  You wouldn't BELIEVE the Peanuts they have here.  Man!  Four to a shell!  Every.  Last. One.  No kidding!!!  This is THE BOMB!!!!  Of course I have to try to get to them before Boo does, but what's a little head butting among friends, right?  She lost weight, by the way.  Looks positively svelte.  Younger too.  Who knew?

Marigold???  Is that really YOU???  How can this be???  I must be losing my mind!!!

Watson!  Don't be an idiot.  What mind?  No, it really  is ME.  I just didn't feel like I could completely abandon the world to a life bereft of my sincere, wise and witty repartee.  It just wouldn't be right.   Plus I always meant to stop eating and start writing again.  Got kind of lax there toward the end.  Then it was too late. Oy. Hay, though, multi-tasking is THE THING over here.

OY.  
You got the 'oy' part right anyway.

And this is how it began - and how it continues.  Every day.  All day. Day in and day out I hear 'Pssstttt .... Watson!'  My life is no longer my own and I have been called to a higher purpose.  I guess I've become a Medium ... or at least a quasi-large.  For Goats' Sake!  I'm a friggin' Channel!  Who knew a simple-mind..., uh, simple goat from Boring, OR had it in him to become a true and pure avenue to a higher plane?  Never say never, I always say.  And as for Marigold, well ... 

Nevertheless, she persisted ...
  

There Is Never Really An End ...

It is with great sadness that this will be the last entry of Marigold made by me, Watson, her long-time confidant and partner in solving the mysteries of life.  She was my wise and true friend for almost 13 years.  She shared her philosophy with us all and made us laugh in the process.  If only the world could be as that seen through her eyes ... taking things in stride, never getting angry over little things, persevering in the face of adversity, always finding the silver lining, and above all accepting and loving others even though they are different than you - even Alpines.  Going on without her will be difficult, but she will never, ever, ever be forgotten.  Rest in peace my dear friend...and say hello to Boo and Cookie for us, please.

Perhaps You Are Wondering ...

Perhaps you are wondering if I am still alive.  I am.  Perhaps I shall stop eating long enough to bring you up to date.  Hay!  It could happen. :)

Yours in Peanuts,
Marigold

The Thing Under The Barn

Well, now, it is like this.  Way back when winter began, something strange happened.  You see the boys' side of the barn *butts* (Ha! Ha!  I kill me!  butts....) up against the Inner Sanctum where the hay is kept and the Holy Grail Peanuts reside.   Now whoever built our barn was, I suppose,  a bit on the lazy side because the Inner Sanctum is a step up from our side, leaving us open to the underside.  I suppose one might think it a good route of escape, but trust me on this, it is much too narrow for a goat.

At any rate, way back after we goats came to live here, the Goatmother decided this open space just bothered her.  It bothered her a lot.  You might say it offended her aesthetic sensibilities.  You know how she is.  And once she gets an idea in her head there is no turning back.  So, she enlisted the help of the Goatfather to place boards along this unsightly gap.  The trouble is, like everything else the former owners built, it is not level.  Surprise, surprise and what else is new?  So the back portion of said gap is pretty wide and it extends forward to become nonexistent at the front.  A novel concept in architecture to be sure.  But the Goatfather, being the master craftsman he thinks he is, didn't let that deter him and nailed in lengths of board to cover the gap. 

All was well.  The Goatmother was satisfied.  (Another novel concept ... oops.  Did I say that out loud?)  Life went on ... until.  Until what, you ask?  Well, until this last winter.  One morning, the Goatmother walked out into the barn to find a nice hole dug under the properly placed length of board into the boys' side.   Hmmm ... says she.  The hole wasn't merely a hole, but a tunnel, absolutely smooth and quite a good size.  Now why would something want to dig into the goats' side of the barn?  What could possibly be there to attract anyone?  Of course it had to be the hay, right?  I'm here to tell you, those boys are messy eaters, not like we dainty girls.  (Okay, like Boo and I because there is nothing dainty about Ella.)  And since Boo developed a mineral deficiency last year, we have been getting hay of the highest quality.  I mean this is good stuff and has a price tag to match.  It is like Neiman Marcus blades of grass interspersed with golden bits of Saks Fifth Avenue alfalfa.  Primo. What tunneling-type worth his salt wouldn't want to nick any chance at something like that?

So the Goatmother filled the hole, and guess what?  In a day or two there was another one. She filled more holes.  She even filled holes with rocks only to come out and find the hole dug around them.  And so this whole dance ( or was it a 'hole dance'? ) went on for weeks.  Holes being dug, holes being filled.  Like a beautiful orchestration.  Hole in ... hole out!  Mr. Miyagi would have been so proud!  Until ... the Goatmother got tired of filling holes.  I suppose it wouldn't have been so bad, except we goats are locked in at night in order to avoid chance meetings with things like, oh, say, cougars.   It just didn't seem like a good idea for anything to be intruding in an enclosed space with no avenue of goatly escape. 

And this led to the whole question of just who was going to such great lengths to intrude?  If the boys knew, they weren't telling.  It had to be someone who either liked hay or goats.  It seemed quite unlikely it was the latter since civet cats, weasels and big hairy rats aren't known to be great snugglers, so the Goatmother surmised primo hay must be the draw.  But who exactly would be that interested in hay?  Well, there were only two possibilities the Goatmother could think of right off the top of her head.   A mountain beaver or a rabbit.  A rabbit might not be so bad, but mountain beavers are known to have nasty tempers.  And since it wasn't Ella over there in the ring, it seemed highly likely any confrontation would end in a TKO.  Intruder, 1,  Goat, 0.

So the Goatmother got this bright idea.  (I know.  Goatmother and bright idea should NOT be in the same sentence,, should they? Oy.)  She purchased enough patio bricks (the long flat ones, not the building kind.) to go along the accursed line of demarcation.  Then she painstakingly too a pick axe and  dug a deep trench.  She first placed a length of wire and then artfully lined the patio bricks (remember that whole aesthetics thing?) along the expanse.  THEN she put large rocks along the bricks to hold them in place and filled in around them with dirt.  And guess what?  You thought it didn't work, right?  Well it did ... until ... one day it didn't.

The intruder dug under the upper part toward the front of the barn and then under the big rubber mat.  This angered the Goatmother.  (No.  Really?  You thought the Goatmother never got angry?  Oh, ye of little faith ... and brains.)  The Goatmother had not placed patio bricks at the upper part where the big rubber mat is.  She learned her lesson.  She bought MORE bricks, dug another trench, more rocks, etc. etc.  And it worked!  ... until ... a hole appeared from UNDER one of the patio bricks.  Now the Goatmother's friend told her that if you disturb a mountain beaver's den, the mountain beaver will leave.  Certainly the den had been disturbed.  Many times.  A great many times.  No sane mountain beaver would put up with that much disturbance.  It had become a contest of wills, much like occurs when the Goatmother trims hooves.  The intruder was NOT going to win.  But ...  what if it were just a nice, hungry little bunny? 

So the Goatmother got another bright idea (Oh, Heaven help us!)  At the other end of the Inner Sanctum of the barn, when you open the door, there is a space that can be seen between the board the floor is laid on and underneath the floor.  What if?  What IF, she were to take some hay and stuff it in that space, effectively feeding whoever is under that barn?  Then they wouldn't have a need to dig into the goats' side, would they?  So she tried it.  She stuffed that space full of the primo Cadillac hay, and lo and behold, the digging stopped!  Every so often the space under the door would become empty and the Goatmother would dutifully re stuff it.  The rest of the winter passed uneventfully.  Relief.  She had won ... until ..

Last week the not-so-bright Goatmother was carrying a large cache of tree limbs to get chipped.  She managed to give herself a severe case of tendinitis in her hip joint.  Life being what it is and Mr. Murphy being ever the opportunist, guess who decided the meager proffering under the door was no longer adequate?  You guessed it.  The Goatmother hobbled out to the barn to find one of the patio bricks completely pushed aside.  With a great deal of ouching, grouching and fanfare, the Goatmother managed to dig out beneath the brick, place rocks UNDER it as well as behind it and get it back into place.  SO FAR no further occurrences have manifested.  Wanna' take bets on whose going to win this one? 

"Success is a little like wrestling a gorilla. You don't quit when you're tired. You quit when the gorilla is tired.”
― Robert Strauss

That is nice, but I sure hope there isn't a gorilla under there.  Oy.