A Death In The Family

It happened during the night. We ventured out in the morning to find our old friend fallen. No more would we hear the patter of hooves across his broad shoulders. No more would we revel in his magnificent, albeit wooden, stature. No more to feel the smoothness of his unyielding expanse beneath soft caprine lips. No more to relish the fond promise of a good scratch against his stalwart margins. Good-bye old friend. We shall search the alleyways near and far for one of your caliber, but none can ever fully replace you. You were one of a kind and we shall miss you terribly.

"...as they die, the ones we love, we lose our witnesses, our watchers, those who know and understand the tiny little meaningless patterns, those words drawn in water with a stick. And there is nothing left but the endless flow." - Anne Rice

Acey, Deucy...

As you may recall, this has been an unusually terrible winter. When it isn't snowing, it has been raining, all of which adds up to a LOT of time spent in the barn. Recently we have had a couple of 'nice' days and we all thought, 'Ah, Spring has sprung'. Then yesterday it rained ... again ... a lot.

Naturally we are all getting just a bit tired of this scenario since all there is to do is eat, lay down, eat, and dream of succulent green grass. This being the case, I, with my superior intellect, sought some method of relieving the monotony. So is it my fault that when the goatmother came out to the barn last night, she found the water bucket on the floor,the stanchion out in the middle of the barn (instead of up against the wall), and a colossamongous hole dug in the floor?

Yesterday, as we stood about listening to the ever-persistent raindrops falling on the roof, I suggested we try something different for a change. After all, the goatdaughter and goatson-in-law are coming to visit this summer and they live in Vegas. Why not help them feel right at home by brushing up on a little Blackjack? What an excellent idea and what an excellent choice! Boo can't count past 21 anyway and well, we could play for Peanuts. It was perfect.

And so it began... The trimming/milking stand was pushed out into the center of the barn so everyone could gather round. I was dealer and banker (you don't think I'm going to let anyone else have control of the Peanuts do you?). Ella took up First Base (naturally, since she ALWAYS has to be first) and on around until it ended with Watson in the Anchor position. I dealt. Boo looked at her cards and folded right away. (She was actually dealt 20, but turns out she can really only count up to 12.) Peanut said 'hit me', and Ella did, misunderstanding that this only meant he needed another card. Finally, Watson went Bust and it came down to a Stand-Off between Ella and myself. Now I don't like to brag, but when it comes to gambling, well, guess who possesses the more exceptional skill? Ella, the ever-over-confidant, did a Double Down with her Peanuts. I met her double and called. She turned her cards to reveal 19 points. I turned mine to reveal a perfect 21. The Peanuts were ALL MINE!!! All I can say to describe what happened next is that Ella went berserk. She started butting everything and everyone in sight, all the while going on about how I had cheated. Really! The nerve. She hit the water bucket and sent water flying all over the barn and anyone unfortunate enough to be standing near. Boo just stood there, because who in their right mind would even consider going up against the Hoover dam? But, then Ella went after Watson. Now Watson can't jump up on anything like the rest of us, which is how the hole got there. Imagine a stiff-legged goat trying to get away and the only route of escape seems to be getting under the barn.

The goatmother will never really know how the barn came to be in the state she found it in. Perhaps ignorance is bliss in this case. As for we goats, well, maybe we'll have to investigate a different avenue of making the Vegas goatdaugher and goatson-in-law feel right at home. Gambling just doesn't seem to be worth the trouble. "Remember this: The house doesn't beat the player. It just gives him the opportunity to beat himself," - Nicholas (Nick the Greek) Dandalos. ...to beat himself and everything else around him in the process! Oy.

My Oh My, How Time Flies

From this...

To this...

... in just two short years. As our friend, Ari, would say, 'Happy Gotch'a Day', Mighty Quinn! May you be with us many more years and may you NEVER learn to herd.

No Title Adequate

It's a world gone mad and one must live in constant fear of psychotic women wielding unchecked crochet weapons. I believe I will rethink my request for a sweater. Oy.

Fast Food

This is a Cooper's Hawk. What does that have to do with the price of Peanuts, you might ask? Well, the goatmother and the goatfather always feel sorry for the birds, so they put seeds out in little seedy feeders. I, myself, have never understood this practice since there do not seem to be any Peanut feeders available for the occasional passing migrant goat. After all, one never knows when company may stop by, and in the meantime it makes all kinds of sense not to let anything go to waste.

Anyway, all the little birdies come to eat at the little seedy feeders. The Cooper's Hawk, not one to be left out, views this as a personal invitation to dine as well. Never mind that he doesn't even like seeds. After all, isn't it just so nice of these people to provide little 'birdie' feeders just for him? He views it much as one would, oh, say, a 'Jay-In-The-Box' or a 'Birdie-King' drive-thru. Drive right up, see what's available on the menu, and dive right in.

Now usually anyone who dines at the little seedy feeders possesses superior eyesight, not to mention reflexes, enabling them to vacate the area long before the large SUV (Singularly Unacceptable Visitor) even attempts to park himself in the lot. Still, on occasion, the drive-thru delivers - mind you, usually only a little' Happy Meal' like one of those incredibly bird-brained Pine Siskins. However, sometimes the fare becomes a little more 'gourmet' in nature with the infrequent 'Quarter Pounder' Dove or, heaven forbid, 'Duck A L'Orange'.

I suppose it takes all kinds to make up the world, and besides, what would be the point of having a menu if everyone liked the same thing? From that, one could surmise that perhaps life ought to be lived as though every meal might be your last. I know I certainly have that in mind every time I receive a Peanut - this succulence-in-a-shell might just be my last. Still, to the hawks of the world I feel compelled to point out that it is quite impolite to gobble your food. Besides, fast food really isn't good for you.

The April Fool

And it came to pass that two years ago the goatmother decided she needed another goat. Verily, it came to pass that the Lord said, "Lo, it shall be done." As though pre-ordained, it followed that a humble goatling was born on April 1st in Boring, Oregon, wrapped in swaddling dried grass (known as hay) and bleating loudly, demanding cookies. Soon his countenance came to dwell amongst the holy of holies (Marigold) and it was found that he possessed an 'oddment'. The goatmother was seen to look skyward, hands upheld, and declare, "Really, Lord. There is something wrong with this goat. At the mere suggestion of a noise he falls to his side. " At which time the Lord spake mightily unto the goatmother in an omnipotent voice (sounding remarkably like James Earl Jones) saying, "Verily, goatmother, I say unto you ... 'April Fool's'.

And so it was that Watson came to dwell among the Olympians (Okay, this means those who live on the Olympic Peninsula...not to be confused with those wimpy Greek guys).
Happy Birthday, dear Watson! May we have many more years of successful sleuthing together.
" I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures." Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

The Divine Miss 'M'

Hey, Ho! Peanut here. Yes, that's right. Peanut. And why, you ask, is it me writing when there is obviously a picture of Auntie Marigold posted here? Well, it's like this. Marigold is in T - R - O - U - B - L - E. Yep. Right here in River City, folks. With a capital 'T', that rhymes with 'fee', that mostly spells 'feet'.

You see the goatmother has been putting off trimming our hooves. You know how it is. First the weather is too cold, then it's too wet, then it snows, then it's cold, then it snows... But finally there was a break and D-day arrived. You may remember that almost a year ago, the goatmother bought this lovely little 'swing' for us. You can refresh your memory here. Anyway, this enabled her to keep the mighty Boo from laying down on her hooves where neither the goatmother, nor any member of the WWE (World Wrestling Entertainment, formerly known as the WWF) would likely gain access to them. And it worked too - for the most part. I, myself, have never minded it and usually just 'hang out' (pardon the pun), chewing my cud. Besides, I can assure you those Peanuts are just as good the second time around.

Auntie Marigold, though, has never been able to see the merit in being cooperative, probably due to her ill-perceived 'celebrity' status. After all, she has a blog. She surely should be due 'special' consideration. This means that in her mind, she should not have to endure anything she does not wish to endure. And what Marigold wishes to endure, usually involves Peanuts... or standing on her stump... or butting someone out of the way. But this time, let me tell you, what 'specialness' Miss Britneygold managed to achieve was in brave new heights of total noncompliance.

The goatmother came prepared. Really she did. She even got a halter because she learned in 'doggie' school, 'control the head, control the animal'. Obviously this rule is read only by, and applies only to, dogs because I can assure you it did nothing for Auntie Marigold. The goatmother had Auntie's head tied and her body in the sling at least twice before she finally gave up and called in the big guns. The goatfather came down to the barn, and even with his presence, Auntie Marigold still managed to climb the walls and then swing (literally) back around for another round while clouting the goatmother in the head with the block part of the block and tackle pulley.

Personally I think Auntie Marigold ought to come down off her 'high goat' and act like the rest of us. After all, " [Being a celebrity] doesn't even seem to keep the fleas off our dogs -- and if being a celebrity won't give me an advantage over a couple of fleas, then I guess there can't be much in being a celebrity after all" - Walt Disney.