The Not-so-empty Paddock

It was bound to not last long, the empty paddock, that is. Why have a paddock if it’s empty?

No-one, it seems, sits on the fence when it comes to goats. When I told friends that I was planning to get a couple of goats, I received one of two responses: “Goats! You’re crazy. Goats are so naughty. They’ll eat everything. You won’t be able to keep them in.” Or: “Goats! How wonderful. I love goats! Goats are so cute. They are so much fun. When can I come and meet them? Are you going to make cheese?” There was no middle ground. No-one was blase about it. Which meant that in the lead up to getting my goats, I swung between delighted anticipation and regretful trepidation, depending on who I had just spoken to. Still, undeterred, or at least convinced that I’d put my intentions out there and for integrity’s sake had to follow through, I arranged to take delivery of two Toggenburg does. More accurately, I arranged to go and collect two Toggenburg does.

Toggenburgs are an old Swiss breed of dairy goat, always some shade of brown, with distinctive white stripes on their faces. In another word, cute. I chose Toggenburgs because they are medium sized, have reputations for being quiet and docile, and because when I lived in Perth and agisted horses on the urban fringe, I regularly drove past a Toggenburg goat stud. Admiring the animals cavorting in the paddock, frequently said, “One day, I’m going to buy some goats from there.” So Toggenburgs from that particular stud was simply how it had to be.

I hitched the horse float to the ute and drove for almost five hours to get there. Fortunately, I have a friend who lives around the corner, so I stayed at her place for the night and she invited another old friend over. It was a good excuse to catch up and the bottle of red she found in her huband’s wine collection was particularly good. (It must be said that he wasn’t thrilled that we polished it off before he got home, but what to do when three old friends get together!)

The next morning, I pulled up at the goat stud to select my new girls. The breeders had five animals there for me to choose from. I confess that I don’t know much (anything really) about goats, but I’d done some background reading about what to look for when selecting goats and was comfortable with the integrity of the breeders. Still, faced with five goats - all pedigree Toggenburg does, so remarkably similar in appearance - milling around me, all my study evaporated from my head. I forgot to inspect udders or teeth or hooves or barrels. All I could focus on was which ones seemed the friendliest! I chose one, and she was duly tied up waiting while I selected my other one. But I couldn’t choose between two of them - a dark brown four year old who was on the thin side but definitely pregnant, and apparently a very good milker, and a paler coloured 18-month old whose pregnancy status was not confirmed. These two nibbled at my trousers and let me stroke them as I stood in the shed. “I’ll take these two,” I said. “So not this one?” the breeder said, indicating the one I had already chosen. “Or do you want all three?” I absolutely wanted all three! But in a moment of sanity, I replied, “No, I’ll just take these two.”

A mountain of paperwork was duly filled in and then we led the goats over to the float and encouraged (pushed, cajoled, lifted) them inside. I drove the five hours home, not daring to open the float to check them when I stopped for a short break for fear of them leaping out. I did peek through the float window and they seemed content enough, one standing chewing hay, the other lying on the hay.

Somewhere along the road, I decided I would call them Cinnamon and Nutmeg, because I didn’t like their pedigree names. The older, darker one would be Nutmeg and the lighter one would be Cinnamon. The Spice Girls.

At home, they readily disembarked and I put them in the paddock. I offered them food, which they refused. Nutmeg, stood and trembled. I reassured her, spoke calmly to her, tried to stroke her. She moved away from me and trembled more, her ears pricked. The sound of neighbourhood dogs barking drifted along the valley. Both goats jumped. Heads swivelled in the direction of the sound. I grabbed their collars and led them over to the shelter Rob and I had built for them. They went in immediately and then refused to come out. I gave them hay, pellets, and water, and left them to it. They bleated quietly as I left.

For three days, Nutmeg didn’t eat. She barely ventured out of the shelter. I offered her the goat pellets the breeders had given me for them, premium oaten hay, meadow hay, lucerne chaff, bits of bread, slices of apple, carrots, banana skins, freshly picked parsley, branches of tree lucerne and three different types of acacia. She barely sniffed at anything. Ate nothing. She stood in the paddock and trembled, her belly sucked tight around her empty rumen, her ribs and vertebrae showing. Cinnamon sniffed and nibbled at things, but didn’t exactly eat. So much for goats eating everything! These two wouldn’t eat anything! I put them on leads and led them around the property, letting them sniff things, hoping they would eat something. No to the blackberries, no to the thistles, no to the tall grass, no to the short grass, no to the reeds and weeds. No to everything. 

“Try goat muesli,” my friend and fellow goat lover said. So I bought a bag of goat muesli and offered them some. They ate a few mouthfuls. Bingo! I walked away to leave them to it. They bleated and followed me. 

It took a week before they began to settle. They still prefer it if I stand with them while they eat. But, a few weeks into our lives together, they now love the bouquets of branches I bring them to browse on - sheoak, acacias, tree lucerne, citrus branches, bamboo. I stick it in the slats of an old garden chair I put in the paddock and they clamber up and eat. The bleat gently when they see me come out the door, calling me “Mmaaa, mmmaa.” They run to the gate when I take them buckets of food. I stand in the paddock as they eat. They are gentle quiet creatures. I hadn’t expected that. They nibble things when I take them for walks around the property.

Nutmeg is putting weight back on, her pregnancy now obvious, her belly pendulous. She is due at the end of September. Last time she had twins, and multiple births are common in goats. The jury is still out as to whether or not Cinnamon in also pregnant. Her body is changing shape, but she hasn’t had kids previously, so she will show less. She is also much hairier than Nutmeg; it’s hard to see what exactly is going on under all those shaggy blond tips. Besides, if Cinnamon is pregnant, she is at least a month behind Nutmeg. Time will tell. Meanwhile, my new girls and I are getting to know each other. They seem to have warmed to me well enough. As for me, I’m smitten.

See you outside,

Jill