Farm Fresh Blog

"There's no sense crying over spilled milk."

I saw it coming before it happened. I even considered stopping and pouring my precious nectar into another bucket, but no! I pressed onward. And even while I watched the storm brew, I considered the phrase "crying over spilled milk."

But with the arrogance of a typical busy human, I muttered to myself,

"She wouldn't dare . . . "

Oh, but she would.

And she did.

I have two good milking dairy goats. They are sisters, Clover & Crimson.

I bought Clover because her breeder hated her color. I loved it. She is also the most delightfully friendly, adorable, pettable, make you love goats, kind of creature you ever wanted to meet.  She is Glinda the Good Witch Of The North.

And then there's her sister . . .

 The Wicked Witch of the West

The breeder had planned on keeping Crimson.

I had Clover and she was the perfect first dairy goat. Clover was the kind of dairy goat that made you want to dance to the Sound Of Music with Julie Andrews. Then I got the call about Crimson.

"If you want her, come get her. If you don't, I'll sell her for meat."

Alrightie then. According to the breeder, one of her teats was bad but she still gave plenty of milk. Since she had so many goats, she didn't have time to fool with her.  I only had one, and didn't need a lot of milk, so I took her.

Right off the bat, I figured out that although she was a full sister to Clover, they were as alike as the witches in The Wizard Of Oz.

Glinda The Good Witch of the North

The Wicked Witch Of the West

Yeah....

She gives a lot of milk . . . if you are willing to rodeo for it.

Kicking the bucket is her forte. Kicking you is just icing on the cake. I developed a whole new milking style to deal with this bitch.

And it worked. But goats are clever. Today the Wicked Witch Of the West came up with a new trick.

"Just sit down in the bucket. Yes, just collapse your back legs and sprawl right into the bucket of milk. And yes, that will spill milk all over the milker, the milkee, the milking stand, and the grass underneath the milking stand."

(much to the delight of the Livestock Guardian Dog)

I wanted to shoot her. 

I really wanted to shoot her. I wanted to take her to the sale barn right then. I smacked her on the ass. I screamed.

I yelled. I threw a fit.

I swear she turned around and smiled at me.

With great effort, I finished milking her out and instead of turning her back in with the other goats, I hauled her hiney to a dog kennel where she could watch the other goats. Then I turned her sister into the milking area. Clover ran to the milking stand, climbed up, put her head into the stanchion, and started to Hoover up the feed her sister had left. Then she turned to me and smiled. Glinda The Good Witch.

I'm so glad she was my first dairy goat. If I'd started my experience with Crimson, I would have given up milking goats entirely. Milking Crimson is like playing a game of Chess. She is a worthy opponent. I've had the upper hand for a while, but I forgot this one little rule about board games . . .

. . .

"When you're losing, turn the board over!"