The Chronicles of Newman (and other farm stories)

I may have mentioned at some point that I’m not your typical “get up at 5 am” farmer. I’m more likely to still be up at 5 am working on the computer than to be making coffee at that ungodly hour. Consequently, I   sometimes take nigthtime strolls in the pasture to check on everyone and just have a quiet nighty night chat. If you’ve ever attempted to sleep amongst the animals (and I have, when caring for a sick one I didn’t want to leave alone), you’ll discover that not much sleep is had during the night on a farm. These guys doze a bit, get up and walk around, check to see if new hay has appeared, pee copiously, doze a bit more, get up again, do a tour, wrestle for space in one of the stalls, grunt, groan, fart, and generally disturb the peace. Therefore, it’s a great time to have talks with the animals about important stuff since they’re not doing much else, anyhow.

Usually I enjoy strolling through the pasture under the moon and the stars, and visiting with the guys one by one, but last night it was extremely overcast. I had been staring into my brightly lit computer monitor for hours, and when I went outside, I was nearly completely blinded. All I could make out were indistinct shapes looming out of the darkness. I heard a few snorts and a cough (no one owned up to that - word of Fred’s daily injections has gotten out), and as I, too, was swallowed up by the darkness, I began to be just a teeny, tiny bit afraid. Now, I’m not afraid of much anymore. Rats, maybe, and the IRS. But afraid of animals - and my own beloved ootsie cuties? But there I was, unable to see my next step, feeling distinctly unnerved. For example, what if I stumbled upon a prone Bullwinkle (who would of course raise up with a great thundering and knock me flat or worse, send me flying with those horns of his), or step on a sheep (who would shriek and be traumatized for days afterwards), or, God forbid, run into Mr. Newman Goat.

Mr. Newman has been particularly ill-behaved these last few weeks. I think it’s because he’s been reading too much. The voraciousness with which he’s been consuming books of late is astounding, and he’s ranging  from trashy romance novels, to manuals on business writing. Perhaps I wouldn’t be so alarmed if he had a focus. You know, maybe he could stick to some books on agronomy and help me figure out how to solve some of the drainage problems here - make himself useful. Instead, the other day he invited Rocky (the

steer) to come up to the reading room. Rocky found the stairs more than he could manage and he was too tall, anyhow, to fit under the stairwell, so instead he just hung out below waiting for Mr. Newman and deposited 50 or so pounds of manure and several gallons of urine in the tack room, destroying the floorboards. Thanks, Newman.

Newman has also been diversifying his chewing management program. He’s discovered extension cords. Fortunately, he discovered two that were not plugged in. Before the summer starts and we need to run fans in the barn, though, I’m gonna have to get the electrician out to install Newman-proof outlets, and perhaps run wires inside metal tubing. The expense account of this goat is simply mind-blowing.

And he got into my truck again. I’ve got news for you housewives out there — Febreze does NOT work on goat smell. He rummaged through the glove box, extracted my work ID from a client site (I’m telling you,  this goat has plans way beyond the simple country bumpkin life), went through my briefcase, ate some of my papers, and threw a tampon on the floor. Now this I find really interesting. For those of you who are not in the know, many tampon brands are wrapped in paper. Yes, that’s right folks, paper. This particular single tampon in question was, in fact, wrapped in paper, and a nice delicate paper, at that. And what do we know about Mr. Newman Goat?  All together now, “He likes to eat paper!”. So why did he eschew a perfectly good tampon wrapper? Geez, this one is too easy. Because he’s a guy. (Ever asked your husband or boyfriend to go to the store for feminine supplies?…. I rest my case. )

Some of you might wonder if Newman has any idea of the effect he has on people. At times, I wonder if in fact he is clueless - people arrive and ask to be introduced, and he hangs out way in the back, by the compost pile, acting shy and retiring. Or perversely wanting to watch nicely dressed city folk muck their way through a manure-soaked trail to pay him homage? We may never know.

Some people never remember their dreams. Others dream frequently, remember them, and bore their friends and neighbors with detailed accounts that, quite likely, few people beyond a therapist should be privy to. Dreams are fascinating expressions of our unconscious, however, and once, every once in a great while, quite rarely - but it happens - dreams are revelatory.

Before the contents of a revolutionary and quite decidedly alarming recent “oh my God, it all makes sense now” dream I had come to light, I’d like to share some background information. Mr. Newman Goat, as most of you will know by now, arrived at my farm from parts unknown in March of 2002. He immediately took over: incurred thousands of dollars in property damage, established his network with all the neighbors, scared and beat up some of my friends, and offended others (some permanently), and secured his position here by putting his hooks into my heart. I’d fallen for bad boys before, so I thought I knew what I was getting into. I was wrong.

A year or so later they built the new jail just a few miles from here. I began having unbidden thoughts about this jail. Of course, as many people undoubtedly felt, my initial reaction was “holy canole, what if some convicts escape and take me hostage on my own farm?” But as soon as I swept those anxieties aside, ideas of projects or work I could do there started to occur. There are some very interesting accounts of animal groups who have quite successfully integrated rehabilitation programs into various prison systems: most involve inmates training shelter dogs either for adoption or for more specialized purposes. Something about the idea of unwanted people in society working with unwanted animals touched my heart. Don’t ask me why, but images of Mr. Newman doing therapeutic interventions floated around inside my head. Initial inquiries about this yielded nothing: at this jail they don’t let the inmates outside except in a semi-enclosed “rec” area about the size of my bathroom. Animals were out of the question. But serendipity or, dare we say fate, brought me to a community meeting at the facility which ended in my agreeing to teaching English as a Second Language in their program part time. I worked there several years until, unexpectedly and with no sensible reasons given, I was let go just before Christmas.

My work there was fascinating, rewarding, emotionally draining, and sometimes truly joyous. It probably deserves some press on its own time. But I’ll just say this: as anyone who has a love of teaching knows (not to include the teachers who were born with as much people sense as a cardboard box - we’ve all had those!), facilitating growth in another human being is immensely satisfying. Any day you see a lightbulb going on in a student’s head is a day to celebrate.

My friends used to ask me, “aren’t you scared?” “No,” I’d reply, “I live with Mr. Newman Goat.”

For those who do not know (and I may still have it slightly wrong - our judicial system is confusing!!), a county jail is a bit of a criminal repository system: anyone charged in the county will be sent there while they await sentencing. Those who receive under 18 months will serve their full sentence there. Federal inmates will be ultimately sent to federal prison, and others go “upstate” as they put it, to one of the state prisons. So I had students with all different charges: drugs (both taking and selling), drunk driving, assault, breaking parole, money laundering, vagrancy, prostitution, robbery, murder, rape, looking crosseyed at a policeman (OK I’m joking about the last one). I didn’t know the charges of many of my students. I never asked, and most never told. And in any case, it is my firm belief that the classroom should always be a level playing field. No matter what. Over the years, I did know there were some gang members in my classes. Some were from MS13, and some were probably from other gangs. The tatoos told some stories, but it was (a) not my job to know this stuff, (b) against policy to talk about it. So long as I did not observe gang-related activity in my classroom, as far as I was concerned, these were students like any other.

For security reasons, it was important for me to keep details about my own life quiet; however, I often spoke of my farm animals as a way to generate conversation and break the ice. Many of my students had grown up on farms or semi-rural areas and warmed to the subject of farm life. They particularly loved hearing about the antics of Mr. Newman Goat (but of course, mon ami). I was a popular teacher; I made my students work really hard, but I always brought them something to make them laugh. The result? Motivation. Even the officers noticed a difference in my students. It was cool. My layoff was a mystery to everyone. But the pieces are now falling into place.

I can see that my landing at the jail was no accident, my friends. No, no, I fear there has been a conspiracy from the very beginning. Anyone who has known a bad boy knows that they are master manipulators. Are you ladies with me here? But we deny it! We say “oh no, he just needs a little more loving, another chance, some discipline, a good haircut. He’s really a good boy underneath it all.” Right? We’ll hear nothing negative said about our bad boys that we love so dearly. So it has been with Mr. Newman. “You’ll regret it”, said one, “he’s going to destroy your farm”, opined another, “he’s just so BAD”, said others, many others. But most of us have been utterly taken in by this beast, this utterly handsome, utterly charming, utterly terrible beast.

And then it came. The revelation.

I dreamt (this is true, folks, there is no way I could or would want to make this up) that I was shearing Mr. Newman (just as I would shear a sheep - absurd of course, Alpine goats don’t need shearing). As I shaved off the hair on his side, a very large tattoo emerged on his skin. It said: “MS13″.

So has this all been a ploy? Newman’s ‘accidental’ arrival at my farm? My ‘happening’ to go to a community meeting at the jail just when they were looking for an ESOL teacher? And now - I can only assume that someone must have snitched (and I’m suspecting Little Boy Goat because Graham Goat is just way too sweet and Little Boy has lately been vying for “Top Dawg” so he’s got an axe to grind) about Newman which led to my being condemned as a “person with undesirable affiliations”.

Odd. Newman has been distant to me lately, and he did completely bust off the door of the galvanized steel duck pen the other day and disassembled the hardware cabinet in the barn, distributing junk, tools, plastic, and nails and screws everywhere (ever tried picking up nails embedded in manure?). So OK, he’s mad. But he also persuaded me to let him Twitter (http://twitter.com/mrnewmangoat) and he supervised my setting up his Facebook fan page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Mr-Newman-Goat/37398639363). This has all happened post-layoff. I find it suspicious, alarming, and generally pretty bizarre - I mean, who else do you know who lets a goat run her life?

4 August, 2008

I don’t personally know any farmers who have successfully been able to grow crops and keep goats within the same 5 mile radius, but I’m sure they exist… somewhere.

Some years ago when my mother discovered the joys of the Internet, she mysteriously fastened onto the Iowa corn growers web site. “Look”, she exclaimed excitedly, “it’s a corn cam! You can actually watch the corn grow.” I was a cynical and impatient daughter and had no time for watching corn grow, nor even for entertaining a notion why this might be remotely of interest to my housebound mother. In an effort to please her, however, several years in a row I planted corn seeds in my garden, and each year some beast got in and destroyed them before any little kernels were even a gleam in their stalks’ eye. “Look ma, I tried”, I said. One thing I have to concede to my mother, however, she did understand all about Mr. Newman Goat. (more…)

25 July, 2008

In recent weeks the farm has been receiving dropped-off donations for our annual yard sale. People have driven relatively long distances to make their donations. Which is touching and kind. And then they say, “you know, I really need to meet Mr. Newman Goat”. (more…)

9 June, 2008

A colleague of mine recently pointed out, “your animals really seem to be escape artists”. Contrary to what you all are smugly thinking about my handyman skills, this was not in reference to faulty fencing. (more…)

6 April, 2008

People always assume that farmers get up before the dawn. Since I grew up in the city, I couldn’t tell you why. Is it to milk the cows? And why would cows prefer to be milked before the sun comes up? You’d think a new mother would have had her hands full all night and might appreciate a bit of extra shuteye in the morning. But noooo, those serious farm dudes in flannel shirts get up at 4 and are yanking on her poor tired udder not realizing that SHE had not had the benefit of a cup of coffee. (more…)

8 January, 2008

From time to time people have tried to give Mr. Newman a middle initial. Not a middle name, just a middle initial. We had Mr. Newman T. Goat (T being for the compost tea we were thinking about marketing). Mr. Newman P. Goat (you can guess what the P stands for). Somehow nothing has really stuck. So for years it’s been just “Mr. Newman Goat”. I would now like to amend this to Mr. Newman I. Goat. I=”I’ll try anything once.” (more…)

29 November, 2007

Some years ago I saw a survey posted on the Internet about how many animals people slept with; the results were both surprising and heartening. There are actually people out there with more beasts in their bed than me! (more…)

18 October, 2007

When I was a child, every Christmas I would ask Santa for “100 kittens”, which my parents mercifully never considered. I certainly never guessed that instead of 100 felines I would someday acquire two 1800 pound bovine equivalents. Complete with horns. (more…)

5 August, 2007

Those of us who care for animals in our “free time” (e.g. we haven’t gotten a degree nor do we have an office with a title that certifies us to do official things with animals) often get labels slapped on us like: “a bit nutty”, “just a dog person”, crazy cat lady”, “softie”, “sucker”. Yet despite our patent lack of qualifications, it’s assumed that any animal problem that arises is something that we will not only know how to deal with but WANT to deal with. I’ve had people show up at my front gate with baby fawns with the excuse “well, you ‘do’ animals, don’t you?” (more…)