Today I’m contemplating the issue of hairy legs. This is rather a big deal on farms. For instance, speaking from a sheep shearer’s perspective: one of the first evaluations I make before setting to work is the leg factor. Sheep who have very thickly wooled legs are far more difficult to shear; the wool and hair get caked with dried mud, bits of manure, stick closely to the bony legs (yes, it’s sad but true - most sheep do not have particularly shapely calves), and it takes time, skill, and machine- and muscle-power to get that stuff off. I’ve seriously contemplated adding a hairy-leg surcharge to my fees. On the other hand, you have the hair on alpaca legs - damned if the alpaca owners don’t want the hair to stay ON the legs, but fashioned and shaped in the best dog grooming salon fashion. I used to, admittedly judgmentally, think that this supercilious ’stovepipe’ fashion was a supreme waste of time (OK, I kind of am still there) but in fact I’ve learned since my early upstart shearing days that both llamas and alpacas are tormented by flies in the summer, and having wisps (or poofs) of hair on their legs aids in keeping the bugs at bay.

The other day I was on a boat and I was observing the legs of my sailing companions. Admittedly, I was observing them because I was supremely self conscious about the fact that I had not addressed the hirsute state of my own limbs. At one point, lying on the deck, I saw a pair of dark, curly-haired man legs go by. Thinking they belonged to my male companion, I almost reached out to fondly grab an ankle but fortunately, and just in the nick of time, realized these legs belonged to someone else. Slightly troubled that I had misidentified body parts, I looked around. I looked hard. And I realized that the four men riding on this boat had IDENTICAL curly-haired legs. Their heads were varied: blonde, bald, grey, and black haired - yet on their legs: all dark curlicues. What is up with male leg hair? It doesn’t go bald or turn grey? Frankly, as an American woman who was taught very early on that leg hair is The Enemy, it blows my mind that these men are not curled up in a fetal position in some corner worried about waxing.

It’s summer. It’s hot. While leg hair does not, contrary to popular belief, make us hotter, if you are a woman and you have hairy legs (and women, let me hear you say “hell yeah”), you are more uncomfortable than if you were wearing underpants 2 sizes too small. This is not the case in parts of Europe. Many years ago in a German swimming pool’s shower room, I whipped out a razor and there was audible whisper of shock amongst the German women; I seriously believe they thought I was about to do myself in. But back here and stateside, a woman with hairy legs in summer is NOT a woman you want to mess with. She is in a seriously bad mood and until she has had proper time and space to shave, wax and pluck…  gentlemen … I suggest you steer clear. [Note: this may save some of you some significant money in couples therapy - feel free to send a thank you check in the mail.]

Today, with baby-smooth, stubble-free legs, I, personally, am ready to conquer the world. Or at least go shopping with shorts on. Ladies, may the hot wax be with you.

Till next time,

Farmer Anne
Star Gazing Farm 501(c)3
A haven for retired farm animals and wayward goats http://www.stargazingfarm.org
tel: (301) 349-0802

I’ll be the first to admit that Tony is a little young for me (he’s 4); and there’s a slight complication in that he lives too many hours away for us to be able to see each other regularly. Oh, and there’s the minor matter that he’s a sheep.

Nevertheless, the signs of love at first sight were all there today - that certain twinkle in his eye, the way he followed me everywhere I went, the way he let me run my hands all over his full 350 pounds of muscle (OK, actually they were my sheep clippers, but my hands were always in the general vicinity - that counts, right?), the way he kissed me on the arm when I cleaned off his man parts (he really did and boy, that was a new one for me!), and the way his deep, soulful eyes met mine at every possible juncture - I want to break into song, “no, no they can’t take that away from me”.

Now, while Tony is one special dude, I’m also pretty sure that he is a ladies man. The word on the street is, too, that he likes his beer and I saw him make a break for the open feed room door and have to be hauled out (apparently a regular deal). But none of this fazes me - I’ve always had a distinct penchant for bad (or should I say baaaa-d) boys, and having all that charm wrapped up in so much brawn - combined with long flowing hair, a clear intelligence, and farmboy know-how to boot - well sir, what female sheep shearer wouldn’t lose her head!

Returning home in the glow of Tony’s parting glance and the setting sun of Easter on soft, green fields, I thought about how just a few months back the animals and I despaired in the mounds of snow that buried us for so long in dreary isolation. With renewed energy, I hauled water troughs, unloaded two round bales, cleaned buckets, moved the steers to a new pasture, and re-assessed snow damage, prepared to wage war on the mess. Much can be done during sunset that can’t happen in the brightness of midday. It’s a contemplative time, a time for returning home - the chickens settle in their roosts, even the silliest of ducks make their way back to their pen, and the sheep wander back up to the barn. The stars start to peek out, the frogs sing, insects trill, and it seems to be a time for gathering, in general. Having turned 50 a few months ago, I resonate with sunset - though some of you more mature folks may poo poo this and tell me firmly that I’m still in the mid-afternoon years, I resist that (mostly because I loathe mid afternoon as a time of day, just on principle).

Sunset is a time of mystery, too, when objects move about, animals shift shapes, and tricks are played on farmers who don’t have their wits about them. Tonight my car mysteriously moved 15 feet out of place (though a black steer was seen in the vicinity shortly before the migration).

And sunset is a time for odd expressions of joy. Distributing dinner (joyful in and of itself, mind you), I found myself followed by a small mob up through the pasture, and suddenly the cat was dashing in front of me, sparking the horse to gallop up the hill, llama loping up beside him, with fat little Dee Dee Donkey leading the chase, squealing and kicking out behind her, thus stirring up everyone else on the other side of the fence. Sunset dancing.

Sunburned and invigorated by a day of hard shearing, I finished my chores as the last bit of light faded - and I could still feel the soft weight and smell the sweet scent of the hour-old lamb I had held earlier in the day. And I thought, no matter how old we become, no matter how hard life is, no matter what storms we have to weather — lambs will still be born. That seems to put life on some pretty firm footing. Not to mention the fact that maybe, just maybe, some of them might get named Tony.

Till next time,

Farmer Anne
Star Gazing Farm 501(c)3
A haven for retired farm animals and wayward goats http://www.stargazingfarm.org
tel: (301) 349-0802

It’s at such times that I truly lament the fact that I am single.

Oh, it’s true, I could really use a bit of help with the shoveling and I would have much rather sent a hapless husband up onto the roof in the blizzard this morning… but the real reason for my complaint has little to do with needing manly muscles or shoving the bad jobs off on someone else.

I really need to have an argument.

Not a tiff, not a disagreement, but a knock-down drag-out fight with dishes flying. The animals are doing it. Ah, how I envy them their ability to butt heads, have skirmishes over food, chase, shove, bite, and growl and generally wreak havoc. They too, you know, have cabin fever. Their living and walking spaces have been reduced to a miserable fraction of what they are used to and the cramped quarters amidst the snowdrifts are icy, open-air jail cells. Fences have come down, roofs collapsed, Little Boy Goat has taken it upon himself to destroy the side of the barn, and the poor chickens have had their quarters invaded by an enormous flock of wild birds who refuse to vacate. The anxiety level of the dogs who have been housebound since Friday is so elevated that they follow on my heels if I’m only walking to the coffee machine, and I truly believe we might have had fatalities over a certain rawhide toy yesterday had I not intervened.

Oh, I’ve tried having an argument with the larger beasts who stand in the narrow barn corridor while I’m trying to shovel out pounds of manure - I shout, stamp my feet, push, and they turn their heads placidly, planting their 1500-2000 pounds firmly and saying “wha?” You just can’t have a decent argument with someone who won’t shout back.

My frustration with the tractor reached quite the fevered pitch as it repeatedly got mired in drifts, and I had to dig it out by hand while getting hammered with blasts of cold, snowy air (the crowning point being getting stuck under the mulberry tree which, as I maneuvered, dumped its entire contents of accumulated snow down my jacket). But fights with inanimate objects, in my experience, generally do not end well on the animate side.

No, the awful truth is that while we may not have another such set of storms for a while, I’ve realized the folly of living the life of Norwegian Bachelor(ette) Farmer [ref: http://norwegianbachelorfarmers.com/32.html] and may be putting out a placard soon in front of the farm gates: “Wanted: husband, any age, size or shape for regular and thorough disagreements (and occasional snow shoveling)”.

Now all of you go and give your loved ones a good slap upside the head!~

Till next time,

Farmer Anne
Star Gazing Farm 501(c)3
A haven for retired farm animals and wayward goats http://www.stargazingfarm.org
tel: (301) 349-0802

The original “argument” (Monty Python’s Flying Circus):
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wdoGVgj1MtY

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.

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?

Now, the fact that each animal has his or her own personality should not be too surprising, at least to those who have cats or dogs. I suppose a lot of people select their adoption or purchase choices based on color, breed, coat, or something else largely visual. Some might be more tempted by puppies or kittens (not realizing the months of hell and mess ahead of them!). Then again some of us get suckered into taking animals we’ve no idea about (like my Heinz 57 wild street dog from Haiti who was in the right place at the right time, and now, 5 years later, makes me want to pull my hair out only about once a week …. as opposed to every hour on the hour). In fact, I seem to get suckered a lot. Yep, I should make it easier for everyone and just get a nice big sticker for my forehead, “EASY MARK”.

Part of the problem is running this thing called an “Animal Sanctuary”. Taking my cue from the larger and more experienced Poplar Spring Animal Sanctuary down the road, I don’t publish our physical address on our flyers or web site: perhaps the first step in the 12 Step Program to Sucker-Free-Living. Why? Because in the past those good folks at Poplar Spring have actually had animals dropped at their gate; people have shown up with boxes of chicks, saying “here”, as they shove the box forward, “we thought you’d want these”; folks have climbed their locked gates and walked the mile to the main barns, late in the evening, to try to hand off animals they didn’t know what to do with. It’s a problem we generally don’t have the facilities or resources to handle at Star Gazing Farm. While the numbers of unwanted dogs and cats far exceed that of farm animals, you’d be surprised at the number of calls and emails we get asking for help. Oddly, November was the month for unwanted and stray peacocks.

But more often it’s goats. You chuckle; you’re not surprised. In fact, you know where this is going. Because before we gained awareness into the problem of our deep-seated soft-heartedness, we agreed to take in Mr. Newman Goat. His story is well known, and his reputation of course precedes him by miles (he has girlfriends as far away as Australia). There are no regrets - oh no, Mr. Newman is well loved here, despite his proclivity for destruction of property (he’s working on opening up a window in the barn wall right now, and a few weeks back he ate a roll of 100 stamps - fortunately he left the other four rolls, as apparently stamps are not as tasty as he thought). He has personality. He has charm. He has good looks. He has no apparent sense of self-consciousness and makes no apologies for anything, including events that are distinctly his fault. This is in contrast to the sheep, who are sensitive to the feelings of others, and take care of both each other and the humans around them. But I digress. The thing about Newman is that he’s got to be in your face, especially if you are a newcomer to the farm.

Last week we had a visit from a lady and her two grandchildren - small children, little tender chickadees with little to no goat experience under their belts. Shortly after their arrival I momentarily had to step inside the house and when I emerged, the little ones were crying their eyes out, weeping relentlessly. And there was Newman. I beheld the scene of the grandmother holding the smaller child, the larger child cowering on the porch, with Mr. Newman Goat staring at them, and I burst into loud laughter. To their horror, I howled and guffawed as I grabbed onto the railing for support. Yes, I realize this was a tremendous social faux pas and even the candy canes I offered to the children later did not, apparently, put salve on the wounds of their traumatic goat experience which will probably scar their psyches for some time to come (the little girl later claimed that she would not forget this farm visit for “at least 100 years”).

This is not the first time Newman has made children cry - in fact, aside from his little buddy Sebastian (about 5 years old when he and Newman first became fast friends), Newman shows little sensitivity to the pre-school crowd. He means no harm - but he has no patience for the faint of heart, the shy, the retiring, or for those with delicate constitutions. He is who he is, and if he is in the mood to give you a kiss, he expects you to accept it. Tears are not in his vocabulary. Most people love him, if from a distance. We have a new farm sitter who helps feed on evenings I have to work late - my primary worry when she started was “how will she deal with Newman”. I learned last week that she is so crazy about him that he appears on her Facebook page. Whew.

I’m glad for the animals who have landed in my life without my really having chosen them - my little Haitian dog Ti-gba keeps me snuggly warm at night, and Mr. Newman keeps me warm inside from the laughter. I hope some day all the little girls he’s made cry will be able to laugh along with me.

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.

This year I fenced in (and I mean FENCED IN) a new garden area to realize my long standing wish to grow lavender. Far from the normal travel zone of goats, and with a natural creek at its foot, this represented a new lease on gardening life at the farm. Only moderately successful in raising a variety of species from seed, I gave in and purchased a flat of small Munstead and Provence lavender plants from Southern States, and with great excitement and precision, I set them in the ground, watered them every night, weeded around them, and fretted when they didn’t thrive. I hadn’t initially realized what a large garden area I’d fenced in, and so in the midst of this lavender fetish, I impulsively bought some corn seeds. They grew in my seedling pots like weeds. Amazing! I planted them in the ground. And they grew! They grew and they grew. Dang if I didn’t watch those corn stalks grow. A deer came in and ate a few of them but ultimately most of them grew to a magestic 4 and 5 feet I had a small corn field. OK, honestly I had about 15 plants, but this was exciting stuff. Last week I found small corn cobs growing with the most gorgeous golden cornsilk flowing from their tops. If only my mom could see this. Alas, I put off getting out the camera.

I put off a lot of things, actually. On Saturday I went to a big shearing job out of town and had to wear my very last pair of plastic farm clogs, with a big split up the top of one shoe (it still covers my feet, I reasoned, why any rush to get new ones?). The farmer tipped me well, entreating me to “go and buy yourself a pair of new shoes”, and I just chuckled at my carefree lifestyle and my big tip which contributed to an extra large fries and a coke on the way home.

Arriving home at the gate I knew something was wrong. You know how sometimes you know something is really off - you don’t know what, you can’t see it, but something is punching your stomach from the inside yelling, “danger, danger Will Robinson”. And then I knew. Bullwinkle, the big, black, terrrible, naughty steer was inside the garden. Gate chained shut.

Freaking out does not begin to describe my reaction. Rushing, mad thoughts of the harvest picnic I’d planned for the volunteers in late summer (my prideful dreams of feeding them from our very own garden), dread about what I’d see left of my precious, fragile lavender plants, still only a few inches tall. I rued all the time, the blasted TIME I’d spent watering and digging, and tending to these plants. And then the worst hit me. My corn stalks were all on the ground, dead, mutilated, spread out like bodies from a blast.

Plans to take a nice shower and eat dinner with my neighbors evaporated, and in the fading light with my right shoe barely hanging onto my foot, I rushed about gathering boards to fix the broken fence, food to lure Bullwinkle out, and stakes to place in the ground to try to save the few corn stalks that weren’t completely broken. I opened the gate to bring Bullwinkle out, but Rocky (the other steer) clearly angry he had been denied this guilty pleasure, rushed in as well. The only fence boards I had on hand were 2 inches shorter than the distance between posts, I couldn’t find the power drill and had to resort to a hammer and nails, and by now the split in the shoe was digging into my toes and cutting the the skin. Dark encroaching, I rushed across the creek bed, losing my bad shoe in the mud which simply sucked it off my foot; half barefoot, sweating, filthy from my shearing job, I bent up half a dozen nails, hit my thumb with the hammer, and ultimately simply tied the stupid thing together with baling twine (gotta love baling twine).

One might wonder why I even try. Almost everywhere I drive - to work, to the store, to the post office, to the library - I pass by enormous fields of corn. And the truth is, I can buy really nice locally grown corn 3 miles down the road at our local orchard - both white and yellow. It’s cheap, it’s delicious, and it’s worry free.

One might well wonder why I persist in such a seemingly futile effort. But my mother passed away last year, and it seems to me that someone has to keep on the tradition of wanting to watch the corn grow.

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”.

I don’t begrudge Mr. Newman his international reputation, but at times it’s all just a bit overwhelming. Just this week on a sheep-related discussion list, the talk turned to vehicles and transporting animals in various types of vehicles. I shared the photo story of Mr. Newman’s car entry techniques (http://www.stargazingfarm.org/projects/newmantruck.php) and what happens? All these wonderful people, these gentle people, these sweet peace-loving shepherds who never before thought that breaking and entering was cute, these kind folk who before only thought of sheep - nice, docile, obedient, non-car-thieving sheep … are suddenly enamored with Mr. Newman and demanding that he go on Letterman. My conflicting emotions are roiling about in me: pride, alarm, sadness that none of my sheep know how to break into cars, more alarm.

Mr. Newman is looking extraordinarily fine these days. He has shed the winter poundage and his coat is as sleek as a racehorse’s. He’s in top form for food stealing, sheep bashing, and he even took on one of the steers the other day. Mr. Newman is now nearly seven years old - the peak of his career. I suppose, in fact, it IS time to try to find him more media visibility.

I often think about what Newman would be like if he were a human. I think he would wear wrap around sunglasses, tight jeans, and drive a black vehicle with tinted windows. Fast. I imagine he would be divorced several times over, and might have a facial scar from a bar brawl — that would be amazingly attractive to females. He would likely have held a wide variety of jobs, and currently make a great deal of money doing things that no one wants to know about. His IQ would be way above normal, and he would chew minty smelling gum. He might occasionally sport a very small goatee (yes, really). He’d be on his cell phone all the time calling his “contacts” and would have to leave parties and interrupt conversations suddenly with only a, “sorry gotta go”. Ah, he’d be a heartbreaker.

The truth is, Mr. Newman Goat has caused more damage to this property and my person, and more annoyance to everyone around him than can ever be calculated. He’s required that I grow a third arm to manage him while doing all the other farm chores, that I assign a special detail to him during our events, and that I up the voltage on my sense of humor a hundredfold.

Frankly, I can’t imagine life without him.

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. For example, Fred the sheep, who spent 2 weeks up at New Bolton Center at the University of Pennsylvania Veterinary School getting surgery for his urinary blockage, was so exuberant a patient - leaping over barriers, ripping out IV lines and exploring the hallowed university halls, that they had to lock him a secure horse stall to keep him under treatment. And of course there are well documented cases of flying cows and teleporting goats that we really don’t need to rehash right now.

Now, some farmers might throw up their hands in despair and claim that these are all “problem” animals, beasts who don’t know how to stay in their proper place, rowdy creatures with no respect for authority, boundaries, neighborly pleas, or the supposed divine injunction that animals should obey their humans. Over the years I’ve known barn managers to send horses off to market if they showed too much intelligence (ability to open stall doors from the inside, just for instance). I heard of a sad case where a man shot half a dozen of his animals when they escaped over the fence too many times. And there are stories abounding out there about animals who found ways off of the slaughterhouse wagon, and ultimately wandered into some kind person’s life who granted them amnesty.

No, when it comes to animals who won’t just “stay where they are put”, I prefer to take a larger view of the situation. Suppose just for a minute that animals are born with innate intelligence - IQ, if you will. Suppose that by providing them with nutritious food, a nurturing environment, objects designed to mentally stimulate them, graduated steps of education, and a great deal of socialization — just suppose — we can thereby establish a program of animal enrichment leading to animals who can think for themselves.

Ahhh, I hear the farmers out there trembling in their boots, teeth chattering, a Gary Larson nightmare come to life. I hear those in the control camp saying “not enough training”, I hear animal control officers muttering “anarchy”. But what would be so wrong about more intelligent animals on our planet? Goodness knows it’s hard enough to come by a good solid conversation with anyone these days about metaphysics, philosophy, and the meaning of it all - why not try it with animals?

Just for instance, Mr. Newman has recently showed an interest in literature. I was startled a few months back to find him with a copy of The Tempest open to Act III, a scene with Caliban. I can well understand Newman’s interest in Caliban, the son of a witch and a devil, half brute and half demon, “the character grows out of the soil where it is rooted, uncontrouled, uncouth and wild, uncramped by any of the meannesses of custom.” (William Hazlitt, Shakespeare scholar) Rather than being alarmed by his choice of reading matter and inspiration, I instead allowed him to open his mind to other possibilities.

In our barn loft we keep many boxes of goods that we take to the monthly flea market in Germantown for fundraising - many of them are books. This has become Mr. Newman’s personal library (he was officially denied a library card by the Montgomery County Library system so we had to do something). I’ve found that Mr. Newman is far more complex than any of us had imagined. Last week he was reading a chapter of a book on Shame (who knew?), and yesterday his choice was a book called Home-Alone America. Now, I really do take exception to this. Unless he is researching for his friends on other farms, he has clearly developed some issues that may require therapeutic intervention. I simply don’t know how we’re going to justify “Goat Psychologist” in our annual budget ….

I’m not too worried as of yet, however, because he is still demonstrating signs of a healthy interest in normal caprine activities: he eats the books after he’s read them.

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.

Perhaps it’s because roosters crow early in the morning. But roosters also crow at 10 am, noon, at tea time, before dinner, and any old time they feel like expressing themselves including many hours before the dawn. This “farmers get up early” thing seems so illogical to me that I’ve taught all the animals here to sleep in. In fact, mornings when I have to leave the house by the ugodly hour of 8 am, the dogs are still sacked out, uninterested even in a morning biscuit.

But we do have a schedule here. In fact my entire social and professional life revolves around making sure that I am here to feed exactly a half hour before dusk. Try to do it earlier, and the animals are involved in napping, grooming, trying out new weaknesses in the fences, picking on each other, and other generally industrious activities - not that they won’t be willing to eat early, but they will fully expect their regular meal, as well, exactly a half hour before dusk.

This poses a distinct problem for me with regard to Mr. Newman Goat because he’s got the schedule memorized. The week before last, in fact, we had to have words. I need to tell you that having words with Mr. Newman is really not something any of you want to try anytime soon.

It started with the ducks. Getting the ducks herded into their pens for the night is probably the most aggravating task I can think of. In fact I think I’d rather shovel out week-old fermented urine-soaked straw than herd those ducks. Let’s just say that while some of them are extremely cooperative and sweet, and head right to their spots when they’re supposed to, there are certain stragglers who to all appearances are, well, really not the brightest crayons in the box. Or as my friends at school like to put it, “they’re one fry short of a Happy Meal”. Anyhow, on this particular evening, after quite a bit of effort on my part all ducks and geese were in their pen (where is the border collie when you need him?). I dallied just a moment longer than usual in the feed room, and came out to find that Mr. Newman had bashed in the gate of the pen, and let all of these guys back out again. Quacking and complaining and confused (they get confused at the drop of a hat), the ducks scattered, the geese screamed deafeningly, and I told Mr. Newman if he tried it again I was gonna wallop him (NB: this was NOT a serious threat). But he understood me. Damn, if he didn’t understand me. He said “you want wallop, I give you wallop” and gave me a bruise that Rambo would be proud of.

Not able to deal with the herding thing again for the moment, I turned my attention to getting the horse’s and the steers’ meals ready. I went back to the feed room, started measuring out their feed and suddenly Mr. Newman was pushing his way in. There is an ‘ante chamber’ to the feed room, constructed of galvanized steel panels solely for the purpose of keeping Newman out - but sometimes that gate doesn’t latch correctly and sure enough, my luck was running a blue streak that night; I shut the feed room door, went about my business thinking there was nothing Newman could do in the antechamber but stew. But when I came out I saw he had discovered a very old bucket of orange powder electrolytes meant for equines. He had buried his chin in it, and as he raised his head to look at me, he grinned with a terrible orange moustache painted across his lips, reminiscent of “The Joker” in Batman.

That did it. I simply couldn’t have a goat with an orange mustache running my life anymore, and I did the unthinkable: I told him he would get no cookies for a week. Now I am sure there are skeptics on this list who think, “yeah, yeah, cute goat story”, she’s just making it all up - he can’t be that smart. I am here to tell you that this goat sulked VISIBLY for days, did not want to be touched, did not want anything to do with me, the volunteers, the visitors, or anyone else walking on two legs.

Until last night. Yesterday we tilled the back pasture, which was destroyed over the winter. I had gone out to dinner quite late and when I returned, it was raining softly - the perfect type of rain to help grass seed germinate. So at 2 am I got out my sack of pasture seed and spent the next hour broadcasting grass seed by moonlight, followed like the Pied Piper by a herd of sheep and ….. Mr. Newman Goat. And yes, he got a cookie.

When I was a child I believed the legend that on Christmas eve at midnight the animals start talking. As an adult, I think in fact that they talk *every* night at midnight, and beyond - under the stars, when the moon is out. What’s really lovely is that they don’t speak all sorts of unnecessary noisy words like we do; their speech is musical, philosophical, honest, and always to the point.

The moral to the story is that farming in the moonlight is a little known joy in the western world; I wonder if I can patent the idea?