I live and dream (and farm) on land that was once part of a notorious commune in the 1970s. The hippies who settled here were earnest, soulful youths who saw a world gone mad with war, greed, assassination and political corruption. They dreamed of a better way of being, and of being together — not an altogether foolish endeavor, given those tormented times.
And although the commune ended hard before the dream reached fruition, there remain ripples of it lingering around our land to this day.
For all their New Age hyperbole and political naiveté, the hippies were, in the end, right. They were right about war. They were right about hatred, greed and corruption. They were right about the environment and about humanity’s excruciating interdependence with our planetary ecosystem. And they were right that love is the only thing that really matters.
Throughout my own suburban, Long Island childhood, I harbored an intense and glorious Robinson Crusoe fantasy of living off the land in consort and harmony with a tribe of kindred spirits. Today, after 20-odd years of sharing our home(stead) with dozens of farm interns, volunteers, housemates and other comrades, I still believe in cooperative living. Nonetheless, I can also say with certainty that it’s far easier to grow a perfect peach or pawpaw, than to get along, over the long haul, with our fellow humans.
Now, this isn’t a story about socializing humanity, but rather how a small herd of skittish dairy goats in Gill were unexpectedly tamed.
We love goats. We appreciate how versatile, hardy, smart, athletic, cute, economical, entertaining and productive they can be, nearly anywhere on the planet. My family also adores fresh milk, chèvre, kefir, yogurt, etc. Plus, goat manure makes a transcendent compost, which is the heartbeat of the bountiful permaculture at Laughing Dog Farm.
We got our first dairy goat in 1999 because we’d been alerted to the Y2K computer scare. Tech-savvy people had warned of potential disruptions if the world’s digital infrastructure couldn’t “digest” the new millennium. So, our family decided to gather and store bulk grains, beans, canned goods, seeds and a gas-powered generator. Our neighborhood installed a hand water pump and held a community barn raising. I brought home a spotted Nubian goat named Baby. When Y2K passed uneventfully, we took a lot of ribbing from our non-prepper friends who had “told us so!”
We sold the generator, and the grains and beans grew old in the cellar. We returned to normal life, but we kept Baby the goat, who, although loud and neurotic, proved to be a great mother, and a reliable producer.
But, less than two years later, 9/11 did change everything, at least for this wannabe farmer. The attacks and their aftermath compelled me to leave my traditional work for good and, without much planning or backup, dive headfirst into developing our 3-acre hilltop farm. We were such “green” farmers back then, though. The livestock tended toward skittish, and hence, at times we struggled to manage and milk them.
Then came the winter of 2007 to 2008, and the orphans that changed our goat raising operation forever. With Baby finally slowed down by age and arthritis, we’d shaken our heads and made a note to euthanize the old girl before winter set in. But the task of culling Baby was put off twice, and then finally abandoned.
By late winter, she was ravenous and getting bigger by the day. And although Baby never seemed to worry about her “growing” predicament, she soon needed all her strength just to get up and hobble around. Even before we realized she was pregnant, we’d been slipping her extra grain, and vegetable waste. After years of loyal service, this was a small favor we could still give her.
By late January, it fully dawned on us why the old nanny goat was following us around so darn hungry. I felt doubly guilty for not having euthanized her, and then for allowing her to get bred. But, right or wrong, for better or worse, here we were. Isn’t that just like farming?
As March began, one by one, our other goats went into labor and the kids were nursing happily in their stalls. Then finally, Baby went into labor, pushing valiantly for several days, but making no progress. We massaged her, rolled her over, pumped her full of electrolytes and leafy greens, and listened to her rhythmic moaning through a baby monitor.
Deep into her third night of labor, coached by online goat experts, we attempted to induce birth with a strong tonic and prepared to pull the kids out if necessary.
However, as I gazed at my failing, old friend, I saw the glaring truth. Even if she’d had the strength, her skeleton had twisted so far that these giant, full-term kids simply could no longer fit through her pelvis. She just was not going to birth the kids she was carrying. Alone in the darkness, the suburbs kid who always wanted to be a farmer steeled himself, killed his beloved Baby, opened her belly and slid out the most beautiful triplets ever seen — one brown, one beige and one white.
The arrival of Baby’s babies — Beebee, Gandhari and Radaya — brought a palpable joy to our home that lingered for months. All baby goats are cute, but when these leggy love-muffins took up residence next to the wood stove, even this crusty farmer laughed aloud. These were no regular kids, in fact, but rather the culmination of a 10-year breeding program, brilliant, albeit accidental. For a decade, we’d rolled the dice with bought, bartered or randomly borrowed bucks. In death, Baby had channeled that incredible, buttery legacy into her best work yet.
My wife thought I was a hero for saving the triplets. I suspect I was negligent for allowing Baby to remain alive too long. But perhaps this was partly just a reminder how in farming (and life) certain experiences defy simple analysis. Sure, we should have put down the old goat, or at least seen to it that she didn’t get bred. But those choices weren’t necessarily linear, nor obvious to us at the time. We had done the best we could with what we had. And now, notwithstanding logic, facts or best practices, we’d been gifted three doe-eyed orphans.
Raising voracious bottle babies in the house was a blast, but soon spring was upon us, and the prodigal kids headed back to the barnyard. For over a month, the rest of the herd had been keenly watching the orphans’ every move: getting walks, car rides and special treats of all kinds. And just as we began resocializing the three orphans, a remarkable change came over the rest of the herd. It was as if, having jealously observed the “special needs” kids all spring, they’d all collectively decided, “Hey, we want that. We want to be tame, too!” From that point forward, they were!
Baby’s kids stayed with us for a decade, giving many progeny and copious milk. From them, we learned the importance of early and regular bonding, with all of our critters, starting at birth. They showed us that repetitive handling and imprinting makes a qualitative difference in their lives later on, for any domestic creature, whether goat, rabbit, dog, cat, or perhaps most notably, for humans.
At its best, the keeping of small herds of livestock is a collaborative trust between man and beast, a symbiotic dance bridging nature and nurture. Appropriately scaled and ecologically integrated animal husbandry can actually enhance and rebuild soil and landscapes while recycling waste, sequestering carbon and generating healthy food.
But both the beast and the human must be up for the task. The farmer must be regular, strong and rooted to the land; the animals must be well-kept, well-fed and, hence, well-bonded with the farmer.
Back in 2008, we thought we were rescuing pitiful orphans. Today we understand that, ironically, they were also taming, training, rescuing and civilizing us — to be more responsive shepherds, humbler stewards, better farmers and more connected, compassionate humans. Apparently, that was part of their destiny in this world, as it was ours to tend, to milk, to feed and to love them. Who knew we’d end up gleaning foundational life lessons from a bunch of thick-skulled, wooly goats?
Daniel Botkin is farm manager at the Laughing Dog Farm in Gill.