Jazzy, my oldest goat (at least 14, probably older), died overnight.

 

We knew it was coming, so I had been out there with her a lot, grooming and massaging her and sitting in the sunshine with her.  She ate well yesterday and the day before, but there was no question that she was on her way out.  She wasn’t sick or struggling, just OLD.

 

I’m down to two goats now, both of them (suddenly to me!) seniors. My “baby goats” will turn nine years old on January 31st, 2024. They’re both pygmies (well, Mr. Tumnus is a  pygmy cross) , so I expect them to live another four to five years. After that, I will be goat-less, which makes me sad to contemplate.

 

But that will be good timing, as I may be leaving the U.S. for Costa Rica, Vietnam, or some other destination for good about then — sooner, if Trump gets re-elected into office (or cheats his way in, or insurrectionist traitors succeeed next time). I’m not going to stay here if he gets back in. The crazies can have it. I’ll relocate to a civil society where people aren’t at each other’s throats and heads of state aren’t insane.

 

As much as I love America, I’m ready to leave if it appears we have turned our back entirely on trying to achieve its ideals of life, liberty, justice, and happiness for ALL. If  bigoted white supremacist misogynists get back into office, I’m outta here!

 

About Jasmine/Jazzy

 

Lisa and I drove two hours northwest of Tacoma (to Poulsbo) to get Jazzy/Jasmine and Princess (renamed Maggie) at a small goat farm on the Olympic Peninsula.  The lady I bought them from for $150 said she thought Princess/Maggie was about six and Jasmine was about four, but Lisa (who had raised goats for years) estimated they were at least a year to two years older than that. The lady also said that both were pregnant (by the same errant male, who jumped the fence one day)  and that Maggie usually threw triplets and Jazzy usually threw twins. So, Lisa and I thought I’d made a very good deal getting (eventually) as many as seven goats for the price of two.

Goats at my kitchen door, closest to farthest back: Tillie, Jazzy, Maggie (white), Mr. Tumnus (muzzle and torso) a couple years ago

 

Neither of the two goats were happy campers when we got them home. They hadn’t been tamed or socialized at all, and had to be all-but dragged to my van and put into crates for what was probably the first time in their lives.  Lisa and I had expected happy, socialized goats.

 

So, when we got them home and put them into their shed and pasture, they wanted nothing to do with us. They stood side by side, wondering what the hell had happened to them. And despite our best efforts and protracted patience, it seemed they never would learn to trust humans.  Jazzy, in particular, had a massive fear of ropes and leashes. We figured she had been hog-tied a time or two for her to have developed a fear  that intense.

 

We figured these goats would remain “wild” and that only by removing their babies at birth would the babies ever learn that people were okay.

 

BIRTHING THE BABIES

 

We got Maggie and Jazzy in August 2014. They were due to give birth, the seller figured, sometime in January.  And sure enough, as fall arrived and headed toward winter, Maggie and Jazzy grew wider, and wider, and wider.  They were definitely pregnant!

 

On January 30th or 31st, Maggie started to go into labor, so I called Lisa to come over asap, as I had never had to help birth goat kids before and I figured if Maggie had a problem, Lisa would know what to do.

 

By the time Lisa got there, about 40 minutes later, Maggie the white Nigerian Dwarf (a milking breed) had already delivered two of her three kids (all boys) and was doing fine. And she and Jazzy were helping clean off their afterbirth (as were Lisa and I, with towels) so they could breathe freely. Almost as soon as the final boy arrived, Jazzy laid down and went into labor.

 

Within another couple hours, she delivered triplets, two girls and a boy.  One of them was so stuck in the birth canal that, when he finally shot out of her, he was catapulted into a fence, which may have addled him some   He never did seem”right” as far as goats usually go.  He always seemed a wee bit daffy.

 

I offered my nieces naming rights, but they just came up with one name: Mr. Tumnus. So, Lisa and I chose the rest of the names.  Maggie’s two other boys became Merrill and Scirocco (Rocky); Mr. Tumnus was Maggie’s third boy.  We named Jazzy’s kids Romeo, Juliet, and Tillie.

 

From top to bottom: Maggie, Mr. Tumnus, Tillie, and Jazzy (on the ground)

But what happened next surprised both of us.

 

The first night, we took the kids away from the moms so we could milk Maggie and Jazzy to be sure all six babies would  get the necessary colustrum (without competing for their moms’ two teats each!). Maggie, the so-called milking goat, seemed to think we were accosting her, so she sat down over her udder to keep us away from it.  I ended up having to lift her off the ground so Lisa could get her hands underneath enough to pull milk out.  That was another breach of etiquette, as far as Maggie was concerned.  She was very unhappy and bellowed.  (I think it was goatspeak for RAPE!)

 

The next morning, I realized that milking Maggie and Jazzy would be a freaking nightmare for MONTHS, so I said, “Let’s just put the babies back with their mothers and let them feed them.” Lisa feared that doing that would keep the kids scared, since the moms were scared every time we tried to handle them, but I figured we didn’t have much choice: either continue to freak out the moms, or let them be moms so they could enjoy a less stressful existence.  I told Lisa, “I’ll sit with the kids a lot and see if I can convince them to trust me.”

 

So, that’s what I did.  And before too long, the moms seemed to be watching me intently and thinking, “Hey, that petting stuff looks like heaven and my babies love it. Maybe I’ll give it a try.”

 

Lisa Twining with Merrill, one of Maggie’s boys, at about three weeks of age

And voila!  Within a month, Maggie and Jazzy were seeking me out for pets, treats and brushing, as long as I didn’t try to manhandle them.

 

Me with a couple of the kids at about three months old

My friend and professional photographer Sharon Uhlig visited and took some amazing images of the kids when they were two weeks old….

Juliet (in front) and “daffy” Romeo

(OK, I took these with her camera. That’s Sharon with the babies!)

Before long, I realized that I didn’t have the land mass carrying capacity to keep eight goats, so I sold two of Maggie’s boys to a friend and, later, Romeo and Juliet to a far-flung neighbor who was looking for a couple of goats. That brought my brood down to four, which was do-able.

 

I lost Maggie last year to old age, and Jazzy just last night.

 

And now, suddenly…  I have two goats left to love and spoil.  They got to see both Maggie and Jazzy pass away, so they aren’t acting bereft or confused. They understand.

 

Communal animals need to witness their friends’ passing, or to see the body.  Otherwise, they get freaked out, possibly thinking that something similar could happen to them, or that their friend is stranded somewhere all alone. Herd animals need to come to terms with death before their friend’s body is removed.  I’m convinced of this.

 

It’s a sad day for me and for all who knew Jazzy, but I’m glad she came to a place where she was finally able to let go of her fear and relax with people. I never leashed or roped her again — her greatest fear — so she felt safe here. Her life here was good, filled with love, good friends, and frequent treats… and she has left memories that I willl cherish forever.

 

See you on the other side of rainbow Bridge, Jazzy — I hope!