One of the most important animals I wanted for Wisteria Cottage was and is a milk goat. I had raised sheep and goats before, but I had never owned a milk goat. I cannot say that I was prepared. I definitely went about it backwards.
I had only a rudimentary barn, fenced pastures, and a strong desire to own one. At least, I had enough sense to place the right kind of advertisement in the Georgia Farm Bulletin. It read “Wanted: An experienced milk goat for and inexperienced milker.”
A woman called me from the foothills of Northeast Georgia and my husband and I set out in our new Ford Escape as soon as we could. The woman was very nice. She showed me her set-up and introduced me to Glory B. She demonstrated as she milked Glory B and I pretended not to notice when the milk she gave me to taste was that of another goat and not from the one that I was to buy. (In hindsight, this was a mistake and could have ended up disastrously, though, thank goodness, it did not.) She answered my questions patiently and provided me with a great deal of information that I never thought to ask for. At the end of the day, she loaded Glory B for us and we headed home.
Glory B was half Nubian and half LaMancha. She had odd shaped ears that were a result of cross breeding and the most intelligent eyes I had ever seen in the face of an animal. I soon discovered it was because she was singularly intelligent, surely more intelligent than myself, and not without a certain sense of humor. There was, it became apparent, a very good reason that she was called Glory B!
The first morning I went out to milk her, armed with my sterilized, stainless steel boiler, from the Dollar Store, and other items suggested by her previous owner. I washed and dried her teats, settled myself down on my concrete block milking stool and, just as I was getting the rhythm of milking, found myself laying flat on my back with my feet in the air. After the first shock was over, I was able to laugh at myself, and then at Glory B as she sent me a cool look of disdain.
I learned, through trial and error, at the , er, udder of my excellent teacher. Her milk was delicious and plentiful. The following year, I bred her and was rewarded with another female. I thought I was well on my way until my husband became ill. I had to first let her milk dry up and then sold her and her daughter. It was a sad affair, though I know that she went to a very good home.
That trip to the foothills is a wonderful memory of one of the last enjoyable outings with my husband before he became ill the last time. He made me clean the car the next day. There were a lot of nanny berries. In later cleanings, I would find one or two in the cracks and crevices. I never told him. I have often wondered if the people who own that vehicle now ever find them. It would be just another example of Glory B’s condescending sense of humor.
I had only a rudimentary barn, fenced pastures, and a strong desire to own one. At least, I had enough sense to place the right kind of advertisement in the Georgia Farm Bulletin. It read “Wanted: An experienced milk goat for and inexperienced milker.”
A woman called me from the foothills of Northeast Georgia and my husband and I set out in our new Ford Escape as soon as we could. The woman was very nice. She showed me her set-up and introduced me to Glory B. She demonstrated as she milked Glory B and I pretended not to notice when the milk she gave me to taste was that of another goat and not from the one that I was to buy. (In hindsight, this was a mistake and could have ended up disastrously, though, thank goodness, it did not.) She answered my questions patiently and provided me with a great deal of information that I never thought to ask for. At the end of the day, she loaded Glory B for us and we headed home.
Glory B was half Nubian and half LaMancha. She had odd shaped ears that were a result of cross breeding and the most intelligent eyes I had ever seen in the face of an animal. I soon discovered it was because she was singularly intelligent, surely more intelligent than myself, and not without a certain sense of humor. There was, it became apparent, a very good reason that she was called Glory B!
The first morning I went out to milk her, armed with my sterilized, stainless steel boiler, from the Dollar Store, and other items suggested by her previous owner. I washed and dried her teats, settled myself down on my concrete block milking stool and, just as I was getting the rhythm of milking, found myself laying flat on my back with my feet in the air. After the first shock was over, I was able to laugh at myself, and then at Glory B as she sent me a cool look of disdain.
I learned, through trial and error, at the , er, udder of my excellent teacher. Her milk was delicious and plentiful. The following year, I bred her and was rewarded with another female. I thought I was well on my way until my husband became ill. I had to first let her milk dry up and then sold her and her daughter. It was a sad affair, though I know that she went to a very good home.
That trip to the foothills is a wonderful memory of one of the last enjoyable outings with my husband before he became ill the last time. He made me clean the car the next day. There were a lot of nanny berries. In later cleanings, I would find one or two in the cracks and crevices. I never told him. I have often wondered if the people who own that vehicle now ever find them. It would be just another example of Glory B’s condescending sense of humor.