Bambi and Conrad
Geraldine picked the worst time to deliver, relative to my schedule, which is probably not too high on her list of priorities. She is a bit on the ornery side. I was showered, shampooed, actually had my legs shaved and was dressed up out of my barn clothes. Our Easter houseguests actually exclaimed at my appearance as I breezed by them on my way to hostess an art opening at a little store I work at in town. I had exactly two hours to get this reception up and running before I took one of our guests to the airport. Carefully avoiding manure in my fancy clogs, I ran to peek in on Geraldine, another dairy doe large and expectant in our calving barn. She was standing quietly next to the manger, a large shiny sack of fluid hanging out of her vulva.
I ran to get Shannon, my husband, and all my kids and guests who weren’t yet fatigued of birthing gore. Some were up for it, others were content to hear the story and hold kids later, having skipped the bloody, slimy and sometimes way-too-exciting part. We left Geraldine alone to manage, but stationed the audience at a comfortable distance outside of the barn corral fence. I left Shannon in charge, cell phone at the ready, accompanied by our amazingly capable 13-year-old. Maggie has not only read every James Herriot novel and every homestead animal manual we have, she’s memorized all the important information they contain. I left to get the art reception under way.
Having placed the wine glasses, arranged the cheese and greeted the lovely watercolorist, I was summoned by Shannon calling to say Geraldine seemed to be having trouble. A surprise, really, as Geraldine is in her fourth year of babies and last year delivered overnight, greeting me in the morning with gorgeous, walking, nursing babies, one a half-Angora buck and the other a half-Nigerian Dwarf doe. Two different dads. I thought she’d be up for anything this year.
I returned home, drew off my skirt and drew on my barn clothes, and found Geraldine fighting with a very large head and foot stuck in the canal. She was clearly struggling and groaning loudly, while the audience of guests had dwindled to just a few. I sent Maggie to fetch “Storey’s Guide to Raising Goats,” since she’d know where it was, and Shannon to get towels and the bulb to suck mucous from the nose. The membrane sac, still intact and surrounding the head, was filled with yellow fluid which should have been clear, and I was concerned that the baby was maybe drinking in meconium the way a human baby might in delivery. The presentation was actually just what it should have been, so I didn’t need to reach inside to help, but I did gently tug the hoof and work the vulva back around over the great big brow bone. An endlessly long baby slid out. I cleared sac and fluid from the nose and mouth and placed the kid where Geraldine could lick it off. Another boy and covered in what looked like egg yolk. But strong! He stood right up and tried to nurse while I dried him off with a towel. The children looking in through the barn window cheered and marveled at the fantastic white, tall baby. I sent Shan off to get warm molasses water for Geraldine and then sat back in the hay to wait for number two. I paged through the goat manual looking for information on that yellow fluid. My guests laughed, but I’m never without my books when it’s birthing time.
The twin arrived after a break for Geraldine, again with a disturbingly yellow sac. As she pushed, loudly complaining, I gently pulled again on the hoof and caught the kid in a towel, cleared the nose and handed him over. Buckling Number Four for Circle M, Spring 2007. These kids, penned next to Cream and her family in the barn, were easily twice the size of those bucks. Strong, tall, thick across the shoulders and nursing, in spite of the odd color of the birth fluid. A pretty picture in the cozy little barn. The remaining two guests, adults, drew quietly near to the pen and murmured their admiration. I turned on the heat lamp, since the forecast was for the teens overnight, and headed up to the house to get changed again. I’d missed the reception and my departing guest had already been taken to the airport by someone else. But Geraldine had gotten the help she needed and lay content in pen with some beautiful snow white babies, who, by the way, had already been named by the children by the time I got inside: Bambi and Conrad.
