Twas the night before kidding. . .

Twas the night before kidding, when all through the house

Every creature (me ) was stirring, except the husband and dogs.

The camera was hung from the rafters with care,

In hopes that healthy kids, soon would be there.

The does were all nestled all snug in their pens,

While grunting and whispering to pull me from bed.

And I in my thermals, and Rog in his cap (asleep and dead to the world) ,

Had just settled in for a short, restless nap.

When out in the barn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to my coveralls I flew like a flash,

Tore open the barn door and threw up the sash (the light switch).

The moon (Luna) stood in the new-fallen snow

Flagging and flirting at the buck barn below.

What is she doing? She’s in labor, you see ,

Confused and hormonal and ‘special’, she be.

With daybreak came agitation and nests,

I knew they’d be ready in a few hours at best.

More rapid than eagles the babies they came,

Dams pushed and they shouted, kids quickly stood and exclaimed.

Now Lunetta! now, Massey! now, Luci and Luna!

On, Elina! On, Macy!, on Emilene and Cammile!

To the birthing stalls! to the to the milkstand!

Now get up! Get up! Please! Please!

As snowflakes in February certainly fly,

The milk lines will freeze, sputter and cause us to cry ‘why?’.

So up to the house-top for the bucket we flew,

To the stovetop to heat treat, and pasteurize too.

Later, in a tinkling, I felt warmth on my side,

The buckling pranced and kept feeding, then peed on my thigh.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Lunetta gave me a placenta rich kiss from my chin to my crown.

We dress all in thermals, from head to foot,

Our clothes are all tarnished with milk, hay and gook.

A bundle of kids we carry to the pen,

Dressed up in sweaters, bleating now and then.

Their eyes-how they twinkle! Their tails how merry!

Their lips are like roses, their noses  like cherries!

Their dainty mouths are drawn up like a bow,

And the beards of their chins flaked with milk white as snow.

Massey is stoic, alfalfa held tight in her teeth,

While triplets encircle her udder and teats.

They aren’t even hers, but she hasn’t a care, 

Accepted and cared for them in her quiet, heated lair. 

She is chubby and plump, a right jolly old girl,

She jiggles and wiggles from brisket to thurls!

Dam raising triplet boys is a tough job to do,

Soon the weight will melt off, as each year is true.

The kid count is growing, sleep patterns have weakened,

Every year parts of our system need tweaking. 

Milk jugs are filling with rich goaty goodness,

Soon fresh chevre and aged cheeses are sure to impress.

We spring up quite early, and stay up quite late,

When it’s all over, an enviable date .

Year after year, we trudge through with might,

Happy Kidding to all, may your goat dreams be bright…