Precocious Purdue, a Typical Pygora Kid
As you probably already are aware, little Pygora kids are masters at getting into trouble. Their curiosity and energy are all part of their endearing charm as they skip about investigating their new environment – now that they are finally liberated from the tight confines of five months in their mothers’ womb.
With over 13 kidding seasons under my belt, I thought I had pretty much seen it all. “I know how to kid proof a pen,” I confidently assured myself as I surveyed our “safe” goat barn. I’ve learned over the years to check the fence lines. If there is a teensy breech the little devils will find it and worm themselves out of the pen. They will then howl desperately and incessantly until they get reunited with their moms. Such cacophony usually alerts me to the problem quickly. I have learned to ensure that the water buckets are high enough such that a little newborn cannot stumble into it and drowned. I put the graduated wire hay racks high enough up such that the little jumpers cannot get their heads stuck inside them and hang. I no longer place rectangular mineral blocks in round rubber tubs because the little acrobats will invariably jump on top of the block, do a pirouette, and land on their back wedged between the tub wall and the mineral block. (I know this last one sounds a bit farfetched, but I’ve seen it happen, and I had to rescue a little goat from this predicament.) You get the general idea. I have made it a habit to automatically survey the goat barn and surrounding area for hazards. Then I count the kids and adults to make sure nobody is missing.
Early Monday morning (March 30, to be specific) I ran out to the goat barn to check on everyone before I had to zip off to work for the day. I was greeted by a forlorn Halle, who was crying incessantly for her little doeling, Purdue. (Our daughter, Charlotte, has applied to vet schools this year and will be attending one this fall. Perhaps you can guess our kid naming scheme? Hint: Purdue, Cornell, Little Tufts, Cal-Davis, Penn, and so forth.) Evidently Purdue had been missing for quite a while, as Halle’s voice was strained and hoarse.
Purdue is a fairly large doeling for her age of only four weeks. Big and brown and the first kid born this year, she is the most outgoing of all. She is full of personality and loves pestering the moms by jumping on their backs and catching a free ride until she falls off as the semi-tolerant goat walks off. Purdue’s antics are a never ending source of entertainment.
I checked the yard, the fence line, and the water troughs. No Purdue. I listened intently for a crying kid. Nothing. For a brief moment I thought I heard something off in the direction of the hay room; I ran and checked it out. Again, nothing. I searched the outer pen on the outside of the hay room. Nothing. I was out of time and had to go to work. My husband Henry continued the frantic search for a few more minutes before he had to go to work as well. He had the same net result as I did: nothing. My octogenarian mother-in-law looked for Purdue during the day, but her efforts yielded the same negative result.
When my son Isaac got home from school he searched the barns, pens, and surrounding area for two hours. When I got home I followed his footsteps. Isaac noted that he had noticed some large birds of prey overhead the day before. However, Purdue had been safely in the barn Sunday night at 10:00 PM during my pre-bedtime rounds. How could a bird of prey have taken Purdue during the night? Maybe she had ventured out alone? It had to be a really big nocturnal bird, to take a critter at night as big as Purdue, who weighed about 10 or more lbs. Still, I found this difficult to believe, especially since it had never happened here before. Maybe a fox got her? But why wasn’t there some evidence? I became deeply saddened as I thought about poor Purdue being the victim. Still, I had to face facts. Purdue was gone.
I wandered back through the goat barn one last time to check on the other 16 kids. Halle, too, had seemingly given up on finding her youngster. Perhaps she had begun to accept what she could not change. She barely called out anymore. Her full bag must have been exceedingly uncomfortable, adding physical pain to her misery. I felt badly for her.
Suddenly I thought I heard a weak kid cry emanating from the hay room, similar to what I thought I had heard that morning. Did I dare to hope, or were my ears playing tricks on me. I had to investigate. My heart skipped a beat as I entered the hay room, a former horse stall. The open concept room was lined with 8’x4’ plywood boards nailed to the studs in the walls. They hay bales were stacked level with the top of the plywood lining. I frantically listened for the sound. “Come on, baby. Cry. Cry!” Maybe she had slipped between the hay bales? But what is this? The muffled sound seemed to be originating from behind the plywood boards. I scrambled the eight feet up to the top of the hay stack. To my horror I realized that there was a 5” gap running the length and width of the perimeter walls and the plywood lining. The space appeared to extend from the top of the 8’ boards clear down to the ground level. The weak cry originated from within, but it was too dark for me to see anything in the deep crevice.
My heart pounded as I ran to the house. “Isaac! Come quickly! I need you to help me rescue Purdue!” Together we ran back to the barn, Isaac with a powerful flashlight and me with a hammer and crowbar.
I tried prying open the outer wall from the outside of the barn while Isaac attempted to guide me to where Purdue was by tapping on the wall. No luck. Changing our tact we tried prying open the plywood boards on the inside. Isaac tossed the bales out of the way while I attempted to dismantle the walls. Again we failed.
Maybe I could cut a flap into the wall and pull Purdue out that way? In desperation I ran to the garage and grabbed the circular saw, which I had no business using. It took me an inordinate amount of time to figure out how to turn the darn thing on, let alone cut a hole in the wall with it! Still, desperation breeds action. I did not know how much air and energy that little tyke had remaining, so I knew I had to hurry. “Be careful that you don’t cut the baby, mom,” Isaac said. We gauged a safe location and the noise began. RRRRRRRrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrhhhhhhhh!
“What are you doing, Lizoo?” Ah, music to my ears. It was Henry, home from work and curious as to why I was destroying the barn with power tools. We quickly got him up to speed on the Purdue situation, and within a few minutes Henry had ripped down the plywood with his bare hands. Wow, were Isaac and I impressed. Strong men are wonderful, I thought to myself. How does he do these things? Henry thrust his hand all the way up to his armpit in the crevice between the outer wall and the plywood board, and retrieved poor little, bewildered Purdue. I gently snatched her from Henry and quickly checked her over. To my surprise Purdue’s tummy was relatively full and she was in amazingly excellent condition considering her ordeal. I delivered her to mommy Halle, safe and sound.
The mother-daughter reunion was delightful to see. However, after the initial display of affection Halle was no longer certain that Purdue was in fact her long, lost offspring. Purdue, however, was positive that Halle was her mom as she doggedly attacked her udders. I watched from the sidelines as they tested each other: sniffing, head-butting, and tail wagging. Ah – at last Halle satisfied herself of Purdue’s authenticity, and life in the goat yard was restored to normal. All 17 kids happily skipped about without a care in the world as their moms placidly chewed their cuds.
The hay room wall, however, is in need of repair. Oh well, I am grateful to have Purdue back.
The moral of the story? Perhaps it is this: The only thing I know for certain is that I will never know everything about anything. Perhaps this is what makes Life so interesting and joyful.
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