It should come as no surprise to even the most die-hard urbanite that a farmer has many different jobs: botanist, chemist, nutritionist, mechanic, carpenter, electrician… the list goes on.
Before diving into this farming gig, I knew I would have to be a jack of all trades. In a single day I might build a chicken roost, change a tire, seal a drafty door, judge the chemical makeup of a compost heap, and try to identify a mystery plant in the garden, all on top of the day-to-day chores of feeding and watering the livestock, milking goats, and collecting eggs.
However, there is one hat I never expected to wear: the pimp hat. And I’m not a nice whorehouse madame, concerned for her girls’ welfare and ready to step in when a trick gets uppity. Nope, I’m Huggy Bear with extra slapping hands for my hos.
November is breeding month here at Turtle Cove Farm. The ram is in with the ewes and the buck is in with the does. I assumed that nature would take its course, everyone would get their sexy back, and babies would show up like magic in five months.
Uh, no. Apparently, my ewes and does haven’t listened to enough Justin Timberlake, because they want nothing to do with those nasty males (and goat bucks are nasty). Instead the girls yell and scream and stare at me with pleading eyes, begging to know why they’re being treated like sex slaves smuggled in from Eastern Europe.
Meanwhile the ram and buck are blubbering and singing and chasing the girls (and the buck pees on himself, but the less said about that, the better). Anytime a doe or ewe is distracted by hay, or the water bowl, or just staring into space dreaming of a world where a young Richard Gere will rescue her, the buck or the ram is there, trying to get a quickie before she notices. The doe or ewe will holler, whirl around, thump that nasty man-thing as hard as she can, and run off.
I put on my Huggy Bear pimp hat, harden my heart, and ignore those desperate pleas for help. I tell my girls, “Just close your eyes and think of England!” I also double check every fence, because nothing is better at escaping than a goat doe trying to get away from a buck. My breeding fences are seven feet high in some places.
If I think too hard about that, the feminist in me shrivels up and dies.
