Chewie and Buddy

Chewie is a French Alpine wether (that’s a neutered goat, for you non-Caprine readers). He is black and white, with perky ears and a propensity to do spontaneous arabesques and cabrioles when the feeling strikes.

He and his pal, Buddy, a soft brown and tiny-eared La Mancha wether, had been petting zoo goats, and when their summer in the sun was over, they had been sold to the first comer. After a stint being used to clear brush from fields, the owner no longer wanted either of them, and so they landed at a farm to live with horses, miniature horses, chickens and several pygmy goats.

Chewie, the ladder-climbing goat

Chewie has a full set of lovely horns, where Buddy sports one that is misshapen and is stunted. However, both fellas are pretty polite about not using them around people. Most commonly, Chewie wears a hay tuft in his. He’s almost as fashionable as Minnie Pearl.

The two of them learned that the hay in storage over some of the horse stalls had a very convenient stairway access. No need to bother with ladders and other forms of difficult mountain climbing.

So soon after they learned where the treasure was hidden, they both pranced up on nimble feet and made themselves at home in the well-stocked haymow.

After eating and berrying their way through the best pickings, they decided that the better part of valor would be to share their wealth with some of the miniature horses.

Now, except for Roy Rogers’ Trigger and trick circus horses, most horses won’t willingly climb a steep staircase – no railing – and turn a 180 at the top in order to get to hay.

Most won’t, but not King and Fancy. I came into the indoor arena one day, where at the near end, the staircase leads up into the mow. There were not just two average goat faces, but two very satisfied goat faces peering down at me. There were also two miniature horse faces (King and Fancy) sharing the view. Their bellies were groaning with hay.

Even more horses won’t go DOWN stairs, and this is where we came to an impasse. King finally decided that facing my wrath and funny faces (distorted with fury) wasn’t amusing any longer. After a few well-placed tugs on his halter, he willingly and nimbly pranced down the stairs and into the arena.

However, Fancy was another matter entirely. Never having been handled before she arrived at the farm, she thought the best use for people was to have them as far away as possible. Round and round we went circling the haymow trap door opening. She would skid precariously near the stairs, then bolt and run in the other direction.

Six days later, she finally decided to come down from her eagle’s perch by taking three dainty steps down the stairs and then launching herself in a swan dive to the arena floor.

My heart stopped, but she had not a care. She strolled off to the other miniatures while I tried to get myself to return from looking green around the gills to breathing and walking upright again.

Chewie and Buddy? Although they had been banished from the haymow, somehow they found a way to become as flat as snakes and slide in under the arena gate and back up to paradise.

Gates over the stairs didn’t work; hotwiring the gate didn’t work. In essence, I met the enemy and admitted defeat.

This on and off spa time in the haymow continued for a year until one frigid January winter evening I went out to do evening chores, and Chewie hobbled up to me with a broken right hind leg dangling. For the first time in my life I met a quiet goat that actually should have been bawling.

Two neighbors and I spent two hours setting the fracture and splinting it. We made the warmest, softest and fluffiest nest for Chewie to lie in until the vet was available to see him in the morning.

But NO! We got no farther than the end of the barn aisle to find Chewie standing in the middle of the coldest part of the aisle looking miserable as only a sick goat can.

So I spent the night wrapped in horse blankets trying to hold and comfort a very sad and angry goat. Chewie did everything in his power to remove our creative splint that was made up of two metal horse sweat scrapers and countless rolls of vet wrap.

By the morning, I was so tired, cold and stiff that when I thought of having to lift this big boy into the back of an SUV, I just cringed. But I think by that time, even the valiant Chewie had had enough, and he let me hoist him in where more blankets and pillows were waiting. By the time we reached the vet, one sleepy goat was snoring in the back, and one very sleepy and stinky client was about to make the vet’s day.

Our vet, usually a very patient and gentle man, didn’t care for goats in his practice as a rule. But by using my feminine wiles (oh, OK, by whining and nagging and pestering), he agreed to look at the leg, set it correctly and send us on our way. When we arrived, the vet. tech. helped us bring Chewie in the exam room. The vet. decided that because he couldn’t get the right grip on the leg to set it, it would be best to take him up the elevator to the x-ray and surgery area, get a picture and then set it while Chewie was slightly sedated.
So a pretty willing Chewie rode up the elevator with us, and he was even pretty cooperative (other than raising hackles and showing the vet his horns once) with the IV sedative (a mild one, you remember).

We hoisted Chewie onto the exam table, and we got a pretty good X-ray of the fracture. The patient (did I mention patient) vet set it with LOTS of hand traction (meaning we were all pulling on the leg to lengthen the break enough to allow the bones to line up at the fractured ends). Chewie didn’t stir.

After the splint was applied, the vet went back downstairs to see the patients who actually DID have appointments. I was instructed to stay with Chewie until he was awake and on his feet.

Now the surgery was toasty warm, and Chewie hadn’t slept all night, as well as having been in a fair amount of pain. He was having wonderful goat dreams. I waited, pried open an eyelid – no response.

So I took out a used scalpel blade and began to trim his hooves (no nurse ever lets time go to waste). Chewie generally hates to have his feet trimmed -but again, no response.

After about a half hour, I realized that eau de wether was beginning to permeate the room. Now I happen to like goat aromas, but this poor vet’s practice is in the middle of a small town. I didn’t think his clients would appreciate that “down home farm” authenticity.

No movement from Chewie other than an occasional stretch and a snore. I pried open his eyes. Nothing. I heaved him over to see if he’d wake up. Nada, nope, NO WAY.

Becoming alarmed, I went in search of the vet tech and told her my concern (she also had goats). “Uh oh”, she laughed. ” I’ll bet he’s so comfortable now he doesn’t WANT to wake up.” Right, Sherlock.

So the long-suffering vet gave not one but two doses of drugs to reverse the happy snooze that was Chewie. (Yes, narcan works on goats, too.)

After another eternity, finally one eye opened and looked suspiciously at our little group. For the next hour, we took turns in trying to get the big galoot to his feet. But no dice. He knew he had it made.

So out came the stretcher. We lugged the sleeping beauty onto it and down to the dog boarding kennels.

Me apologizing all the way and hoping the Caprine perfume hadn’t driven away all of the clients. The vet was silent. Unusual for him, I thought.

The vet tech suggested keeping Chewie in the heated kennel area for a couple of days to make sure that the splint stayed on.

In just three days, she had him completely kennel trained.

She’d take him out for berry production, and then he would earn his keep by browsing the landscaping around the vet clinic. He babysat the other canine boarders, who were fascinated with their new neighbor.

When Chewie was finally ready to travel home and to the farm, the look of utter disgust and betrayal at finding himself back in the unheated barn was unforgettable. Buddy was happy to see him, and within a few minutes, the two fellas were patrolling their kingdom of the horse barns, inspecting all of the horse feeders for left over feed, and generally making goat messes, which they did masterfully.

Several weeks later, the splint could be removed, and Chewie, allowed to visit the arena again, immediately climbed back up into the haymow.