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goats

    RUMINANTS

    Four-Legged Friends of Eastham Library Are on the Job

    Goats are eating poison ivy and bittersweet, but they’re eschewing knotweed

    By

    EASTHAM — Dragon, Wizard, Myles, and little Bleu have spent the last two weeks eating invasive poison ivy, bittersweet, and autumn olive behind the Eastham Public Library on Samoset Road. The quartet of male goats, like any contractors worth their salt, won’t leave until the job is completed, which will likely be by the end of this week.

    The goats at the Eastham library are nearly finished with their two-week invasive vegetation removal gig. (Photos by Marcia Geier)

    On the gentle slope between the library’s newly renovated building and the shores of neighboring Depot Pond, Goat Green Cape Cod owner Stacey Greaves has set up an electric fence around an area measuring roughly 50 by 150 feet. Inside their enclosure, the goats are hard at work clearing leafy treats. All they need from human caretakers is daily water, Greaves said.

    “Some of the plants encroach on the library land where children play,” Greaves said. The goats will push the growth back and “take off some of the overwhelmingness” for the library’s volunteer gardeners, who have been managing the vegetation by hand since the new building opened in 2016.

    Light-footed and strong of stomach, goats can be effectively deployed as an alternative to using chemical herbicides on brush, though given the location of the overgrown area next to the pond, herbicides were never on the table, said Library Director Melanie McKenzie.

    Goats’ grazing radius is higher off the ground than sheep and cows, making them adaptable to steep and uneven terrain. And their intestines break down unwanted seeds like nobody’s business. Their overall clearing speed depends on the weather, Greaves said. On beautiful days, the workday sails by, while rain and scorching heat both slow down the munching.

    Goats can graze on bittersweet that has grown high into trees.

    “The Friends of the Eastham Library are thrilled to be sponsoring this unique project,” McKenzie wrote to the Independent. “They are not especially interested in knotweed, unfortunately,” she added. A ground-cover solution for the library’s invasive knotweed is still being discussed by the open space committee. Greaves said goats prefer knotweed in “earlier stages of growth.”

    Greaves has 20 goats on staff at her company, which she founded in 2015. She was inspired by her love of animals but also by the idea of “helping keep herbicides off the ground in Cape Cod,” she said. Last season, Greaves said, she had approximately 40 clients during the season from mid-May through October and 80 projects on the goat waiting list.

    At the library, she’s made sure to personally visit the four goats or have a volunteer go every day since they arrived on May 15. “I make sure they’re okay before the library opens.”

    The library’s gardening volunteers first brought the idea of using goats for vegetation management to McKenzie. After Greaves came to the library for a site visit in late January, McKenzie filed for approval from the conservation commission.

    At a March 28 meeting, someone raised a question about goat poop: would it run into the pond? But Conservation Agent Keith Johnson explained that the goats’ veggie-heavy fecal matter was “almost essentially pre-composted vegetative material” — essentially, a natural fertilizer. The request was approved unanimously.

    According to McKenzie, the library’s contract with Greaves cost $1,450.

    Although it seems they’ll eat anything, the goats do not like mature knotweed, according to their wrangler, Stacey Greaves.

    This is not the first time that Greaves’s goats have managed vegetation on the Outer Cape. In June 2021, they were deployed in Provincetown at the behest of the open space committee to clean up the overgrown community garden in the West End. But two days after their arrival, the six goats on the job escaped. A spontaneous herding effort ensued, and after the fracas, Greaves returned the naughty flock to Barnstable.

    A fence failure was the cause of that breakout, Greaves said. “It doesn’t happen often, but they know when the fence is off, for starters,” she said. That’s part of why people are not allowed to enter the enclosure and pet the goats while they’re on a job, she said.

    Eastham has hired a goat quartet before. In 2011, the dept. of public works adopted four goats to help clear invasive plants around Wiley Pond and other areas. But a year later, the goats were returned to the Cape and Islands Farm Bureau, according to news reports at the time.

    Using freelance goats seems easier. Goat vegetation management operations need to be carefully managed to incite heavy trampling and consumption in the areas you want to clear. But once these master mowers finish the job, they get antsy.

    “In the event they finish up before I get there, volunteers are instructed to give them grain and hay,” Greaves said. “I don’t want them ever to be hungry.”

    BACKYARD FARM

    Saying Goodbye to Buttercup

    Our beloved doe and her sister find happiness in Brewster

    By

    Buttercup was not born in our back yard, but she was the kid that made me a goat mama. She and her sister came to us from another small farm when we were novice goatherds. She was three months old, curious and kind from the start. If we are allowed to admit to favorites, Buttercup soon became mine.

    Later, I learned that our animal friends also sometimes mother us. A year after Buttercup came into our lives, I was diagnosed with breast cancer. During many of my darkest times I sat with our goats. Their silly faces made me laugh even when laughter was the last thing on my mind. And when I cried, Buttercup nuzzled my ear with her soft nose and tried to eat my clothes. The smell of hay on her fur felt comforting in the way only the simplest things in life can.

    Being with farm animals, companions to humans for centuries, whose milk and meat fed our forefathers as they feed us, reminded me that life goes on beyond our time on Earth.

    Buttercup was the first doe to give birth on our backyard farm. On a sunny late spring day in 2020, she lay down in the hay and, within minutes, twins were born. I barely made it to her side in time, and she barely needed me there. Our two other pregnant does had harder births, waking me in the night with their labor struggles, but Buttercup was a natural.

    The second time around, though, as I’ve written here before, things didn’t go so well. First, Buttercup didn’t go into labor when we expected her to. Back then, Lance Romance lived on the farm — theirs was not a drive-by affair — so we couldn’t be exactly sure of her due date, but I was worried. I checked on her day and night, sitting next to her, stroking her fur. Buttercup was my goat baby once again. This time it was she who was not feeling well and needed care and comforting.

    Then, suddenly, Buttercup was in distress. The first kid was not positioned right, and the vet couldn’t get to us in time. That day, I didn’t know if she or the babies would make it. But we did it together, Buttercup and I. Reaching in, I was able to help deliver three kids, and although the first one did not survive, the other two, both big, healthy boys, did.

    Buttercup, happy at her new home with Heather Pooler in Brewster. (Photo by Susannah Elisabeth Fulcher)

    We noticed after this birth, though, that Buttercup had changed. She didn’t seem as happy, even around her kids. She had healed well from the birth, but something wasn’t quite right.

    Buttercup did not want Lance Romance near her. Lance by that time was a wether — we loved him, but bucks smell terrible. Even without his reproductive powers, Lance was still a romancer. His attentions on Buttercup continued. Before the birth she didn’t mind, but now things were clearly different.

    Buttercup also seemed to avoid the side of our paddock where she had given birth. I did some research and learned that animals can experience post-traumatic stress and will, for example, avoid locations where past trauma occurred. We found a remedy by accident. We had agreed to temporarily foster another doe, Molly, who was actually Buttercup’s sister. Buttercup was evidently cheered by Molly’s presence and the two often kept to Buttercup’s end of the paddock together.

    Not long after we took Molly in, another farmer told us that Buttercup might be happier in a herd of does. That’s the traditional set up at dairy farms, where, even though wethers and does can mingle happily, keeping a wether as a sort of pet is just not considered practical.

    Then we heard that someone in Brewster was looking for two does. She would offer a home for Molly and Buttercup. The circle of Cape Cod goat farmers is small.

    Heather Pooler grew up on the South Shore. “My grandparents had a small dairy farm, and kept pigs and chickens, too,” she told us. Now living in Brewster on her own small farm, she said she had always wanted to add goats — not for breeding, but for company.

    There are many hellos and goodbyes in farm life. But could I let Buttercup go? I thought of the Old Testament story of the Judgment of Solomon. In that tale, a true mother gives up her child to protect him. Sitting with my beloved Buttercup, I felt she understood. She trotted easily after Russell when he led her to the truck.

    Heather spends a lot of time with Buttercup, who, she says, loves to be petted and scratched. “If I stop, she pushes her forehead into me, asking for more,” Heather says, “I believe she is happy.”

    BACKYARD FARM

    So, You Want to Wean a Goat

    Lessons in how best to send your kids into the world

    By

    When we bred our doe, Buttercup, for the first time, we were novice goat keepers. We rented a buck, Stinky Dan, whose musky aroma was nothing out of the ordinary for a buck, from another backyard farm.

    The price, we were told, would be one of the kids, which made sense at the time of the bargain, since Stinky Dan was, after all, to be the dad. When Dan’s owner threw in the promise of her knowledgeable presence at the birth, that sealed the deal for us.

    On birthing day, we learned that, with every bargain, even a backyard farm barter, it’s crucial to study the fine print. We had assumed that the promised kid would leave our farm when he or she was weaned from our doe. But my hands were still wet from placing twin newborns at their mama’s side when I learned we were to give up the female later that very day.

    This spring’s kids, Willy, left, and Zevon, were ready to be weaned before the writer let them go to another backyard farmer. (Photo Susannah Elisabeth Fulcher)

    The kid would be bottle fed at her new home, and our doe would be left with just one of her babies to raise. “It’s best that she doesn’t get too attached,” we were told. Though separation at birth is practiced at many dairy farms, my heart shattered as I watched Buttercup’s newborn being carried away. Our Buttercup was not herself for days, searching for her baby girl.

    I was determined to do things differently when we decided to breed Buttercup for a second time. We bought our very own buck, handsome Lance Romance. I researched mother-baby attachment among goats. Not only would these kids go to a loving home, they would leave our farm at the optimal time.

    Does form strong bonds with their kids when they sniff and clean them after birth. According to scientists at Queen Mary, University of London, a doe can identify the sound of her own kids’ bleats even after more than a year of separation.

    The best time to rehome kids, I learned, is between 8 and 12 weeks — when they are old enough to be weaned, yet young enough to adjust to a new home and form strong attachments to their new owners.

    Goats are sociable herd animals and should not live alone. So, we set out to find a family that would want both of Buttercup’s kids. Males are not as sought after as females in the world of backyard goat herding — we all have our cheesemaking dreams. But while keeping a buck takes special devotion, a couple of relatively sweet-smelling wethers, or former bucks, could be a lot of fun.

    Nicole Snow and Robert Ryan came from Brewster to meet the new kids the day after they were born. It was a good sign that they petted Buttercup and gave her treats. They gave the kids their names — Willy and Zevon — and continued visiting for a few months as we gradually weaned them.

    Starting when they were two weeks old, the kids spent part of each day away from Buttercup. At that point, they were ready to taste some hay and grain, reducing their milk intake as they ranged more. We increased that time apart until we were confident the kids were ready to be separated from their mother.

    Although my early attempts at milking hadn’t gone well, after Willie and Zevon left for their new home, I milked Buttercup once a day for a few days to make sure the last of her milk wouldn’t lead to mastitis, an infection of the milk ducts. The risk of that is high during weaning, when there is more milk in the mammary glands than the kids need.

    On the day of Willie’s and Zevon’s departure, we saw Buttercup snuggling with Puck, her kid born the year before. We were all a little sad, but this experience was nothing like last year’s.

    Soon, there was news from Brewster: “The boys have adapted well,” Nicole told us. “Robert brought a chair into the pen,” she added. When she described how she would come home from work and find him sitting in there with the kids jumping around him, we knew we’d chosen their new family well.

    BACKYARD FARM

    How to Milk a Goat, Maybe

    Even with massage and sweet nothings, Buttercup won’t be milked

    By

    I think goat kids are among the cutest creatures on Earth. But most backyard farmers are more interested in goat mamas — does. That’s what happens when you’re keeping goats mainly for their milk.

    As with all mammals, goats lactate only after giving birth. After kidding, dairy does will go on to produce milk for about two years if they are milked regularly. Then they will need to be bred again to keep the production flowing.

    When we decided to welcome a buck into our pen last winter, I had goat’s milk and goat cheese on my mind. I had not milked our Buttercup after her first kids were born in 2020, but this time I pictured myself getting up at the first light of dawn to hand-squeeze warm goodness into a silver pail.

    Cammie Watson milks her goat, Missy, every evening. (Photo Susannah Elisabeth Fulcher)

    A doe’s udder and two teats come in all shapes and sizes, but all are relatively small prior to her first breeding. Afterwards, usually, they grow large enough for a farmer to wrap her fingers around. But sometimes it’s more practical to wait until a doe has been pregnant more than once, so the farmer can get a better grip.

    The first milky fluid a doe produces after giving birth is called colostrum. Just as in humans, this highly nutritious milk is rich in fat, growth hormones, vitamins, minerals, and antibodies that help the newborn get off to a healthy start. Colostrum has a yellowish tint and does not taste like regular milk. It should always be saved for a doe’s kids, who need it to thrive.

    After about a week, the dairy farmer can decide when to start milking her goat. Some allow the kids to be nursed exclusively — or, in farming terms, “dam raised” — until they can be weaned, when they’re 60 to 90 days old. Others bottle-feed the kids so they can start milking early on, when the doe’s milk is most plentiful. That’s a time-consuming proposition, though it fosters a strong bond between human and kid.

    Most often, farmers choose a middle path, allowing kids to nurse for a few weeks, then separating the doe from the kids for part of the day so that the milk she produces during that time can be collected. Every mammal’s milk production works by the law of supply and demand. If a doe is milked frequently, she will produce more milk. If a farmer waits 60 days before milking a doe, her kids begin nursing less frequently and eating hay and grain sooner, as the doe’s milk production slows.

    On large dairy farms, does are milked using machines outfitted with suction cups. Backyard farmers rarely invest in such contraptions and prefer the bare-hands-and-bucket method.

    The first challenge, I learned, is keeping the doe still enough to get to her teats. This is where a milking stand comes in handy. They are designed to gently hold the goat’s neck so that her head is strategically placed in front of a full feeding bowl. The height of the stand allows the farmer to sit comfortably on a stool while reaching under the doe.

    The motion of milking is gentle. It starts at the top, where the teat meets the udder. From there, the farmer uses her thumb and index finger to massage the length of the teat with small rhythmic squeezes until the milk begins to squirt. Alternately squeezing one teat, then the other, leads to the best flow.

    In spite of my romantic notions about collecting little silver buckets of milk, Buttercup and I did not find the arrangement easy. I read that a doe must learn to relax before milking or production will be low. I learned that massaging her back, belly, and legs and speaking to her softly is supposed to help. But Buttercup kicked and squirmed while this year’s swarm of mosquitos attacked my arms and legs. Even with my patient husband holding her head for me and whispering in her ears to calm her, we lasted only three weeks.

    Fellow backyard farmer Cammie Watson of Truro and her doe, Missy, fared much better. Watson milks Missy every evening, allowing her three-month-old kid, Butternut, to nurse during the night. “I get about two cups of milk, and Butternut gets the same amount,” Watson says.

    At least I know what I imagined really is possible.

    “I love milking,” Cammie says. “It feels calming and healing to me. I love the quiet sound of Missy chewing and the sound of the milk streaming into the pail.”

    IN THE BUD

    Is It Wrong to Be Horny?

    Why some backyard farmers are reconsidering ‘disbudding’ their goats

    By

    Goats have horns. That’s something I always took for granted. I grew up seeing goats on mountaintops throughout my childhood in Austria, and every one of them had horns. But when we picked up our first baby goats four years ago, they had smooth heads. Puzzled, I asked their seller at what age they would grow horns. They wouldn’t, I was told. Our kids had been “disbudded.”

    In all breeds of goats, both males and females have horns for reasons connected to their survival. They come into play when goats butt for territory and breeding rights and they can help a goat defend itself from predators. But what’s less obvious is that horns are also crucial to a goat’s temperature regulation: excess body heat is carried to the horn’s dense network of blood vessels and released. Goats without horns pant to cool off, but that doesn’t do the job as well as their horns would have been. They don’t tolerate heat well.

    The practice of removing horns from goats developed with domestication. Goats without horns are easier to handle in large numbers on dairy farms. An angry or threatened goat can injure farm workers or other animals. Goats without horns are also less likely to get tangled in hay feeders or fences.

    The new kids in the writer’s back yard will be allowed to let their horns grow. (Photo Susannah Elisabeth Fulcher)

    The price of practicality, though, is high. Goats have been bred to be polled — born hornless. But in the last century, farmers came to understand that the practice led to genetic complications including hermaphroditism, which is not great if a goal of your farming is milk and cheese production.

    Instead, disbudding has become common practice: the kids’ budding horns are burned with a hot iron soon after birth, destroying all the cells that promote further growth of horn tissue.

    A goat’s horn consists of a bony core covered in keratin, the same material our human hair and fingernails are made of. Horns, however, more closely resemble our teeth than our hair or fingernails, in that they are alive with blood vessels and nerves. So, the procedure can be painful, and, if it’s not done properly, the kid can suffer permanent scarring, brain damage, or even death. One of our goats, Lance Romance, came to us with a thick scar on the top of his head where his skull was burned in a botched disbudding procedure.

    An alternative to disbudding, for older animals, is dehorning. Suffice it to say the procedure is riskier and more controversial than debudding, though both practices — which are not regulated in the U.S. — are increasingly being reconsidered.

    For backyard farmers, the choice is perhaps not as complex as it is on large-scale farms. Those who choose to disbud new kids can see that the job is done by a good vet who will use anesthesia and post-procedure medications to help the newborn goat recover quickly.

    Since we’re raising just a few goats for company as much as for milk, the pain and risk of debudding don’t seem worth it to us. Our approach is to treat our goats with kindness and love, but also awareness of their instincts, and willingness to show them a healthy amount of assertiveness.

    Our new kids will soon sport the small, slightly curved horns characteristic of their Nigerian Dwarf breed. We look forward to seeing their handsome headdresses take shape.

    HOMESTEADING

    Sorrow and Joy on Buttercup’s Birthing Day

    Two lively kids comfort a doe and her homesteaders

    By

    Last summer our sweet Nigerian dwarf doe, Princess Buttercup, gave birth with remarkable ease, which is typical for her breed. I barely noticed that she was in labor before her first push, accompanied by a loud bleat, caught my attention. Less than 10 minutes later, both her kids were born. I remember thinking to myself: no wonder there is no need for a vet to be present.

    Buttercup recovers in the happy company of her two kids. (Photo Susannah Elisabeth Fulcher)

    This year, though, Buttercup kept us waiting. We weren’t certain of her exact due date, but although she was huge and uncomfortable, she didn’t seem in any distress. We weren’t worried.

    And we were prepared. My husband, Russell, had installed a baby monitor in the birthing suite (a separate corner of her stall) so that I could keep an eye on her day and night. I barely left the house, and went out to check on her every few hours, even at night. Though does give birth without trouble more than 95 percent of the time, it is better to be by her side, just in case. Newborn kids often need help clearing their airways before taking their first breath, and because most does — and especially this breed — carry more than one kid per pregnancy, they can get behind on that task.

    Our birthing kit was well-stocked: puppy pads for the babies to land on; surgical gloves; towels to pick up the just-born kids so they don’t slip out of your hands. The doe will lick her babies dry — an important part of her accepting and bonding with them. But if it is a multiple birth, she may take a while, and since newborn kids shouldn’t get cold, sometimes you will need to dry them off a little before mama can get down to the task herself. Our kit also contained dental floss to tie off the umbilical cord and iodine for the wound; electrolytes and molasses for the exhausted mama after labor; and lubricant. Because you may need to reach inside a doe to dislodge a stuck baby. This happens only rarely — in 1 to 2 percent of births.

    For us, the weeks of monitoring and waiting dragged on. Buttercup, though, enjoyed all the attention. One of the signs that goats are close to labor is that they seek human contact and become more affectionate. Each time I checked on Buttercup, she greeted me with a gentle nudge and sidled up to me for a belly rub. I promised her that whatever might happen, she could count on me.

    It was during a 4 a.m. check that I realized Buttercup was going to give birth at last. Her water broke around 9, and she began to push. I donned my gloves, spread out the puppy pads, encouraged her with each effort and waited, ready to catch babies. But no babies came. We reached the dreaded 30-minutes-of-pushing threshold, which could indicate a problem. I called our vet, but she didn’t answer.

    I was glad Russell was home, and my nephew was in the birthing pen with me, as planned. Goats often give birth lying down, but when Buttercup laid her head down, we knew something was wrong. “What should I do?” I asked. “Do I have to reach in?” Russ’s eyes told me that this was an emergency, that I had to.

    On a goat birthing day that didn’t go as easily as planned, still, there was some joy. (Photo Kim Roderiques)

    I put on new gloves and covered my hand and arm in lube. When I reached inside the birthing canal, I felt a spine. A kid should come out nose and hooves first. The breech position (rump first) is dangerous for both kid and doe. I turned the kid as best I could, Buttercup pushed, and the kid slipped out. Buttercup would survive, but the kid was dead.

    There was nothing we could do. I handed the tiny body to my husband. Then came the second kid, weak, but alive, and the third — this all-male litter would have been a disappointment at a dairy farm. Our vet called back. Breech births are slightly more common with males. She was amazed that two of the kids had survived. The delay could easily have caused a worse outcome.

    Death is part of life and part of having a farm. We have seen death at our homestead before, but nothing this traumatic. Our daughters know this story, but I am glad they were in school when it happened. Over the days that followed, as we watched Buttercup care for her two lively boys, and we welcomed them with cuddles and love ourselves, we all began to heal.

    FARM & GARDEN UPDATE

    Birthing Suite

    By

    Princess Buttercup, here in her birthing suite, is in good company, in spite of being separated by a fence from the other goats. Goldie Hen has stayed close by her side as her goat version of Mothers Day nears—an example of the tender interspecies friendships that can emerge among domesticated farm animals. —Susannah Elisabeth Fulcher

    HOMESTEADING

    What to Expect When Your Goat Is Expecting

    It’s kidding season on the Outer Cape

    By

    At first, it can be hard to tell whether your doe — your female goat, that is — has gotten pregnant.

    For those new to animal husbandry: don’t expect a missed period to alert you to anything. Female goats do not have periods in the same way humans do. In fact, it turns out that only a relatively few animals — some primates and bats, the elephant shrew, and the spiny mouse — share this trait with us.

    But female goats do have estrous cycles, or “go into heat,” about every 21 days, when various reproductive hormones kick into gear, making them receptive to breeding. This lasts only two or three days, and while you might hear her bleating a little more than usual or see her wagging her tail and pacing when it’s happening, goat heat is not an especially obvious thing.

    Princess Buttercup’s belly leaves no doubt there will be new kids on the writer’s homestead before long. (Photo Susannah Elisabeth Fulcher)

    When we brought home our new buck, Lance Romance, at the end of November, we didn’t think Princess Buttercup was in heat. And besides, we didn’t keep him around for long. We sent him off to charm the does on another homestead. Since goat pregnancies last about five months, we figured that with his return in January we would be comfortably on schedule for June kidding.

    We were wrong. In early April, I realized that our “Butters” was already about to pop. How could we have missed this? Well, most domesticated does have beach-ball bellies, and our doe is no exception. That’s why the fact that she was carrying kids became obvious so late and so suddenly. It’s a good thing that, for most of the pregnancy, goats don’t need a lot of special care beyond good nutrition and plenty of water.

    At this late stage, though, we’re making high-speed birth preparations. About two to six weeks prior to kidding, a doe should be vaccinated for clostridial enterotoxemia, a rare but serious bacterial infection found in goats and sheep, and for tetanus. That way some immune protection will be passed on to the kids through the colostrum, or extra-thick, vitamin A-, mineral-, and antibody-rich milk she produces in the first days after birth. Farm vets are few and far between on Cape Cod, but you can safely vaccinate your own does.

    A few weeks before labor, you should see your doe’s udder begin to fill out with milk. Now’s the time to section off a birthing stall in your pen. Other goats in your herd can be curious and get in the way of the birth or even show aggression toward newborn kids.

    Most domestic does seem to appreciate human presence during labor and sometimes they need assistance during the pushing stage of the birthing process, though, thankfully, a vet is rarely needed. Read up, you’ll need the confidence — and readiness to face some blood and goo — to catch a baby goat or two yourself. (Two kids per pregnancy is the average.)

    We have now set up a baby monitor in the pen and we’re checking for signs of imminent labor — she will act restless, look back at her sides, paw at the bedding, and get vocal. Expect to spend days trying to figure out if it’s time, but when it is, the actual delivery will take only about an hour, especially with a doe like Butters, who has given birth before.

    Here’s hoping for a birth in the sunshine, not the middle of the night or in the last nor’easter of the spring.

    HOMESTEADING

    Could She, Would She Give You Goat’s Milk?

    It’s not easy to make a match for your backyard doe

    By

    For some people, chickens are a gateway farm animal. You start out with a backyard flock. The fresh eggs are nice. So, you start thinking about producing something else, maybe milk and cheese. But a cow would require acres of land. If you have some space — about 400 square feet — you might consider stepping up your homesteading hobby by acquiring a few goats.

    Ours are Nigerian Dwarf goats, an American breed derived from a West African group. These miniature dairy goats produce as much milk as their larger cousins and have a sweet disposition, adorable sense of humor, and beautifully colorful coats to boot. We got three of them for our backyard farm a few years ago and can’t imagine living without them.

    “Lance Romance,” a Nigerian Dwarf breeder buck on a mission, knows to whisper sweet nothings in a doe’s ears. (Photo Cammie Watson)

    Like all mammals, goats produce milk only after having babies. So, if you are keeping goats for their delicious milk, you have to breed them. There is not much in this world that is cuter than a kid, and our small goats give birth without much fuss — we have never needed the attendance of a vet and even my 11-year-old is now an accomplished goat-midwife.

    Does can breed anytime during the year once they have reached about 10 months of age, but in our climate, with colder winters that extend into the spring, tiny kids have an easier time if they are born between June and September. With a goat pregnancy lasting about five months, the time for matchmaking is now.

    The trouble is that bucks — male goats who can breed, as opposed to wethers, their castrated brothers — are hard to come by, especially on Cape Cod. Not many people keep them, and there’s a simple reason: a buck’s personal perfume is truly terrible. And if you think bad pickup lines are a turnoff, be glad you’re not a doe. These guys enhance their scent when courting by peeing on their own beards.

    Some people use a drive-by dating service to impregnate their does. In this case, a buck owner, usually coming from off Cape, charges a fee to travel to your homestead for roadside romance. The chances of success are not exactly slim if you know your female’s fertile time of the month, but they are limited. You may have to pay more than once for a visit and, even with that, your doe may not be agreeable within the short window of time the suitor is present.

    A much better option is to rent a buck for at least a month, even better, two. This is what we decided to do last year, with total success. From early January to late February, our home herd welcomed Stinky Dan and his sidekick, Buford T. Justice, as my husband called them. Many bucks travel with a wingman because goats, like most farm animals, don’t like to be displaced and are more amenable to change if they get to bring a buddy along.

    This year, however, Stinky Dan was not available. It turns out that he has serviced most of Cape Cod’s does by now and, since even in the goat world relatives should not mate, was sent off to Western Mass. to peddle his genes out there. We had to go to New Hampshire for a pinch hitter, but the trip was well worth it because we ended up with Lance Romance, who is quite a fine fellow.

    While Stinky would charge his target at a speed that was uncomfortable to watch, Lance is a consummate gentleman. A gentle boy with a sweet temper, he has no need for a wingman and quickly makes friends with new ladies by tenderly licking their ears.

    Cammie Watson, a fellow homesteader in Truro, just took Lance to meet her bashful doe. “He talks articulately in gentle tones, moans every now and then, notices her every mood, and seems willing to do whatever is required — serenading her, or backing off on occasion,” Watson tells me. “I know she will come around.”

    We’ll keep you posted on the kids.

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