When You Have To Be Your Own Veterinarian
There aren’t a lot of goat vets in our area. The one we found is an hour away, and he doesn’t make house calls. That means loading the goat up and taking it to him. Normally, we only take our goats to the vet when they’re babies — so they can get their first shots and get disbudded — that means their horns are removed. It sounds mean, but goats are fools who like to get their heads stuck in fences. Goats without horns are less likely to get their head stuck in the hay feeder.
The thing with goats is that, for some reason, the diseases they get tend to affect their brains. If a goat has polio? It travels to his brain. (Goat polio is actually a vitamin B deficiency, by the way). If a goat has pinkeye? It travels to her brain — and, yes, goats can die from pinkeye. Listeriosis? Brain. Why do so many goat diseases involve their brains? I have no idea, but it makes all illnesses really dramatic. Some goat illnesses involve “stargazing,” where the goat’s neck bends backwards and gets stiff, so that the goat looks as if he’s gazing at the stars. Other goat diseases involve “circling,” where the goat begins walking in circles. I’ve seen goats do both simultaneously — walk in a circle with their head to the sky. When that happens, the goat is very sick indeed.
We’ve gotten pretty good at treating the goats ourselves. Have you ever noticed the array of medicines available at your local farm store? That’s because farmers need to be able to purchase antibiotics for their animals — because it’s impractical to ask a vet to give your goat injections every six hours. I used to be very squeamish about needles. Now I’m only slightly squeamish.
Jeb, our only buck, is currently sick, but not stargazing or circling. We suspect listeriosis, but we’re also treating him with vitamin B, just in case. That means we’re giving him antibiotic and vitamin B injections multiple times a day. Jeb’s not big, as far as goats go, but he’s a fighter. A couple of years ago, he got polio — it hit fast and hard. We heard him cry out, and when we got to him, he was on the ground. We thought he was dead, but then he pulled himself to his feet. He staggered like a drunkard and was very weak, but he made himself get up. This time, he’s a little stiff and unbalanced. He has fallen a couple of times while trying to get away from us when we were giving him his shots. But he’s still eating and able to walk in a more or less straight line. We caught his illness early this time.
We‘ve been bribing him with treats, so at least he gets that out of it. Jeb loves treats. He’s gotten lots of carrots and apples this week. We also gave him some dewormer — which he thought was delicious.
I’ve had to rearrange my whole work schedule this week. Fortunately, my boss is an awesome person who lets me work my schedule around the needs of a small goat farm. It takes at least two people to give Jeb his injections, although three is better. And as he gets healthier, it will get harder. He’ll have more fight in him. Every time we go in his pen, we risk injury. When Jeb was born, we didn’t know the value of having goats disbudded. He has an impressive set of horns, even after he broke the tip off of one of them. On one hand, the horns give us something to grab ahold of when we’re trying to catch him. On the other hand, those horns make it hurt much worse if he decides to headbutt someone.
Jeb was the first baby born on our farm. He’s smelly and aggressive — and, during mating season, he pees on his own beard. He’s a white goat, but from August through January, his face and legs are a yellow-brown. Touching Jeb even briefly leaves a stink on you that’s hard to wash off. Wrestling him into a corner so someone can give him a shot leaves a whole lotta stink on everyone involved. I have smelled like a goat all week.
But we love that smelly, stubborn, old goat. I’ve been petting him a lot this week, telling him I love him and that he is a very good boy. And then I go inside and wash my hands and wrists.
