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Just about all the “farming” a teenager can stand.

Clover: “Is that ruler edible?”

Morgan: “Can I stop holding the ruler yet?”

Morgan, dreaming of the day she can stop holding the ruler.

Responses to questions asked in the comments the last few weeks about Clover’s babies:
The babies are about a foot tall right now. They are both boys. Baby goats are called kids. Males are bucklings and girls are doelings. (Mature goats are bucks or does. Unless they’re wethers–a wether is a neutered male.) They are Nigerian Dwarf goats–their daddy is Eclipse.
They will be registered, and we will not be able to keep them. A farm needs very few boys and a lot of girls, so sadly, the boys must be sold when they are ready to be weaned (in a few more months). If you’re interested in a hand-raised, cookie-fed Clover baby as a stud for your farm, email me at CITRbusiness(at)aol.com. One of the boys is blue-eyed, the other is brown-eyed. Sailor, with the white top-knot, is the blue-eyed one. See another photo of both babies here. And yes, I’m calling that one Sailor! I love that! I just call the other one Brown Eyes. Of course, their permanent names will be chosen by their new people in the future.
I haven’t started milking Clover yet as I want to give the babies all the milk they need right now. I’ll start milking her in the next month or so. For now, the three of them are confined to the goat house–they’re so small, they could escape under the gates.
If I’ve missed a question, or you have more, ask away!
Posted by Suzanne McMinn on August 22, 2010NOTE: If you haven’t joined the Chickens in the Road page on Facebook yet, please do so! I will be switching my personal profile (the Suzanne McMinn profile page) to private for my family. This will allow me to focus on the CITR page and be more active there. Please join the CITR page here:
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"It was a cold wintry day when I brought my children to live in rural West Virginia. The farmhouse was one hundred years old, there was already snow on the ground, and the heat was sparse-—as was the insulation. The floors weren’t even, either. My then-twelve-year-old son walked in the door and said, “You’ve brought us to this slanted little house to die." Keep reading our story....
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