Pretending to Farm

Shear Adventure Part Deux, The Rise of Funny-Looking Skinny Beasts

I was afraid, not terrified but a little more than anxious. After all, I had lived, barely, through the visit from the equine-stepping-in-as-camelid dentist. Shall I refresh your memory?

The alpacas’ bottom incisors were overgrown like a really bad case of upside down buck teeth. They had to be trimmed and, around these parts where horses rule, finding someone to do it was a challenge. Finally, however, after asking everyone I came in contact with, someone recommended a very nice cowboy-to-the-bone equine dentist, who had also done a few alpacas. The trouble is that in the state of Arizona only veterinarians, not animal dentists, are allowed to administer any sort of laughing gas or valium or anything that would relax our two alpacas so that they would tolerate a strange man using large nippers and diamond files to shorten their teeth.

I swear I could have been killed. David had to leave for a business meeting and abandoned the dentist and me in our attempts to subdue these oh-look-they-can-stand-sixteen-feet-in-the-air-and-crush-me beasts. We haltered them, tied them, full-nelsoned them but we couldn’t get the job completely done. During one of our many struggles, the dentist elbowed me in the face. I was bruised and battered continuously. Finally, with one down and the other being more difficult than the first, I had the bright idea of sitting on the creature to finish the job. He stood from lying on the ground, threw me hard, like I weighed next-to-nothing, which I don’t, and the only thing that saved me was the nearby fence that I managed to grab and hang on to for dear life. If I remember correctly, at that part, we called it good enough and I went and immersed myself in beer and iced my face.

Returning to the present, or at least the almost present as in two days ago, Ernie was here, had brilliantly finished shearing the goats and sheep, and was contemplating the alpacas. Although he did not volunteer this information until later, he had only sheared alpacas once before. Manly man with spectacular work ethic that he is though, he was ready to give it a go. Remembering the dentist and not wanting to kill the nice shearer who drove all the way out to our house and did a fantastic job on our ruminants, I was getting a large case of the heebie-jeebies.

“You know, we don’t have to shear them; it’s okay, really.”

David, Ernie, and Tim all looked at me.

“They need haircuts,” David said.

“What are you scared of?” asked Ernie.

He had not looked in those usually soulful eyes and seen their other side, the I’m-going-to-kill-you-if-you-put-that-thing-in-my-mouth side. I was getting a little more afraid.

Testosterone ruled out, as it often does, and the decision was made to give it a try. Resignedly, I asked that they start with Tumalo. His fur is a deep plum brown and he’s two years younger than Lucky. If we could only get a little bit of fiber, I wanted it from him.

Grabbing his harness and a bowl of pellets, I tried the BD (before dentist) way that I had been successful putting the harness on him. Lay the harness in the treat bowl as he leans in to grab some pellets and pull the harness up and over his nose and buckle it behind his head. Tumalo was having nothing of it. Switching alpacas as Lucky seemed more eager to get a treat, he would not allow it either. Ernie grabbed one of the ropes he had brought with him and tried to lasso Tumalo but the darned Palo Verde tree inconveniently got in the way. David took the other rope and just laid it loosely over Tumalo’s neck and we had him. I put on the harness and the four of us alternately dragged, pushed, and prodded Tumalo into place.

Amazingly, once there, he cushed, alpaca speak for going down on all four knees, and the shearing began. It worked. We all looked at one another with disbelief.
The fiber came off in large soft handfuls. It was beautiful, and best of all, Tumalo sat there on the plywood, allowing us to turn and move him until the job was complete.
Nervous about how far up to shear, Ernie stopped a little below normal but that was more than okay. My relief was palpable but not complete.

You see the harness-putting-on pellets were having an adverse effect on Lucky, the same pellets that he is given each and every evening to induce his entry to the ruminant pen. Green foam started boiling from his mouth; he coughed and wheezed and spat trying to dislodge what I assume was a lump of pellets stuck in his throat. This went on for at least 15 minutes. We all became concerned. Great, I thought, the thing is going to die on me right when we figure out how to shear him. Plus, I kind of like the fuzzy guy.

Thankfully, though, he recovered. Guardedly, we repeated the same motions we had made to harness Tumalo and get him in place, and although he struggled a little more, probably because he still wasn’t feeling particularly well, we sheared him, too.

Devoid of their fur, alpacas are definitely unique in appearance. With a large puff of hair on their heads and part of their necks, from the base of the neck up they resemble golf clubs with plush covers. Looking at their bodies alone, I can’t believe how spindly they look and, conversely, what great strength they possess.

Running the gamut from handsome (Bill) to downright odd (Lucky and Tumalo), the ruminants are finished being sheared and will not need another haircut until March. The hard part for them is done. The fun part for me is just beginning. Stay tuned.

Shear Adventure

As promised, early yesterday morning, Ernie and his brother-in-law, Tim, arrived to give a smattering of the furry ones a good autumn haircut. They did not disappoint.

Now Ernie is a big man, a third generation shearer, and an all-around nice guy. Above all, the man has skills. Although he claims, via his grandfather, that to be a shearer one needs a weak mind and a strong back, I didn’t believe him for a second. Ernie is no fool. We enjoy his visits and, believe me, next time we have a big shindig, he’s going to be on the invitee list. We like him that much.

Everything is not all roses and butterflies in the world of a shearer, particularly not one in Maricopa County in the year 2007. As development has moved in, shepherds have moved out and work is scarce. He shears a herd of Rambouillet, a large dual purpose sheep with very soft wool, for someone who raises them for their meat, a handful of other shepherds, and us. Thankfully, he is gainfully employed elsewhere but the whole thing makes me a little sad. Does the greater Phoenix area really need another housing development with the market the way it is? Do all the agriculturally based industries have to leave? It chaps my already sensitive hide.

Okay, soap box stowed, let’s take a look at our wooly and hairy bounty and the critters who bestowed it upon us. On the shearing line were the three Angora goats, Bill Withers, Pearl, and Elora Dannon, who provide us with mohair, love, and a generous dollop of ornery behavior. Goats. Also in line were this year’s lambs, Darby O’Gill, his twin Fiona, and Madeline, and, gulp, the alpacas, Lucky and Tumalo.

We started with Elora Dannon, the youngest and smallest of the Angora goats. Goats should be sheared twice a year to prevent excess matting and preserve their lock structure. Although she wasn’t crazy about getting shorn, she tolerated it well enough, perhaps remembering shearings past and the clean and perky feeling they gave her afterward. She loves to cavort in the buff.

Even as dirty as they are, aren’t her locks lovely?

After Elora, Ernie’s back was starting to bark at him (goats are not his favorite to shear) so we switched to sheep. Here are Ernie and Fiona, all ready for the prom, um, I mean the shearing.
As Shetland Sheep tend to turn different colors throughout their lives (remember when Leroy used to be brown?), I was very curious to watch the transformation. Because of her “sugar lips,” a term I learned for the white around her mouth, and her white collar, I expected grey.
It’s deeper than I thought it would be, charcoal with spots of lighter grey with decent crimp and as soft as lambswool should be.

Look how tiny she is without all that wool! She must feel good. Just think, she is feeling the wind against her skin for the first time.

Around this time, the wheels of my mind started turning, and combined with my heart, I began dreaming of the yarn and eventually the projects that would evolve from our treasure of fiber. I just love the whole process from start to finish. Although not a fast-moving hobby by any measure, it is a very rewarding one, and I relish every ounce of it.

Darby was next up to bald.
Like Fiona, he did not appreciate it in the least, and unlike Fiona,
his fleece was nothing like I expected.

Weird, huh? I do think it will make a wonderful and soft heathered yarn, and might blend well with alpaca as well.

Darby and Fiona were thrilled to be done with probably the most stressful event in their lives since birth and ran to their mother for comfort and reassurance.

David then chose Madeline as his prom date and, since he has a thing about his paramour looking cool and well-groomed, down to be sheared she went. She was the most mellow so far and endured her makeover without complaint.
Surprisingly, she ended up darker than Fiona even though her mother is Cookie, a moorit ewe who gets lighter brown as each year passes.
Her only light patch is a spot on her neck which reminds me of port wine birthmarks one occasionally sees on people.

With the exception of the alpacas, who I will talk about tomorrow, Pearl and Bill were the last to endure their punishment. Although Pearl tolerated it well enough, Bill moaned throughout the entire ordeal as of we were indeed torturing him, the big baby.

Daisy, who seems to be feeling better with the advent of the cooler weather, served as their representative, supervising our work and making sure no harm was done.

Ah, more lovely locks, this time with a little tan in the mix, of which to dream.

Ernie left a little soul patch for him. Bill is very concerned about his looks. Doesn’t he cut a fine figure?

Tomorrow, we will delve into the world of alpaca shearing in which we see the strangest looking creatures ever seen in my life.

For now, here’s a wee tease for you. Pretty weird, huh?

Oh Where, Oh Where Has My Mojo Gone?

I have to apologize in advance for a short post lacking in photos and humor. Appointments, commissions, and chores have clogged my day and stolen my writing mojo. Hopefully, tomorrow it will return; I’d hate to have to go on an Austin Powers-esque quest to get my mojo back.

I awoke to a grand 58 degrees this morning, divine proof that fall is beckoning and my mental health is improving! Although I am sure a spell or ten of high heat will visit before autumn has definitely arrived, I am thrilled that summer’s end is nigh.

The ruminants are thrilled as well, their sighs of relief palpable. Even more relief will come next weekend as Papa Ernie the Shearer is visiting Sunday to take a few bags of yarn-to-be off the three Angora goats, this year’s lambs, and, if Son Ernie can come along, the alpacas as well.

Daisy, being a meat goat, does not need shearing. Our predictions of her impending demise were overly hasty, thankfully. She eats and drinks like a healthy goat should but is still scarily thin and depressed if a ruminant can be. Maybe she misses the family who raised her during her first year of life. I don’t know but she keeps to herself, socializing very little with the other animals, and responds only to a few of the family. It’s sad.

On a lighter note, Tumalo the Dark (alpaca) and Leroy the Grey (ram) are celebrating the fall air by sparring, pressing their foreheads together and rounding about one another. Why Lucky is not involved, I know not; maybe he’s the brainier of the boys and actually realizes he cannot mate with a sheep or goat.

Work beckons, gentle readers. I must be going now. If you see my mojo, tell it in no uncertain terms to high tail it back this way. Thank you very much.

Oh, and by the way, for those of you who wanted to know why my mother’s portrait hangs in Epcot, it is because the photographer who took it entered it into a national contest and won. It is a beautifully done photograph, but the subject matter didn’t hurt either.

Shave and a Haircut, Decidedly More Than Two Bits

As promised, Papa Ernie the Shearer arrived bright and early Saturday morning to shear all the ruminants with the exception of the alpacas (it takes two skilled shearers to shear an alpaca and, believe me, after our last experience attempting to shear, and the reaction we received from the sheep, we knew Papa Ernie was the only skilled shearer on the premises.) In the last few years, Son Ernie, who came to shear the goats last fall, has been doing the majority of the shearing jobs but has now opened a restaurant in addition to his other full-time job so has handed the shears back to Papa. As Papa taught Son, he knows what he is doing and more so, but as we all come to realize as the years creep on, certain physical things, like bending over shearing ruminants for two hours, aren’t as comfortable as they used to be. I felt for him (and his back.) Despite his discomfort, he did a great job.

We started with Cookie, our pliant and docile ewe who just yesterday had me convinced she was pregnant with twins. What a difference a shave and a haircut (two bits) have on size perception. Methinks I need to cut my own hair more often.

Here is Cookie in place just as the shearing began. She cannot do much in this position. Papa Ernie started with her belly wool which will come in handy as garden mulch and not much else as it is full of straw and other vegetal matter.

Look at her pregnant tummy that I am now convinced has one, not two lambs inside.

Is that my ass? Oh, my, I need to start walking again.

Papa Ernie turned Cookie this way and that as he worked, shearing a miraculous amount of lanolin-rich fleece from her body.

Look at the pretty, not quite svelte soon-to-be mama! She wasn’t spotted after her last shearing, funny how the fleece color changes

Speaking of, here is Leroy. We had a bit of difficulty getting him to the work area.

And I thought Cookie’s belly was a mess; oh well, more mulch for the garden.

Look at him! He’s not Leroy Brown anymore. I can’t say my silly Bad, bad Leroy Brown, baddest ram in the whole damned town bastardization of Jim Croce’s song again. The boy is all shades of gray, from charcoal to pearl. I am downright flabbergasted.

He is a shadow of his former self.

We somehow only got one shot of Carmela, the skittish freak. Catching her and getting her into position was a huge it’s-too-early-for-this ordeal. I was very happy with her fleece however. Curiously, she is not pregnant as we thought. Her breeder is going to be disappointed. We had a lamb trade-back deal worked out for a reduced combined ram and ewe price. I’m not sure how to handle this one.

Pearl was her usual psycho self when it comes to all things veterinary and groomy. We ended up throwing her in the cart to get her into place.

Unlike sheep, whose wool clings to itself, the Angora goats’ mohair goes everywhere.

Bill was the last to get the treatment, which greatly relieved me (notice great courage on my part posting both sans makeup and earlier with my big-fat-ass shot) and don't even tell me it's 8:30 am. We stopped shortly after. For a while.

David was relieved as well. It doesn’t take much with us. Open mouth; insert spiked beverage.

I’m not sure what we were doing while Charlotte was being shorn but here she is afterwards. Her belly is larger than Cookie’s

In conclusion, everyone is well, slimmer, and showing a better indication of what’s to come in ruminant land. Three weeks, baby, three weeks!

Can you even imagine waiting for the blessed event? I wonder if when labor comes on they’ll want to shower and get made up like I did. Stranger things have happened, particularly around here.

The Amazing Ernie, Shearer Extraordinaire

Baa, baa,

Angora

Goats
Have you any mohair?
Yes sir, yes sir,
Three bags to spare.

He came; he sheared; he saved us a helluva lot of work.

Ernie was amazing!  A third generation shearer, and a very nice guy, he easily wrangled the goats into position, using his abundant skills to cleanly rid the horned ruminants of their curly fleece without assistance from the rest of us. 

He started with

Pearl

.  We selected her first because she was misbehaving as usual and had jumped into the feed barrow and was chowing away on alfalfa unchallenged.  She does this every morning and I’m not sure who gets angrier because of it, me or the other ruminants.  Maybe a severe hair cut would teach her a lesson (it didn’t, she was right back in as soon as she was done.  That’s a goat for you.)  Ernie magically shifted her into position as

David

and I incredulously stared at one another, remembering the fiasco that was our shearing attempt and the animals' reaction to it.  It had taken two of us to badly accomplish the task this past spring yet Ernie worked alone and exponentially better. He turned her this way and that, and within fifteen minutes tops, she was as bald as Telly Savalas’s head.   

Elora, the youngest and smallest, was next, followed by Bill Withers, the largest and most ornery when confined.  We watched the progress with admiring awe and interest as did a growing group of neighborhood children, summoned by our midsize farmer Paul Reveres.  "The shearer is coming; the shearer is coming!" It was great fun.

You know, I often wish for household help, a maid to assist in the never-ending quest for a somewhat clean, bloodhound slobber-free home, and a gardener to deal with the omnipresent weeds and need for irrigation.  Today, however, I got someone more valuable than ten, maybe one hundred maids and gardeners, a professional shearer to cleanly rid the goats of their mohair and save us from another clumsy, amateurish, and exhausting effort. 

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have twenty pounds (yes, I measured) of yearling mohair to wash, card, and spin.  I sure love being a farmer!

He Needs Money and Power (and Goats in an Enclosure)

Although still recovering from my first alpaca ride/dental assistant internship, I am mustering what limited energy I have to do a little happy dance around the farm.  Someone is coming to visit early tomorrow morning, someone I have wanted and dreamed of longingly.  George Clooney, you say?  Hugh Grant, perhaps?  No, no, my children, Ernie is arriving at 6:45 am Saturday morning.  I have no idea what he looks like but he brings with him skills I do not possess and strength I do not have.  I have searched high and low for someone like Ernie.  Ernie is a sheep shearer.

Yes, ladies and germs, we found a shearer.  Western Ranchman once again came through for us with the referral they did not have last spring.  I sure hope he lives up to his flyer touting 20+ years of experience; the goats are very mo-hairy and are past due for their six month trim.  We shall soon see; I am hoping my prayers will be answered.  (Admittedly, this is not the highest priority prayer but it sure is one which would make my life easier and I am always up for that.)

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I going to crawl back into my fortress of solitude, finish up a few more knitting projects (I have lots to show you), and look forward to my dreamboat’s arrival in the morn.  I’ll let you know how it goes.

1904 St. Louis World's Fair

Goat Shearing Competition

The Angora Goat Shearing Contest was held on October 12 and 13, 1904. Contestants were given the option of using hand shears, hand or power machines.  Everyone chose the power machine.  Each contestant had to catch and shear one goat that was penned nearby.  Prizes were awarded for the best condition and appearance of animal after shearing, minimum number of cuts, smoothness of work, condition of the fleece after removal, minimum number of break and second cuts, scientific manner of handling both the animal and the machine.  Points were awarded on the basis of 50% for quality of work and 50%  for speed.

The winner of the Angora Shearing Contest was Tom Wedgwood of New Mexico. He won $125 and a silver cup.  His time was 3 minutes 3 1/2 seconds.  F. W. Ludlow, also of New Mexico, won second.  He won $65 and a silver cup.  Third prize went to James Riddell of Oregon, with a time of 3 minutes 21 seconds. Last place went to Frank Landrum with a time of 7 minutes 58 seconds.

It was noted that Wedgwood and Ludlow sheared their goats on a specially built table that was commonly used in those days.   Riddel sheared on the floor but had a difficult time getting his animal in position.  Later, he sheared a second goat to demonstrate how fast he really was.   The shearing competitions proved the usefulness of the new power shearing machines that were available. 

My Buddy Bill Withers

Everyone should have a buddy, and Bill Withers is a great goat buddy to me.  He stands beside me and rubs against my legs until I give him a good scratching on the top and back of his head, between his shoulder blades, and on any other areas he cannot reach with his handsome horns.  (Don’t get pervy on me those of you with dirty minds; I am still freaked out by the google results I achieved when I typed “animals enjoy petting” in the search box.  Ugh.)  I have always bonded best with my male pets and at first I thought castration was the key but our big bloodhound,

Marshall

is not fixed  (no lectures, please, I haven’t been able to bring myself to chop off those lovely nunus.)  Some of my best human friends have also been male but, in contrast, that doesn’t always work out.  Men, being men, inevitably get to the point, usually after a few drinks or a particularly tiring work shift, where they would like to “take our friendship to the next level.”  Been there, didn’t do that. 

The most scientific of animal behaviorists state that animals have no capacity for emotion beyond pain and fear, which we unwillingly administered to Bill during shearing time.  (For the unfamiliar among you, see Shear Misery I and II.)   Along with the other ruminants, we threw him to the ground, shaved off his lovely locks, and unwillingly cut him with those cumbersome power shears.  Yet, Bill recovered quickly from his ordeal.  Once again I use my anthropomorphic nature to deduce that Bill understood what we were doing (and he liked his cooler countenance.)  Recent research does strongly suggest that animals have emotions as people do, though they lack certain cognitive insights.  Bill gets it, you see.  He’s awesome.

To reward Bill’s good sportsmanship, I’ve decided to finally finish carding and spinning his fleece, seven pounds worth, that has been in the box washed for three months now and let it tell me what it wants to be.  Fiber does this, you know.  As it emerges from the spinning wheel, it sings a little I-want-to-be-me song and by the time it’s spun, I know what I am making with it.  I’ll let you know what it says. 

For now, though, I think I think my buddy Bill needs a good scratching.