A Winter Kidding at Whimsical Pines Farm

As I slip on my barn boots, layers of pants and coveralls bunch up at the shaft. I fumble with gloved hands, stuffing the extra material in the top of my boots. I'm already worn out from going through the bundling process for the third barn check tonight. Kid watch in January, what a joke. Last summer, a little yearling learned how to jump fences and stalls, earning herself the name Ninja. This little Nigerian Dwarf doe can clear a fence with the ability that would match any deer. Ninja landed herself in the buck stall several times late last summer, resulting in an unplanned winter kidding.

I sling my bag of kidding supplies over my shoulder, hoping it's an easy birth. If all goes well, iodine and towels should be enough, but all the emergency supplies are packed too. I step out into the frigid air. The dusk-to-dawn light is dim from the falling snow. I have just enough light to see the path to the Pioneer. I dust a thin coating of snow from the seat and climb in. As I pull the door shut, a distressed scream breaks the silence. As if in response, a pack of coyotes howls in the distance, reminders of the dangers and inconveniences of farm life. Another scream comes from the barn just as I turn the key. The Pioneer sputters to life. I shift into first gear. Wind and snow pelt my face through the missing windshield as I gain speed. I cover the short distance to the barn. I throw it in park and run through the doors. I flip on the lights, dim from the cold. Wedging my booted feet between the kidding stall boards, I climb over. Ninja is in trouble. A contraction begins. She pushes, stretching her legs out, digging her hooves into the floor. I glove up and check her. A large head is presenting, no legs, no hooves to be seen.

I go in searching for a leg or hoof to pull, when Ninja pushes. She shifts in discomfort. My heart is racing, but my voice is calm. "We got this, Ninja. Stay still so we can get this big boy out." By the size alone, I know the kid is a buckling. I start searching again and, by luck, I hook a leg and wait. I'm shaking. I know this could mean an emergency vet visit. The truck's covered in snow, as well as the roads. Ninja begins to push, and I pull. We make little progress. I hold firm to the progress we made. Another push, pull, and one leg is out. I relax a little. The rest of the birth should go well. She paws the floor with force as another contraction begins. I pull downward, and Ninja pushes. The second leg emerges as I pull. The big buckling slides out into the hay. It's as if, in unison, all the animals in the barn sigh in relief with me.

Ninja and I go to work cleaning the kid, clearing his nose and mouth. He rattles and gurgles on the fluid as we clean his face and dry him. Ninja stretches her neck and pushes. The second kid slides onto the floor with ease, still in the bag of water. I leave the buckling to Ninja and start working with the second kid. I break the water and start cleaning the little doeling. She's so tiny, I would be surprised if she weighs 3 lbs. I dip both kids' umbilical cords and hooves in iodine. I position the kids under their dam, encouraging them to nurse, making sure they get golden colostrum in their little bellies. With heat lamps already in place, I sit down in the hay and wait for Ninja to pass the placenta.

Listening to the softest sounds of the barn, I start dozing. The light of the heat lamp warms my face and hands. The goats are settling, quietly chewing hay. I hear the new kids suckling as they learn to nurse. The coyotes call again, now even closer to the farm, but all is well, shut safely in the barn.