The Unicorn in the paddock

Albie, the unicorn with a headache, about 12 hours
after the injury. Note that he is covered in dew, not fresh blood.

First it was a turkey. Then, the week later, on the 21 July, Mr Farmer arrived home from work to find a unicorn in the paddock. Leastways, what Mr Farmer actually found was a very despondent Albie, who had lost a fight and one of his horns to Roger the ram. Roger was strutting around the paddock with a minor cut on his head, telling all and sundry that he was going to change his name to Shane Cameron, and everyone should call Albie Dominic Vea.

The missing horn... ouch.

By the time Mr Farmer arrived home, the fight was well-and-truly over, and the crowds had dispersed. Albie's head-wound had even stopped bleeding. The only remaining evidence of the fight was a lone horn, lying unclaimed in the middle of the paddock. Oh, and a tearful one-horned goat, sobbing as quietly as he could about his new position as a unicorn. Mr Farmer went to tend to Albie's head wound with the bottle of iodine.

The next morning, Albie was still sniffling about the black abyss his life had become, but physically he was ok, and still not bleeding. Big Suffolk and Helen were keeping a close eye on him (obviously Roger hadn't considered the impact of the sympathy close). A google search revealed that unicorn goats are not as uncommon as everyone thought - indeed, this member of the unicorn community bears striking resemblance to Albie. In fact, the goat-to-unicorn transformation can even be done surgically.

Albie, 6 days on and recovering well.

The fact that Albie is now a unicorn (and is resigned to remaining this way for the rest of his life, unless he gets a prosthetic replacement or has another fight with Roger to get rid of the other horn) will probably not do his career as a stud goat any favours. With this in mind, Albie headed for the neighbour's paddock later that day, glumly contemplating life as a lone unicorn.

Mr Farmer, who has a secret soft spot for Albie, invited Albie to move in to the alcove under the back doorstep until he felt well enough to patch things up with Roger. Albie lived there for two weeks, with a dream diet of hay, chaff, grain and vegetable scraps - he was so miserable to start with that it took him a couple of days to get back to his old self and start complaining about being alone. His wound was clean, and healing nicely.

"I am a suave young unicorn..." Albie, three months on.

Around 1 August, when Helen decided to move next door with the cows, Albie had grown a nice, clean scab over his horn hole (for want of a better word). He and Helen were tethered on the back lawn, and Helen was bored. "Itch it." said Helen. "Go on, I dare you." Albie follows all of Helen's instructions to the best of his ability, and one deft scratch of the food later, the scab was off. Albie had a fifty-cent-coin-sized hole in his head. He was resigned back to the alcove for another week. Then, just as Albie was getting really, really bored, someone snuck up and smeared Marmite all over his horn hole, then let him loose in the paddock (satisfied that the wound was sufficiently waterproofed). Albie didn't even notice the Marmite waterproofing, but Helen did. Albie may not have been a great conversation partner, and he may not have been the coolest animal in the paddock, but all of a sudden, he sure tasted good. In fact, Albie tasted so good that Helen even let him follow her around the farm for the next couple of days. Albie is still trying to work out why Helen kept trying to lick his head (though he reckons it's because she loves him).

A 1.05-horned goat (read: lopsided).

During his recovery, Albie grew rather fond of his one-remaining horn, becoming so protective of it that he would not even share the same paddock with Roger. Although it took Albie just over a month to recover physically, it wasn't until Albie realised that being a unicorn could be a career option which would put him in touch with beautiful ladies and immeasurable fame, that he cheered up. Now, just over three months after the incident, Albie is glum once again, because he is losing his unicorn status, thanks to a scur that has just started growing where the second horn used to be. Life as a lop-sided goat doesn't seem very attractive when compared with the glamour of being a real, live unicorn.

Lonely turkey hen finds Prince Charming

Turkey eggs - no relation of Yortu or Bob.

Yortu the traveling turkey arrived on the farm in early July. At that time, she was a lonely turkey hen, searching for somebody to love her. Although Yortu had long believed that Mr Right would be a turkey, the wit and charm of the Guinea Fowl was too much for Yortu to resist, and she moved right on in.

Although the Guinea Fowl can indeed be charming and witty, they have developed a bad reputation around the farm as being bullies and scoundrels. Certain members of the farm were worried that the Guinea Fowl had taken advantage of Yortu's loneliness and burning desire to belong, and so Yortu was set up on a date with a handsome young turkey named Bob.

Bob was a 6-month-old turkey from a stable, family-oriented background. He had everything that a lonely turkey like Yortu could possibly want - looks, no brains, and a reasonably-sized snood. Yortu was smitten from the moment Bob arrived on the farm (August 13), and Bob could hardly contain his excitement at the thought of a lonely turkey hen, just waiting to be swept off her feet. Bob went bright red and started gobbling, and Yortu puffed up her feathers and did the most sultry walk she could muster past Bob's cage. The pair have been inseparable ever since, but the relationship has clearly become more serious than just a couple of lonely turkeys having a good time. Marriage might even be on the cards, although sources say that it could well be a shotgun wedding. The reason for this rumour? Yesterday, two large, speckled turkey eggs were spotted in the agapanthus opposite the chicken house.

The mating game

There is great scandal on the farm. When Spring began, everyone thought that all the new-borns had already arrived. Everyone except for Roger's daughter Little Romney, that is - Little Romney had a big secret. Little Romney's big secret arrived yesterday - in the shape of a tiny wee boy named Fritzl.

Fritzl, the only lamb to actually enjoy a cuddle with a farmer.

There is some confusion over how Fritzl came to be. Little Romney is keeping mum, but there are really only two suspects (possibly three, if you recall that Mr Farmer is from Southland, but he claims to have an alibi).

Roger the ram is the most obvious suspect, but he has always been able to be trusted with his daughters. He's always said he would never go there, and certainly, none of his daughters have ever had a Fritzl before. However, a google search would have revealed to Roger that inbreeding is quite acceptable on some farms, especially when you call it linebreeding. Certainly, Roger and Little Romney both have genes to be proud of...

Albie the buck is the least likely suspect, but the evidence for his paternity is compelling. Little Romney and Roger are both white all over, but Fritzl has a black nose and a brown patch on his ear (not pictured). Fritzl is also unusually friendly and calm for a lamb, and is quite content to sleep in a patch of long grass while his mum goes off and eats - just like a goat kid. Nobody thought that sort of thing was actually possible, but according to Wikipedia (and a number of other sources), goats and sheep have been getting together since 1969. In fact, it would seem that Fritzl wouldn't be the first shoat/geep to be born in New Zealand - even if you exclude the nasty rumour that Roger started about Vindie-Lou. Finally, there has been much friction between Albie and Roger, over Helen, and everyone is quite convinced that impregnating Roger's daughter would be Albie's ultimate revenge (especially if the rumour about Vindie-Lou is true).

In any case, little Fritzl's mum seems quite happy to raise her son on her own (despite questions from a certain farmer after Little Romney lost her son in the paddock today - but sheep are not known for their excellent memory). Nobody has been tactless enough to mention the daddy-identity issue to Fritzl. Helen is also adamant that Albie really is Vindie-Lou's biological father.

Spring rush

Vindie-Lou, some days prior to her departure.

Apparently, Spring was not worth waiting for. The lambs, Vindie-Lou, and the piglets all arrived weeks before Spring did. Even the first daffodil was early. So when Spring arrived nine days ago, nobody took much notice, except Albie, who started rutting (apparently in preparation for Autumn, after he heard Mr Farmer talking about how prior planning prevents poor performance).

Then, things on the farm started getting busy. Vindie-Lou moved up north to live on 23 acres, with five human kids and two calves. Trusty Sidekick enjoyed having another small, energetic white animal around, and will miss Vindie. Helen took it well, surprisingly - it is rumoured that this had a lot to do with Vindie's dental development, and with Mrs Farmer's contrastingly gentle milking technique. Vindie's departure meant that there were twice-daily milkings, and (what with Helen being so productive), daily cheesemaking and endless searches for recipes that call for milk, to make room for some non-milk food in the fridge. Eventually, Mr Farmer suggested the piglets be weaned and employed as milk-drinkers (since their parents Kim and Cliff have separated and are looking for new homes). Weaning the piglets isn't as simple as it sounds, here on the farm - it involves a lot of chasing on the part of the farmers, and sometimes also on the part of angry mother pigs... However, now that the piglets are weaned, and Kim is back living the life of a young, single and apparently attractive sow, there is ample space in the fridge because the piglets are skilled and dedicated milk drinkers.

Although there was never any DNA evidence, it is quite widely accepted (by everyone except Roger) that Albie is Vindie's biological father. This pleased Albie for a while, until he thought more about the responsibilities of being a father, at which point he got cold feet and moved into the neighbour's paddock. Clearly, since Vindie has departed, Albie has forgotten how daunting fatherhood can be, as he started rutting as soon as Helen came on heat. Happily for Helen, Albie was living on the front lawn by himself at that time, so nothing ever came of it.

Vindie-Lou, intrepid explorer

Vindie-Lou, intrepid day-old explorer.

Vindie hasn't been bothered by recent weather conditions, except at 2 yesterday morning, when she decided that it was too cold and too dark and too early to come out for milk, which upset Helen (who got vocal enough about it to wake me up). In Vindie's defence, it was so cold that there was ice on the ground outside, and she did look really snug. However, Helen was worried, so Vindie was roused out of bed and transported to the milk bar so that the rest of us could go back to sleep.

Vindie-Lou, day-old figure skater.

Albie met Vindie yesterday. Vindie wanted to know if his udder produced milk, but couldn't find the teats. Albie found the whole situation kind of embarrassing and awkward - apparently it isn't a dad's job to educate one's kid about that sort of stuff.

Helen has been producing milk overtime. Her teats are nearly as big as Vindie's head. Vindie does her best, but she just can't keep up with production (it's exhausting work, apparently - Vindie spends much of the time asleep). I milked a litre and a quarter from Helen on Tuesday morning, and a litre and a half yesterday morning, and a litre today because Vindie was up early. Helen still has plenty to spare (not that she was overly appreciative of my efforts to relieve the udder pressure).

Two-day-old Vindie-Lou and new BFF Trusty Sidekick,
just chilling.

Vindie-Lou, two-day-old mummy's girl.

Tuesday and Wednesday's milk has been made into a miniature batch of feta, following the same method I used early last season, but using rather elderly acidophilus yogurt as the starter culture (that was all we had), and the exciting new floating dairy thermometer that Mr Farmer brought home. The exciting new floating dairy thermometer is exciting because it replaces an old thermometer that recently decided that everything would be 15°C. The major downside is that the exciting new floating dairy thermometer floats with the temperature side down, and the temperatures (when yo can see them) are in Fahrenheit - somewhat confusing for someone who has converted her cheese recipes to Celsius - but it makes up for that by having labels at various temperatures for "freeze" "churn" "cheese" "pasteurise" and "water boils". The curds are currently draining in home-made cheese molds, which replace cheesecloth because they claim to be less messy. This claim pleases Mr Farmer immensely.

Proud mum Helen and two-day-old Vindie-Lou.

Helen has been mowing the lawn next door, which is steep and, with the current sodden ground, inaccessible even by our neighbour's seasoned ride-on mower (a petrol-powered one, not a grass-powered one like we had). Vindie usually wakes up in time to join Helen for lunch, then has a long afternoon nap in the bushes, after which it is about time to come home with her mum for the evening.

Happy birthday, Vindie-Lou (finally)

Thursday was day 150, but Helen had heard from the sheep that a cold front was coming later in the week, and, according to the ewes, there is no better time to give birth than when it's wet and cold. So Helen held off.

Vindie-Lou, just minutes old, having a bath.

By day 152, there was a strong suspicion that the gestation period had been incorrectly calculated. Albie was starting to get nervous. Roger was still gloating confidently.

On the morning of day 153, the polar blast arrived. By 9 am, Helen had bagged up. The contractions started after 11, and Albie whipped down to the local store to buy some cigars (where he ran into Roger, also there for cigars). Helen started doing her breathing exercises, and declined an epidural. Finally, at 12.30 pm, Vindie-Lou was born. Although a team of medical experts were standing by, Helen managed to do it all by herself, for the first time ever. Quite a feat, for a small goat with a rather substantial-sized kid. The last part of the birth was caught on camera - the video, below, is not for the faint hearted, and (says Helen) highlights the benefits of a caesarian section.

Vindie-Lou, modeling this season's latest in lamb wear
(much to Albie's horror)

Vindie-Lou and Helen are spending the night under cover (Mr Farmer declined to let them inside by the fire for the evening), Vindie-Lou wearing her new lamb jacket, tired out after an afternoon of milk drinking and wobbly skipping.

There is one small problem, as identified by Roger. Vindie-Lou is completely white. Albie is not. Vindie-Lou has small, slim (slightly lop-sided) ears. Albie does not. Vindie-Lou has an unusually long tail for a goat. Albie does not... but Roger does...

Who are you, and how did you get into our paddock?

Anonymous Equine: short, dark, handsome and mysterious.

That's the question the sheep are asking (in addition to "is it safe to approach it?").

It's not the Ride-on Mower (too slim, for a start, and it's a boy).

It's not the goat kid we were expecting (or the sheep-goat kid Roger was hoping for).

Even more puzzling, our paddocks are fully-fenced, and while these fences are goat- and Pitt-Island-penetrable (what fence isn't?), they are miniature-horse proof (just ask the Ride-on Mower). Perhaps we have a grand-prix jumper?