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Every herd has that one goat that has earned her title, and around here that goat is Dorcas… the grandma of the herd.

Dorcas was our next Nigerian Dwarf doe to join our homestead, and honestly, her story is a little funny, a little random, and very much a “how does this even happen?” kind of story.

A friend of ours was coming back from a horse show when she stopped to get gas. While she was there, a guy walked up and started talking to her. Somehow, the conversation turned into goats… and before you know it, that random gas station conversation led to Dorcas becoming part of our herd.

And now, looking back, that funny little moment brought us not just Dorcas, but two of her daughters as well.

Dorcas is the proud mama of Mazikeen and Nyx, giving us our heard queen! I hope she holds her head up everytime when she sees Mazikeen leading the way of the herd. It’s pretty special watching the next generation grow and seeing pieces of their mom’s personality come through.

We estimate Dorcas to be around six years old, and from what we know, she has kidded three times. She has definitely earned her grandma status.

She is a wonderful mother and has done an amazing job raising her babies.

Now… let’s talk about the milking stand.
Dorcas and the milking stand have a complicated relationship. 😂

She is sweet, loving, and wonderful… until you ask her to stand still for milking. Then she suddenly remembers she has legs and she knows exactly how to use them. She will buck and kick like she is trying out for a rodeo.

Yes, I know… maybe I need more hobbies than trying to convince a goat that the milking stand is not the enemy.

But we aren’t giving up on her yet! Dorcas will be getting another chance. I plan on working with her one more time and seeing if we can come to an agreement.

Because the funny thing about goats is, they all have their own personalities. Some are easy, some are stubborn, some test your patience… and some make you laugh every single day.

When Dorcas isn’t on the milking stand, she is the sweetest girl. She loves chin rubs, attention, and of course… treats. She has that grandma personality where she knows she is special and she knows exactly how to get what she wants.

Dorcas may not be the easiest goat to milk, but she is part of our story, part of our herd, and we wouldn’t trade her for anything.

Welcome to the herd, Dorcas… grandma may have a little attitude, but we love you anyway. ❤️

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#mjbackyardingwithkids #PleaseShare #countryliving #GoatLove #dorcus #sevenbridesforsevenbrothers

Every herd has that one goat that has earned her title, and around here that goat is Dorcus… the grandma of the herd.

Dorcus was our next Nigerian Dwarf doe to join our homestead, and honestly, her story is a little funny, a little random, and very much a “how does this even happen?” kind of story.

A friend of ours was coming back from a horse show when she stopped to get gas. While she was there, a guy walked up and started talking to her. Somehow, the conversation turned into goats… and before you know it, that random gas station conversation led to Dorcus becoming part of our herd.

And now, looking back, that funny little moment brought us not just Dorcus, but two of her daughters as well.

Dorcus is the proud mama of Mazikeen and Nyx, giving us our heard queen! I hope she holds her head up everytime when she sees Mazikeen leading the way of the herd. It’s pretty special watching the next generation grow and seeing pieces of their mom’s personality come through.

We estimate Dorcus to be around six years old, and from what we know, she has kidded three times. She has definitely earned her grandma status.

She is a wonderful mother and has done an amazing job raising her babies.

Now… let’s talk about the milking stand.
Dorcus and the milking stand have a complicated relationship. 😂

She is sweet, loving, and wonderful… until you ask her to stand still for milking. Then she suddenly remembers she has legs and she knows exactly how to use them. She will buck and kick like she is trying out for a rodeo.

Yes, I know… maybe I need more hobbies than trying to convince a goat that the milking stand is not the enemy.

But we aren’t giving up on her yet! Dorcus will be getting another chance. I plan on working with her one more time and seeing if we can come to an agreement.

Because the funny thing about goats is, they all have their own personalities. Some are easy, some are stubborn, some test your patience… and some make you laugh every single day.

When Dorcus isn’t on the milking stand, she is the sweetest girl. She loves chin rubs, attention, and of course… treats. She has that grandma personality where she knows she is special and she knows exactly how to get what she wants.

Dorcus may not be the easiest goat to milk, but she is part of our story, part of our herd, and we wouldn’t trade her for anything.

Welcome to the herd, Dorcus… grandma may have a little attitude, but we love you anyway. ❤️

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Nephilim is the sister of Frank and the half-sister of Nightmare. From the very beginning, she has always been her own kind of goat.

When Nephilim was a kid, she was just like her siblings — jumping, playing, and getting into the normal goat trouble. Of course, one of her favorite places to be was jumping in the hay feeder because apparently goats believe everything is a playground. 😂

But when she wasn’t climbing around and causing a little chaos, Nephilim was perfectly happy just being with you. She was the kid who would sit next to you or find the perfect shady spot and just relax.

We would joke that she looked and acted like a donkey. And honestly… sometimes I have to admit, she had a little bit of a sneaky side too.

She had that look like she was quietly keeping an eye on everything happening around her. You never knew if she was just relaxing or deciding what kind of goat adventure she wanted to get into next.

Nephilim has the most beautiful coloring, and her lovely moon spots make her stand out. I was so excited to see what her babies would look like when she kidded.

Of course, goats have their own plans.  None of her kids looked like her. Not even a little. Lol. But that’s goats for you — you can have all these expectations, and they just do what they want.

Even though Nephilim was a first-time mom, she did an amazing job. She stepped into motherhood and handled it so well. She kidded sometime in the morning. It was a bice surprise to cone out and see she had done it without needed any assistance. She has also been doing great on the milk stand.

Most days, when it’s time to milk, Nephilim comes when she’s called. She knows the routine and knows exactly where she needs to go.
But every once in a while…
I’ll call, “Nephilim!”
And there she is, relaxing in the shade like she doesn’t have a job to do.
I’ll say, “Nephilim, remember you got to be milked?”
She’ll look at me like, “Oh yeah… that’s right.”
Then she gets up, walks over, and goes to wait her turn like she didn’t just completely forget she was supposed to be working. 😂

Nephilim is one of those goats that makes you laugh because she has such a big personality. She’s sweet, she’s funny, she’s a little lazy sometimes, and she definitely keeps us entertained.

But she’s our Nephilim, and we love her exactly the way she is.

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It’s hard to believe we’ve had Frank for two years now.
When we brought him and his sisters home, we were completely in love. They were adorable little Nigerian Dwarfs with big personalities packed into tiny bodies.

Of course, everyone had advice.

“That buck is going to smell.”

“He’s going to break out of every fence.”

“Just wait until rut season.”

You know… all the usual buck warnings.
And while some of those things can absolutely be true, Frank has always been a little different.
I know that probably sounds crazy to some goat owners, but it’s true.

When we first went to pick up him and his sisters, Frank wasn’t actually the buckling we had chosen. We had another little guy picked out, but the breeder called and explained that he wasn’t doing well after being disbudded. She suggested we take a look at the other bucklings instead.

So my daughter and I climbed into the buckling pen and sat there watching the chaos unfold.
Bucklings were jumping on everything.
Running circles around each other.

Bouncing off walls.
Doing all the things baby goats do.

And then there was Frank.
Sitting there quietly, staring at me with those beautiful blue eyes.
For some reason, I couldn’t stop looking at him. He walked over to me and I had this feeling deep in my gut that he was going to be a good boy.

So Frank came home with us.
Now, before all the experienced goat owners start laughing, yes… Frank eventually became bucky.

He’s a buck. That’s part of the job description.
He discovered girls.
He discovered that he was incredibly handsome.
And he discovered all the wonderful habits that make buck owners shake their heads.

But one thing Frank never became was aggressive.

He has always been respectful and easy to handle.

For a while, he even wore an apron to help prevent any surprise breeding adventures. Frank wasn’t exactly thrilled with the fashion statement, but he tolerated it.

As our herd grew, we quickly realized that if we were going to keep Frank—and probably add more bucks in the future—we needed a dedicated buck pen.

That decision ended up changing our homestead forever.

What started with one little blue-eyed buckling sitting quietly in a pen became the beginning of our buck herd.

Two years later, Frank is still here, still charming visitors, still proving that not every buck fits the stereotype.

Sure, he has his buck moments.

But every time I look at him, I remember that day in the buckling pen when something told me he was the one.

And for once, my gut was absolutely right.

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When we first stepped into the goat world, we were brand new to everything.
We had the excitement, the dreams, tiny bit of knowledge for what we were doing.
But we were ready.

One of the very first goats we brought home was a little Nigerian Dwarf doe named Nightmare.  Now before you panic over the name, let me explain.

Nightmare is actually one of the sweetest goats we own. She just somehow ended up with a name that sounds like she should be starring in a horror movie instead of standing in the pasture looking adorable with her beautiful blue eyes.

Her name actually came from Mr. Nightmare, a YouTuber my daughter loves listening to. At the time, my daughter was always watching his videos, so when it came time to name this little blue-eyed goat, “Nightmare” somehow felt perfect.

The moment my daughter saw Nightmare’s photo, it was over.
Love at first sight.

And honestly? Nightmare knew it too.
Since she was a bottle baby, she bonded hard with my daughter. Everywhere my daughter went, Nightmare followed close behind like a tiny four-legged shadow. Feeding goats, walking around the yard, carrying buckets, sitting outside — there was Nightmare, right there in the middle of everything.

Bottle babies have a special kind of personality.
They are sweet, affectionate, and completely convinced they are people.

Nightmare definitely fits that description. She loves attention and, like most goats, she also believes she has very important opinions to share at all times. If there is news happening anywhere on the property, Nightmare is determined to announce it to everyone with dramatic goat commentary.

She also has two half siblings that share the same father but have different mothers, which somehow makes family gatherings in the pasture feel slightly like a soap opera.

This year was especially exciting because Nightmare had her very first kidding.
And she did not do things halfway.
She gave us triplets!

Of course, being goats, she decided the best time to deliver them was during the wee hours of the morning while we were asleep. We were honestly disappointed we missed it because we really wanted to be there for her first kidding.

But walking out that morning and seeing Nightmare standing there proudly with her three babies beside her was worth it.
She had this look on her face that practically screamed:
“Yeah… I did that.”

And honestly, she deserved to brag a little.
Her babies eventually went to a wonderful home where they are loved and spoiled, and luckily for us, we still get updates and pictures of them.
Now that Nightmare is in milk, she’s doing well on the milking stand… mostly.

She becomes just a little dramatic when my daughter is nearby because apparently eating grain from the feeder like a normal goat is unacceptable. No, Nightmare would much rather have my daughter stand there and hand-feed her like royalty.
Spoiled?
Absolutely.

Being a first freshener, she is not producing a huge amount of milk yet, but that is completely normal. We are excited to see how she matures and what her production will look like after her next freshening.

No matter how many goats join our herd over the years, Nightmare will always hold a special place in our hearts.

She was one of our first goats.
One of our first bottle babies.
And one of the goats that taught us just how easy it is to fall completely in love with this crazy goat life.

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Every herd has one.
The boss.
The ruler.

The one everyone listens to.
And no matter how much we goat owners would love to think it’s us… it usually isn’t.

In my herd, I have a mix of breeds — French Alpine, Nubian, Mini Nubian, LaMancha, Mini LaMancha, and Nigerian Dwarf.
        So naturally, you would assume the herd queen would be one of the larger girls.

Nope.

Mine is a tiny Nigerian Dwarf doe named Mazikeen.

And honestly? I didn’t even realize she was running the entire operation until she left the pen.
At one point, I had actually considered selling Mazikeen, but I waited because I wanted to see how her kids turned out first, how she handled milking, and what kind of mother she would be before making a decision.

While she was pregnant, she stayed in the main herd pen and everything was peaceful. Everyone got along. The goats behaved. Feeding time wasn’t chaos. Nobody was acting like they had lost their minds.

And I remember standing there thinking: “Wow. Look at me. I am absolutely crushing this goat-owner thing.”
Turns out… it wasn’t me.
It was Mazikeen.

When it was time for her to kid, we moved her over to the nursery pen. I didn’t think much about it at first.

But then things started changing. The does started getting rude with each other. Some became pushy with us. The jumping got worse. The biting increased, with eachother. Suddenly everyone was acting like tiny horned teenagers who had just discovered caffeine.

It got so bad that I even considered sending  a couple of them to freezer camp — and some of those goats are my favorites. I couldn’t understand why everyone had suddenly turned into little buttheads.

Then my daughter said: “Mom… they didn’t act like this when Mazikeen was in here.”
And just like that, it clicked.
Mazikeen was the herd queen.

She was the one keeping everybody in line this whole time. The second she left, the entire herd fell apart like goat society had completely collapsed.

You know the saying: “When the cat’s away, the mice will play.”
Well, apparently when the Nigerian Dwarf leaves, the whole herd loses its mind.

Now, Mazikeen already proved herself in every other category. She’s an amazing mother who fed all three of her kids without any issues. She’s wonderful on the milking stand. Calm, steady, easy to work with.

But now I had discovered something else: She helps run the herd better than I do.
When we finally put her back in with everyone, she immediately went to work restoring order. She marched right back into that pen like a tiny security guard returning after vacation.

Oh, the other goats tried questioning her authority for about 5 minutes.
Mazikeen shut that down quickly.
A few days hours after Mazikeen had been in the main pen one of the doe’s tried to jump me and before I could even react, Mazikeen charged over and head-butted her away from me.

Then she stood next to me looking up like: “Don’t worry, Mom. She won’t be doing that again.”
And honestly?
I believed her.

So now I fully accept the truth.
I may feed the goats.
I may pay the hay bill.
I may clean the pens.
But Mazikeen runs the herd.
My tiny Nigerian Dwarf may be small in size…
but she has the biggest personality on the homestead!

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If you’ve been following along for a while, then you probably remember the blog post about Jane Doe’s hard delivery and the tiny little boys we honestly weren’t sure would make it through those first few hours.

T2 and T3 are now officially 8 weeks old, and these two little fighters are doing wonderful.
They’re eating hay like pros now and are down to two bottles a day. Watching them grow has honestly been one of the best parts of kidding season. Even though they’re thriving, they are still noticeably smaller than the other Nigerian Dwarf babies born after them.

The newer babies are already about three inches taller than T2 and T3.
But don’t let their tiny size fool you. These boys are 100% bucklings.
Recently they started acting what we lovingly call “bucky.” If you know, you know. Suddenly there’s the little buck noises, the dramatic curled lip, and the nonstop chasing of doelings around the pen like they’re the most important goats on the farm.

They may be miniature-sized, but apparently nobody told them that.
It’s honestly hilarious watching these tiny little guys puff themselves up and strut around like full-grown bucks. One minute they’re bouncing off hay bales, and the next they’re making faces like they pay the meals around here.

Today is another milestone for T2 and T3 — they’ll be getting banded.
For those who may not know, banding is a common and bloodless method of castrating (or “wethering”) male goat kids. A special tool called an elastrator places a very tight rubber band around the top of the scrotum. The band cuts off blood flow to the testicles, which eventually dry up and fall off on their own over the next couple of weeks.

It can cause some discomfort at first, and yes, the boys will probably spend a little time questioning all of their life choices afterward. But when done correctly and at the proper age, banding is generally safe, effective, and commonly used for pet and companion goats.

As hard as their beginning was, seeing T2 and T3 bouncing around acting like tiny troublemakers feels like a huge victory. These little boys may be small, but they’ve proven from day one that they are tough.
And honestly? Watching the smallest babies turn into healthy, mischievous little goats never gets old.

As you can see in these other photos they are noticeable smaller than the babies that are younger than them

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The barn is loud by morning light,
With tiny hooves and playful fights.
The coffee’s cold, the chores are long,
But somehow still… the days feel strong.

The mama goats all softly call,
To babies big and babies small.
They nudge them close, they stand up tall,
And somehow always love through all.
A mother’s work is much the same,
Though ours may look a little strange.
With muddy boots and hay-filled hair,
And twenty things that need repair.

We feed the kids, we mend the fence,
We lose our minds at least “ten-tenths.”
Yet in the chaos, dirt, and noise,
There’s endless love and endless joy.
So here’s to moms both far and near,
Who wipe the tears and calm the fear.

And here’s to goats — because somehow,
They teach us all to love right now.
Happy Mother’s Day to every mama
human, goat, and everything in between

#mjbackyardingwithkids #GoatMomLife #mothersday

#sunday #countryliving #GoatLove #children #love

On March 12th, my daughter and I were getting ready to leave for a trip. Bags were packed, tea hadn’t even kicked in yet, and the world was still quiet in that eerie 4 a.m. kind of way.
       Right before we walked out the door, my daughter said, “I want to go check on Jane Doe.”
Now, Jane Doe wasn’t due for another week. In my mind, this was a quick “she’s fine, let’s go” kind of check. But something told me to say yes. So we grabbed the flashlights and headed out.  The cold hit first. Then the quiet. And then… we saw them.
Four babies.

One was already up, dry, walking around, crying loudly like he had opinions about how this whole situation had gone down. The other two… were fading fast. Weak. Barely moving.
And the last one?

Jane Doe hadn’t even cleaned him off. He was soaked… and ice cold.
That’s when everything shifted from “quick check” to full-on emergency mode.

We didn’t even think—we just moved.
We scooped up all four babies and rushed them inside. Towels. Blow dryer. Warming tent. Controlled chaos.

My daughter took over drying and rotating the babies in the warming tent like she’d been training for this moment her whole life. Meanwhile, I focused on the fourth baby—the cold one.

I rubbed. I warmed. I tried.
But he was gone.
Just like that.

We set him aside gently, already knowing we’d take him back out to Jane Doe later. There wasn’t time to process it. The other three needed us.

And in that moment, that’s what homesteading really is.
It’s not the picture-perfect moments. It’s not the cute baby photos.

It’s standing in your bathroom at 4:30 in the morning, trying to bring life back into tiny bodies while your travel plans sit completely forgotten.
It’s heartbreak and hope—at the exact same time.

The first baby was doing great. Strong, loud, and already acting like he owned the place. We named him T1—short for Tiny Tim #1.
T2 and T3… we weren’t so sure about. ( short for Tiny Tim #2 and Tiny Tim #3)

They were tiny. And I don’t mean “small but cute” tiny—I mean shockingly small. About the length of a baby bottle, both weighing under two pounds. In the middle of everything going on, I didn’t even think to grab weight photos, I did take a few photos but  Survival mode doesn’t leave much room for documentation.

We just focused on keeping them alive. What felt like days of sitting there working on them was really only a few hours. Time does something strange in moments like that—it stretches and blurs all at once. But eventually, the darkness started to lift, and the sun began to come up.

And somehow… they were standing.
Wobbly. Weak. But standing.

They  had no teeth and couldn’t suck, which meant everything was going to be harder. I looked at my daughter and told her the truth, even though I didn’t want to say it out loud:
“They might not make it. They’re just so small.”
But we weren’t done trying.

For the next 24 hours, we set alarms and took shifts. Every two hours, around the clock, we used a syringe to give them just a few drops of colostrum at a time. Slow and steady. Careful not to overwhelm them.
(I’m still not comfortable tube feeding yet, so this was the best we could do.)

Meanwhile, we made the decision to take T1 back out to Jane Doe. He was strong, alert, and already starting to figure out how to nurse. He had a real chance with his mom, and she needed at least one baby back with her.

Then there was T4.
The one we couldn’t save.
We brought him back out to Jane Doe so she could have that moment—to understand, to mourn in her own way. It’s one of the hardest parts of this life, but also one of the most important. Animals understand loss, and they deserve that closure just as much as we do. So we stood there quietly, giving her that time… while inside, two impossibly tiny babies were still fighting.
And we were right there with them.

These blog post about T2 and T3 will be continued.!  Please follow along to find out more about them.

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I always thought I was the one running the homestead.
Turns out, I was wrong.

Because apparently my goats have been holding secret meetings, studying engineering, and waiting patiently for the day they could overthrow the fence system and invade the cows’ territory like it was a buffet with no supervision.

It started like any normal day. Peaceful. Quiet. Suspiciously quiet.
You know that kind of quiet where your instincts immediately whisper, “Something is absolutely not okay.”

I was cleaning one of the chicken coops out, enjoying the sunshine.  When my daughter yelled  ” mom, the senior goats are in with Cain” I  looked out toward the pasture and there they were.

The goats were not where goats were supposed to be… me ugh.. why! Lol

They were VERY pleased with themselves.
Upon closer inspection,  my daughter discovered the crime scene. The hooks. The ones on the T-posts. The ones specifically designed to keep livestock contained.
Removed.
Not bent. Not broken. Not accidentally loosened.
Removed.

Like tiny furry hands had carefully unhooked them one by one while making direct eye contact with the fence.
This was not chaos.
This was strategy.

Somewhere along the line, one goat figured out that if you lift the hook just so, the fence politely gives up and opens like a door. And once one goat knew? Oh, the knowledge spread fast.

Suddenly the goats were in the cow area, sampling hay that was absolutely not theirs, strutting around like they had just won a lawsuit against me personally.
The cows, meanwhile, stood there looking deeply offended.

I imagine their internal dialogue went something like: “Excuse us? Do you have a reservation for this pasture?”
The goats ignored them entirely. They munched. They wandered. They acted like this had always been the plan.
The kids and I were  ready to restore order, the goats stared at me with faces that clearly said, “What? The fence was open.”
No remorse. No guilt. Just vibes.

My daughter fixed the hooks and Added extra security. While the boys and I kept the goats from trying to headbutt the cows. Although Cain just stood looking like well okay let’s go.

As always we gave a stern lecture as we got everyone back where they needed to be,  no one will take that seriously. Lol.

And as I walked away, I swear I heard a goat sigh dramatically—as if I was the unreasonable one in this situation.
So if anyone ever tells you goats are simple farm animals, please know this:
They are not dumb.  They are smart. They are not innocent. And they absolutely cannot be trusted around T-post hooks.

I don’t run this homestead.
I merely live here under goat management!

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