Well, the farm is gearing down for winter, along with everything else. The alpacas are playing in the fallen leaves, and the babies are delighting in picking things up with their mouths and running around with them. Our pasture should last a month or two yet, but we've got a big stack of hay in the garage.
Master Po's fiber is growing beautifully, and he's going to make a fine fiber-boy (the industry's term for a boy not appropriate to be a herdsire but with fleece of a high enough quality to be more than a pet).
We've left one of the fields fallow to give it a chance to put down roots before winter, and set our chickens loose to spread around the alpaca manure looking for bugs. It's not a pretty job, but they seem happy to do it!
It is a rare treat, going out on Master Po's nighttime feedings, to witness nature during night. There's not much to see, but the sounds! We've got owls, and toads, and crickets, and coyotes, and something small in front of our house that just sort of groans. And on a clear night, you can see a blanket of stars, so many the sky seems bathed in little pinpoints of light.
It's not a bad life, being a farmer.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Monday, October 20, 2008
New fields
The alpacas we had separated to a different field to wean are rejoined with the main herd today. It is great fun to allow the little ones to explore forgotten areas, remake old friendships, and prance through the field in wild exuberance!
The alpaca is a wonderful creature: its curiosity and basic whimsy propels them to do all manner of things when they encounter new things. For instance, when Cinnamon Kiss, a mother pregnant with her first child, entered the new field, she started to prong up and down the field (think pepe le pew), with a full complement of babies joyously following her. The other adults excitedly investigate the "newcomers," sniffing them and then hopping back, swinging their necks around for no discernible purpose other than the pure fun of it.
Of course, the areas of the barn that had once been separated into two were now one, and the first thing both groups of alpacas did was investigate the others' hay; the grass is always greener and all that, I suppose.
When you get to watch this sort of display of unbridled enthusiasm for life, it makes you proud. Proud that you are a part of providing for their basic needs so they can partake in such luxuries as play, and proud that you belong to the same earth as them, receive the same deal.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Strength can come from unexpected places
At this point, the entire family portion of our family farm is on shifts to feed the baby, every two hours. He drinks without enthusiasm from a bottle, and rarely drinks very much. We hope that he's doing this because he's getting enough from mom and regards us as an unwelcome barrier to a good nights sleep. Unfortunately, the next day he's lost seven tenths of a pound, putting him below his birth weight.
This still isn't a cause for panic...something is going wrong, but he is healthy looking (he is moving around, his coat is still of the most glorious softness, and he is actively trying to resist us grabbing him). We've bought a bottle baby not too far into the past raised on goat's milk diluted with whole milk, and though our vet didn't recommend anything other than whole milk, the baby we bought is positively chunky off that mixture (and never had any problems with the richness of the milk). Given his behaviour, we figure he considers the milk we're giving him unpalatable, and the Alpaca Field Manual suggests goat's milk more closely mirrors camelid milk in calories and fat content. While we're wary of making too many dramatic changes in his diet, we try the new mixture.
He eats with gusto. The next day he gains two tenths of a pound, and begins moving around the small "medical stall" we've got him and mom in. The day after, he gains six tenths of a pound, putting him above his birth weight. Each day he gains a little more weight, and each day he looks a little stronger. We risk letting him out of the stall (our concern was the mother walking him around the field, and other babies playing a little too rough), and he fairs well, gaining even more weight. Soon, he is running for short bursts. We ease our shifts to allow for him (and us!) to sleep longer at night, and we notice he is beginning to stand fully, legs straight and unshaking.
He regains his vision; most likely initially lost from an in utero virus. He is gentle and quiet, but playful, and at one point we see him mischeviously pushing his mother around by jumping and shoving her. He may as well be trying to push our barn around for their relative sizes, but his mother permits him to move her to a different feeder. The other babies accept him into their little gang, though he rarely runs with them when they spring across the fields, and his neck-wrestling is almost comical in its gentleness. When he sees us now, he totters over at an easy pace to check if we're feeding him. He is not clever, he does not eye us with the excited suspician of the other babies (a sometimes valuable trait--you don't necessarily want a mob of friendly farm animals as much as you want a manageable herd), he regards us and strangers alike (like my friend in the picture) with simplicity and curiousity. It occurs to me that despite all his weaknesses, he radiates a kind of strength, like water. On a whim, we've named him Master Po.
This still isn't a cause for panic...something is going wrong, but he is healthy looking (he is moving around, his coat is still of the most glorious softness, and he is actively trying to resist us grabbing him). We've bought a bottle baby not too far into the past raised on goat's milk diluted with whole milk, and though our vet didn't recommend anything other than whole milk, the baby we bought is positively chunky off that mixture (and never had any problems with the richness of the milk). Given his behaviour, we figure he considers the milk we're giving him unpalatable, and the Alpaca Field Manual suggests goat's milk more closely mirrors camelid milk in calories and fat content. While we're wary of making too many dramatic changes in his diet, we try the new mixture.
He eats with gusto. The next day he gains two tenths of a pound, and begins moving around the small "medical stall" we've got him and mom in. The day after, he gains six tenths of a pound, putting him above his birth weight. Each day he gains a little more weight, and each day he looks a little stronger. We risk letting him out of the stall (our concern was the mother walking him around the field, and other babies playing a little too rough), and he fairs well, gaining even more weight. Soon, he is running for short bursts. We ease our shifts to allow for him (and us!) to sleep longer at night, and we notice he is beginning to stand fully, legs straight and unshaking.
He regains his vision; most likely initially lost from an in utero virus. He is gentle and quiet, but playful, and at one point we see him mischeviously pushing his mother around by jumping and shoving her. He may as well be trying to push our barn around for their relative sizes, but his mother permits him to move her to a different feeder. The other babies accept him into their little gang, though he rarely runs with them when they spring across the fields, and his neck-wrestling is almost comical in its gentleness. When he sees us now, he totters over at an easy pace to check if we're feeding him. He is not clever, he does not eye us with the excited suspician of the other babies (a sometimes valuable trait--you don't necessarily want a mob of friendly farm animals as much as you want a manageable herd), he regards us and strangers alike (like my friend in the picture) with simplicity and curiousity. It occurs to me that despite all his weaknesses, he radiates a kind of strength, like water. On a whim, we've named him Master Po.
Friday, October 10, 2008
An inauspicious beginning
It seems appropriate to start a blog with a tale of birth.
It is a warm day in late September and right on schedule our herd matriarch, Cappuccino Chip, is going into labor. With alpacas, this is a painfully difficult "wait and watch" affair: alpacas very rarely have birthing difficulties, and it is best to be on hand for any problems, rather than actively participate. She has this baby with no small amount of strain, but eventually--head first, like a diver--the baby falls onto the ground. A beautiful baby boy, with white anklets just like his mom!
It soon becomes obvious that all is not well. The baby is not really trying to stand--with alpacas, this usually take minutes--and upon closer inspection, his eyes are lined with a red streak. Worse, he appears to be completely blind. We rub him down with a towel to try and dry him off as well as jump start his muscles, and when that does little, we put a dollop of corn syrup on a finger and offer to him. He sucks greedily, the first positive sign we've had.
Within an hour, he has not stood up. Moreover, he's resting: A bad sign. Hoping to give him some motivation, we stand him near Cappuccino's udder. Normally, she has vast reserves of milk available. This time, though, she doesn't have almost any in her back two teats. The baby is also unable to see where he should be nursing; he tries mightily but completely misses the target, and his muscles often fail him, sending him sprawling back to the ground. The veterinarian is called.
She comes with a bottle of colostrum from a local cow (vital for inheriting immunities, as well as calories), and confirms his blindness. He nurses from the bottle with some help, and over the next 24 hours we manage to get two bottles of colostrum into him: Not enough to really satisfy his needs, but enough to keep him alive. Over this period of time he figures out how to stand, though he is standing on his pasterns (the alpaca's ankle quickly has another joint, like a dog. In essence he is standing on his ankles for support) and his muscles shake with the strain of keeping him balanced. We catch him nursing from mom once or twice.
The next day his weight remains the same as his birth weight, which is actually very satisfying (alpacas often lose a little weight the second day of birth). Perhaps he is getting enough from his mom that the bottle isn't necessary? At this stage we can't really risk finding out.
The next day is relatively uneventful. He loses a tenth of a pound, but that is not a huge cause for concern. We've got him on a two hour day-and-night eating schedule of whole cow's milk. We're guarded, but hopeful.
To Be Continued...
It is a warm day in late September and right on schedule our herd matriarch, Cappuccino Chip, is going into labor. With alpacas, this is a painfully difficult "wait and watch" affair: alpacas very rarely have birthing difficulties, and it is best to be on hand for any problems, rather than actively participate. She has this baby with no small amount of strain, but eventually--head first, like a diver--the baby falls onto the ground. A beautiful baby boy, with white anklets just like his mom!
It soon becomes obvious that all is not well. The baby is not really trying to stand--with alpacas, this usually take minutes--and upon closer inspection, his eyes are lined with a red streak. Worse, he appears to be completely blind. We rub him down with a towel to try and dry him off as well as jump start his muscles, and when that does little, we put a dollop of corn syrup on a finger and offer to him. He sucks greedily, the first positive sign we've had.
Within an hour, he has not stood up. Moreover, he's resting: A bad sign. Hoping to give him some motivation, we stand him near Cappuccino's udder. Normally, she has vast reserves of milk available. This time, though, she doesn't have almost any in her back two teats. The baby is also unable to see where he should be nursing; he tries mightily but completely misses the target, and his muscles often fail him, sending him sprawling back to the ground. The veterinarian is called.
She comes with a bottle of colostrum from a local cow (vital for inheriting immunities, as well as calories), and confirms his blindness. He nurses from the bottle with some help, and over the next 24 hours we manage to get two bottles of colostrum into him: Not enough to really satisfy his needs, but enough to keep him alive. Over this period of time he figures out how to stand, though he is standing on his pasterns (the alpaca's ankle quickly has another joint, like a dog. In essence he is standing on his ankles for support) and his muscles shake with the strain of keeping him balanced. We catch him nursing from mom once or twice.
The next day his weight remains the same as his birth weight, which is actually very satisfying (alpacas often lose a little weight the second day of birth). Perhaps he is getting enough from his mom that the bottle isn't necessary? At this stage we can't really risk finding out.
The next day is relatively uneventful. He loses a tenth of a pound, but that is not a huge cause for concern. We've got him on a two hour day-and-night eating schedule of whole cow's milk. We're guarded, but hopeful.
To Be Continued...
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