BuckyBoo? WetherBoo?

Almost a year ago now, Sunshine had her very first litter of kids. Sadly, I had gone out earlier in the day and had returned to find three kids that had expired, all crowded into the hay rack where she had given birth. Sunshine was inconsolable, bleating in distress. By some miracle, I heard the soft answering bleats of another, very chilled but live, buckling. Sunshine spent every ounce of maternal energy that she would have spent on four kids on that little singleton. I christened him "BuckyBoo," a placeholder name that I tend to give when the probability is that the kid will be sold or otherwise no longer in my herd after a time. I didn't want to give him a "good" name, lest I get attached.

I am amazed, pleasantly surprised, and perhaps a bit distressed by the fact that--even a year later--Sunshine still dotes on her son. That may change when she has her next kids but, darn it, I can't find the wherewithal to send him to elsewhere because, yes, I've gotten too attached! I know, we can blame it on Sunshine! Ridiculous goat! That's not to say that he won't eventually get out to the buck pasture. He still has horns and I have no idea how he'll behave around new kids. But for the moment, he's welcome to stay with Violet and his mom.

The problem with this development--besides him sucking down grain, minerals, alfalfa pellets, and hay with no return on the investment--is that I'm left without a placeholder name for bucklings. I suppose that I could go with Buckaroo, BuckyBuckster, or BuckyBoy for newbies, but they don't flow naturally from my lips. That means that the only solution remaining would be to give BuckyBoo a REAL NAME. I let the idea sit on the back burner for a while. After all, as much as I like him, he's still just a wether. And, unfortunately, that status means that he's the first of the goats to go if money gets too tight. Anyone who knows anything about homesteading knows that "to go" has many implications, none of which have to do with putting something in a paper sack and eating it on the road. Well . . .

So, moving on . . .

As some of you might know, this winter has been a tough one for us in the Deep South. We had 20 very cold days in December, followed by 15 or so days of what we'd consider "bitter" cold. We even had one night that went down to 8.5 degrees! As a result, my goats grew much warmer coats than to which I had access. Screechy alone had a coat that was nearly an inch deep in some places! On one of these bitterly cold mornings (23 degrees!), BuckyBoo was constantly getting in my way as I fed him and the two does. Nothing says, "I want my grain" as much as sticking your head in a bucket to block the grain from being poured in, right BuckyBoo?

I'm afraid that I was a tad, um, less than gracious (?) in response to his interference. All I wanted to do was get my flu-riddled, multilayered body with its frozen hands inside the warm cottage where I was burning propane like the hay in Mrs. O'Leary's barn. Roast goat was beginning to take on a certain appeal. I pushed him out of the way several times, the last time simultaneously yelling, "MOVE, you idiotic pile of fluff!" Eventually, even he got the message and moved out of the way long enough for me to pour his ration into his bucket and rush out the gate.

In those moments, though, his new name had been born. I don't know about anyone from other countries, but most people born in the United States from the 1950s forward will recognize the product name "Marshmallow Fluff." This marshmallow crème has been the basis of many a tasty recipe, including soufflés, sandwiches, and, of course, those chewy/crispy rice bars that oh-so yummy and dangerous to my blood sugar levels. Even though it's been YEARS since I have allowed myself to have a jar of Fluff in the cottage, it's unsurprising that my mind brought forth the image of the famed peanut butter and Fluff sandwich that I had enjoyed so much as a child (once I was no longer numb from the cold, that is, and had defrosted myself with another cup of coffee).

My wether is light brown. Almost the color of peanut butter, you might say.

My wether was fluffy. He has white markings, so they were almost like marshmallow, you might say.

So, yes. "BuckyBoo" is now "Fluffernutter."

Blame it on the flu. I am.