A rancher's life: One-on-one with Blue Star Ranch

You might as well call her The Goat Lady. Deana Leveskis' ranch in Ophir is just about the closest thing there is to paradise for animals — especially goats. They're Leveskis' soft spot. Pull off the gravel road, close your car door, and you'll be met by Duck, a hundred-something-pound sheepdog who views his purpose in life as protecting his heard and will stand guard until he knows you're safe — at which point he'll lay down for a nap. Get past that security and you'll immediately be surrounded by goats. White goats, black goats, goats with brown spots and goats with speckled ears. Babies yanking at their mommas' nipples. Goats climbing bright pink Playschool slides. Goats bah-ing for a treat. A 3-week old Nubian goat named Apollo with moonscape spots on his back who buts your legs for your attention until you pick him up and rub his belly, at which point he becomes butter in your arms and decides he'll stay there all day. Leveskis stands in this middle of this 100-acre playground, her hair in a bun and a large mauve smock protecting her from the occasional goat poop, looking at peace with her world and everything in it. Even the flies don't seem to bother her. As she talks — recounting birthing season, the process of dehorning the animals, vaccination methods — she calls out to her charges nonchalantly. "Come down from there, Inez, my love," she said. "Oh, Amelia, stop that." Leveskis favors old-fashioned "Grandma" names, as she calls them, like Annie, Dottie or Pearl. She knows the goats by name — all 50-plus of them — and talks to them like they're her children. Which, they sort of are. "Goats are just like a goat-shaped dog," said Leveskis. "They'll jump into your lap and take cuddles and scratches. They're just so loving and sweet." Ironically, Leveskis didn't start out as a raising goats. While she did grow up on a farm and is comfortable raising animals, she initially only bought a few goats about six years ago, when she and her husband inherited Blue Star Ranch in Auburn from his family. The ranch had been a cattle farm, and Leveskis wanted to raise sheep. The goats were an afterthought, to clear the land of its brush and berries. "I just fell in love with them," she said. Fast forward six years, or several hundred birthings later, and you get an idea of what life is like at the ranch. Early morning is milking time, and Deana Leveskis calls each animal by name — which they know and answer to. At about half past 10 she announces that breakfast is over, parks herself at the gate to the pasture, and Duck — who until now was sleeping peacefully next to his charges — goes on duty. The goats gather excitedly at the gate, and it is the ingathering of the exiles for a moment as they stampede out to the pasture to graze for the day. A few lone goats remain, bah-ing piteously for one more treat, one more hug, one more nuzzle. "I always say when I retire, I want to come back as one of my own animals," Leveskis said. "I spoil them rotten, so I guess this is pretty close to paradise as you can get if you're a farm animal." Leveskis raises sheep, too — she has about 40 ewes that lamb, with roughly 60 babies per year — and she keeps horses, dogs, cats, chickens and pigs on the property, as well. But it's clearly the goats she's crazy about. It's a point that's underscored when you enter her house. Pass the "Goat Crossing" signs and the pantry where goat milk is processed, walk into the dining room, and there is a 5-week-old baby kid with huge eyes and a soft pink mouth who wears diapers and red suspenders and sits in a dog bed. Gemma, whose real name is Precious Gem and whose mother, Amethyst, rejected her because of a lame left foot, lives in Leveskis's home while she learns to walk on three feet. "She'll never breed, this one," Leveskis said. "But we absolutely adore her, so she'll just be our ranch mascot or something. She'll have a home here forever." After all, she added, "What's one more goat when you have 56, huh? I mean, she thinks she's a dog." Leveskis raises three kinds of goats — dwarf Nigerians, the preferred breed for pets; Nubians, which are primarily used for dairy; and Boer, which are prized for their meat. Leveskis does not show her goats, but she does sell them. Some customers want them for pets, others want them for dairy or meat, and still others want them as part of petting zoos or shows. According to Leveskis, the U.S. is one of the only countries in which goat meat is not a primary staple of the diet — and she doesn't understand why. "I love lamb, and goat meat tastes very similar to lamb, but less fatty," she said. Leveskis and her husband raise all of the meat they eat — goat, beef, chicken and pork. "When you grow up raising animals like I did," Leveskis said, "it's hard not to live this way. I know the quality of my meat, and I know that everything I eat has been treated humanely and had the best possible life before it hit my freezer. Not all animals have that luxury." Leveskis is just as intentional about the dairy from her goats. She has a line of goat-milk soap that she creates and sells locally, and three of the five ingredients in the soap — milk, tallow and honey — are created right on her ranch. "Cow milk will give you about 4 percent milkfat," Leveskis said. "Goat milk is more like 6 to 8 percent. It makes a very moist bar of soap." Leveskis' favorite part of raising animals is birthing season, and she says she's busy from Valentine's Day until about a week ago. She has cameras in the birthing room, which is how she knew that Amethyst rejected Gemma. Leveskis was happy to bring the baby into her home, bottle feed her, and teach her to walk. Gemma is now thriving, awaiting surgery on her leg and beguiling visitors with her nuzzles. But it's not always a happy ending. In fact, said Leveskis, "those are the hardest moments when you live on a farm." Leveskis said she was raised in the "common sense" school of agriculture. "You don't ever want to lose an animal, but my grandfather used to say, 'if you have livestock, you'll have deadstock.'" For Leveskis, the hardest part is not losing the animal, but the decisions she sometimes has to make. "I will try everything I can to save them, and sometimes it's not what's best for them. Those decisions are a lot harder." In general, though, it is a life she loves, surrounded by animals, rolling hills, and of course: hard work. "Honestly," she said, "the best part is when kids come to visit and see the animals ... I love when I'm able to tell them, those goats are nibbling on you, but look — they don't have any top front teeth! I love to teach, I love when people come out to learn ... I love sharing my ranch life with them."