“How?”
“Long story.”
“I need the short version before I decide whether to be impressed or concerned.”
She explained.
The veterinarian sighed.
“Do not let the goats into that field.”
“I know.”
“No uncontrolled access.”
“I know.”
“No assuming pumpkins replace hay.”
“I know.”
“No sudden dietary change.”
“I know.”
He paused.
“Why did you call me?”
“To tell me what I don’t know.”
That answer softened him.
“Good.”
The extension agent arrived the next morning.
A small-ruminant nutrition specialist joined by phone.
They walked the piles.
Cut random pumpkins.
Inspected flesh.
Separated cracked, dirty, and questionable pieces.
The specialist asked about storage.
The woman pointed toward an empty equipment shed.
“Not enough.”
“No.”
“What about processing?”
“That’s what I’m trying to solve.”
The specialist explained the obvious problem.
Pumpkins contained too much moisture to store indefinitely without proper preservation.
One hundred tons could turn from opportunity into a rotting biohazard quickly.
The woman wrote everything down.
The extension agent said:
“You need triage.”
“Meaning?”
“Use what you can safely.”
“Preserve what makes economic sense.”
“Move what other livestock operations can use.”
“Compost the rest.”
The woman looked toward the mountain.
“So the answer is not ‘feed all the pumpkins.’”
The agent laughed.
“Absolutely not.”
“Good.”
“I was hoping somebody would say that clearly.”
They designed a trial.
Small amounts.
Introduced gradually.
Only sound pumpkins.
Cut or processed safely.
High-quality hay remained the foundation.
Balanced concentrate and minerals remained where needed.
Lactating does, growing kids, breeding animals, and dry stock would not all receive identical treatment.
The woman already knew that.
Now she needed numbers.
The feed mill owner arrived after lunch.
He brought a portable moisture meter, calculator, and skepticism.
“Free pumpkin isn’t free if you spend thirty dollars a ton moving water around.”
The woman smiled.
“That’s why I called you.”
They calculated.
Hauling was mostly already paid by the cannery.
That changed the equation dramatically.
Sorting required labor.
Processing required equipment.
Storage required space.
Drying all of it would be absurdly expensive.
But several options appeared.
Fresh controlled supplementation on-farm.
Short-term distribution to nearby sheep and goat farms.
Limited blending into a high-moisture seasonal ration component.
Some seeds and flesh for small-batch drying only where economics justified it.
Compost for damaged material.
And perhaps something else.
The feed mill owner stared at one sliced pumpkin.
“You know what people pay for seasonal livestock treats?”
The woman looked toward him.
“More than they should.”
He smiled.
“What if we made something shelf-stable?”
“Not seventy tons.”
“No.”
“A small portion.”
“Pumpkin-based goat treats.”
“Properly formulated.”
“Tested.”
“Labeled.”
“Legal.”
The woman crossed her arms.
“I don’t want a gimmick.”
“Neither do I.”
“But your farm already sells cheese at two markets.”
“Yes.”