Attack of the killer chicken!

One would think chickens are fairly innocuous creatures. Fluffy. Feathery. Slightly ridiculous.

Alas—not so. Not when you’ve got a bite mark on your hand that says otherwise. Yes, that is a chicken bite. And yes, I’m telling you this story even though it makes me feel a little ridiculous.

My chicken coop has a bit of fancy engineering to it (if I do say so myself). The nest boxes extend from the back wall of the barn, fitting snugly into a custom opening so I can collect eggs from the comfort of the barn. No more trudging through snow, mud, or wind that feels like it's trying to skin your eyebrows off. Just reach in, grab the egg, head to the house like the clever farm woman I am.

There's also a small door for slipping in food and water—just another stroke of genius. It’s efficient. It’s tidy. It’s... almost foolproof.

Now, about the bite.

The back of the nest boxes has a hinged door I can open to check for eggs, and it also blocks chickens from sneaking into the barn itself. Most mornings, if a hen’s roosting in the nest box, she’s facing away from me, head pointed toward the coop. That means I can just slide my hand under her fluffy backside, retrieve the egg, and no one’s the wiser.

But not this morning.

This morning, one of my darling feathered freeloaders was facing the other way. Which means when I opened the box, she was staring directly into my soul.

Now, did I stop and think about that? Did I pause for even a second to consider the risk of reaching under the business end of a broody hen? Of course not. I just reached in like it was any other day—straight for the egg that was clearly under her beak.

And that, dear reader, is where things took a turn. I’ll spare you the full play-by-play of the ensuing battle. Let’s just say I got the egg, she got my hand, and I walked away with a peck-shaped reminder that chickens may be small, but their tempers are not.

She sat there like a smug little velociraptor. I left with wounded pride, a dent in my dignity, and the distinct feeling that I’d just lost an argument with a creature whose brain is roughly the size of a lima bean. But hey, I won. Sort of. I got the egg, she got a chunk of my pride, and we’re both still giving each other the stink eye.

Moral of the story? When dealing with chickens, always approach from the back. Or better yet—bring snacks and negotiate.

"Goat Rock"

We recently welcomed a young full-blood Boer buck to the farm. His name? Cassonova—naturally. Because if there was ever a swaggering heartthrob of the goat world, it’s this guy. He’s already working the fence line like he’s posing for a dating profile: “Tall, muscular, enjoys long walks by the hay feeder and knocking things over for fun.”

We picked him up from a beautiful farm with one of the best natural playgrounds I’ve ever seen—what we now call Goat Rock. It's a big, sun-drenched rock ledge that looks like it was designed by a goat architect with a dramatic flair for sunbathing real estate. The rock continues off to the right, out of camera view, but trust me—it’s prime goat territory. Every bump, shelf, and crevice had a goat wedged into it like some sort of barnyard version of Tetris. Heads resting, legs dangling, eyelids drooping in pure sun-soaked bliss.

It honestly made me jealous. They were sprawled out like they were on a tropical vacation, without a single care in the world—no bills, no chores, no wondering where they left their reading glasses (just me?). Just them and the sun and the occasional headbutt to keep things lively.

I snapped a picture, but it doesn’t do it justice. There’s something about that kind of peaceful, communal loafing that makes you pause. Makes you wish you were a goat. Or at least had a big rock and the time to loaf on it.

So now Cassonova's here, already charming the ladies and surveying his new kingdom. I might not have a rock ledge, but I’ve got a warm patch of barn wall, and if you catch me leaning on it in the afternoon sun with my eyes half closed… just know I’m living my best goat life.

LETTER FROM A FARM KID

Dear Ma and Pa,

I am well. Hope you are.

Tell Brother Walt and Brother Elmer the Marine Corps beats working for old man Minch by a mile. Tell them to join up quick before all of the places are filled. I was restless at first because you get to stay in bed till nearly 6 AM but I am getting so I like to sleep late. Tell Walt and Elmer all you do before breakfast is smooth your cot, and shine some things. No hogs to slop, feed to pitch, mash to mix, wood to split, fire to lay. Practically nothing.

Men got to shave but it's not so bad, there's warm water. Breakfast is strong on trimmings like fruit juice, cereal, eggs, bacon, etc., but kind of weak on chops, potatoes, ham, steak, fried eggplant, pie and other regular food. But tell Walt and Elmer you can always sit by the city boys that live on coffee. Their food plus yours holds you till noon when you get fed again. It's no wonder these city boys can't walk much. We go on 'route marches,' which the platoon sergeant says are long walks to harden us. If he thinks so, it's not my place to tell him different. A 'route march' is about as far as to our mailbox at home. Then the city guys get sore feet and we all ride back in trucks. This will kill Walt and Elmer with laughing.

I keep getting medals for shooting. I don't know why. The bulls-eye is near as big as a chipmunk's head and don't move, and it ain't shooting back at you like the Higgett boys at home. All you got to do is lie there all comfortable like and hit it. You don't even load your own cartridges. They come in boxes.

Then we have what they call hand-to-hand combat training. You get to wrestle with them city boys. I have to be real careful though, they break real easy. It ain't like fighting with that ole bull at home. I'm about the best they got at this except for that Tug Jordan from over in Silver Lake. I only beat him once. He joined up the same time as me, but I'm only 5'6' and 130 pounds and he's 6'8' and near 300 pounds dry.

Be sure to tell Walt and Elmer to hurry and join before other fellers get onto this setup and come stampeding in.

Your loving daughter,
Carol

Friday Funnies

Why they didn't make it to the Olympics!

Rainbow Bridge

"What we call 'death' is the operation of life." --Brigham Young

I once heard a story told that in a beautiful blue lagoon on a clear day, a fine sailing ship spreads its brilliant white canvas in a fresh morning breeze and sails out to the open sea. We watch her glide away magnificently through the deep blue and gradually see her grow smaller and smaller as she nears the horizon. Finally, where the sea and sky meet, she slips silently from sight; and someone near me says, "There, she is gone!"

Gone where? Gone from sight - that is all. She is still as large in mast and hull and sail, still just as able to bear her load. And we can be sure that, just as we say, "There, she is gone!" on another shore someone says, "There, she comes!"

I believe that when we die we will be reunited with people we love on the other side. And I certainly hope that animals we love are also there waiting for us. Here's to all those wonderful pets that have brought us so much joy who have crossed over the Rainbow Bridge.

Isabelle

Farm life has a rhythm. Some days it’s a toe-tapping jig of chores and coffee. Other days it’s a slow, quiet beat you can feel deep in your bones. Feed buckets clanging. Hoofbeats in the barn aisle. A rooster who thinks 4:37 AM is the perfect time to practice his solo. It’s a never-ending list—animals to feed, fences to fix, family to care for. But beneath the bustle, there’s always the steady pulse of something more ancient than the to-do list: Life. Death. And everything in between.

I learned that rhythm young, on my grandmother’s farm. Nobody had to give me a talk about the birds and the bees, it was all right there, outside the back door. Birth, death, beginnings and endings, all folded neatly into the seasons. It wasn’t scary. It wasn’t dramatic. It was just how it was.

We tend to think of birth as a beginning and death as an ending, and we label one “good” and the other “bad.” But life on a farm teaches you pretty quickly that they’re both part of the same story. The same circle. And sometimes, though it hurts, death is a kindness. A closing of the gate when the pasture’s grown too steep.

This week, we said goodbye to Isabelle. One of our first ewes. One of my favorites.

She wasn’t flashy or noisy. She didn’t jump fences or demand attention. But she had a quiet sort of presence—the kind that fills up a barn without saying a word. Isabelle had a way of looking at you, right in the eyes, like she was sorting through your soul with her soft brown gaze. Not judging, just seeing. All the way in.

Her last lamb, Lambchops, was born this past February. A little spitfire who keeps us laughing. So Isabelle’s story isn’t over, not really. It lives on in that woolly mischief-maker bouncing around the pasture like joy on four legs.

Still, the barn feels a little quieter now. The rhythm a little slower.

We’ll miss her. We’ll remember her. And we’ll keep walking the path she helped us build—one muddy bootprint at a time.

And Now, H-e-e-e-re's Roxy!

Or: How Roxy Took Over the Vet's Office in Under Four Minutes

Roxy, our 3-month-old English Shepherd pup, had her vet appointment today—and everything went just fine, medically speaking. Emotionally? Socially? Politically? That office may never be the same.

We weren’t there for more than a few minutes before Roxy decided the entire waiting room was operating in absolute chaos and she, a puppy with no credentials whatsoever, needed to restore order immediately.

Now, this was your standard vet office scene—cats in crates, dogs on laps, a parrot in a carrier muttering what I think were obscenities, and a general air of nervous anticipation. Pretty normal. Until the mini fox terrier on her mom’s lap made a fatal error in judgment: she jumped to the floor.

Roxy, who had apparently appointed herself Director of Ground Traffic and Morality Enforcement, barked once. Just once. The fox terrier hit reverse so fast she might’ve dislocated time. Back up in mom’s lap like she’d been yanked by an invisible doggie fishing line.

And that, dear reader, is when things escalated.

Suddenly Roxy was running a one-puppy security detail. If any dog dared so much as shift on their leash or wander more than three inches from their human, she lit them up with a sharp bark and a judgmental glare that said, “Don’t make me come over there.”

She wasn’t just herding animals—she was herding humans. At one point, a man slid his cat's carrier a little closer to the wall to make room for someone else. Roxy gave him the stink eye and let out a low grumble like she was channeling Clint Eastwood in a western. “That cage goes back where it came from, pilgrim.”

I finally cupped her fuzzy little muzzle and whispered, “Enough, Sergeant.” And like someone had hit the mute button, she stopped. Just like that.

She sat. She watched. She judged. Quietly. I have no doubt she was still mentally logging every violation of personal space, leash entanglement, and unauthorized sniff. But at least she let the rest of the appointment proceed without assigning anyone community service.

So yes, Roxy’s vet check went well. Her weight is good, her heart is healthy, and her sense of order is... alarmingly strong. If she ever learns PowerPoint, I fully expect her to start holding performance reviews.

Roxy’s Rules for Proper Waiting Room Behavior

(As dictated by one very opinionated English Shepherd pup)

1. Stay in your assigned seat.
   If you started on a lap, stay on the lap. If you're on the floor, stay on the floor. Musical chairs is not a game we’re playing here.

2. Thou shalt not wander.
   If you leave your human's side, I will bark you back like a fuzzy TSA agent with boundary issues.

3. No unsanctioned sniffing.
   This is a place of medicine and dignity, not speed dating for dogs.

4. No crate shuffling.
   That cat carrier is in exactly the right spot. I don’t care if the sun is hitting it weird or you want more leg room. Put. It. Back.

5. Silence is golden.
   Excessive whining, yapping, or interpretive howling will be met with judgmental side-eye and a formal warning bark.

6. All treats must be declared.
   If you brought snacks, they are community snacks. Don’t make it weird.

7. Humans, get it together.
   Keep your leashes untangled, your emotional support coffee contained, and your phone out of my face. I’m working here.

8. Obey the Alpha (me).
   I am compact, confident, and made entirely of justice, opinions, and the unshakable belief that I run this place. This is my waiting room now.