Caution: Don't Do This With Your Head!

I sometimes question whether the teenage male brain is actually fully connected to the body it occupies, or if it’s just in there rattling around like a peanut in a soda can.

Take my grandson Nate and his buddy Roger, for example. Nate is in the middle of a home improvement project—he’s demolishing his bedroom ceiling so we can replace it. (Translation: I'm supervising with a steely gaze and a coffee mug the size of a feed bucket.)

Enter Roger. Roger sees Nate removing the sheetrock ceiling like a normal human with a hammer and thinks, "You know what this situation needs? A flying headbutt."

So he jumps… and puts his head through the ceiling.

Yes. HIS ACTUAL HEAD.

I stood there blinking, trying to decide if I was witnessing a renovation or a mating display. The dog left the room. The goat outside stopped chewing and just stared. I think time paused briefly to say, “Did he just…?”

Apparently Roger believed his skull was more effective than a hammer. And, in a way, I guess it was—I mean, he made a hole. He also made a dent in my faith in human evolution.

We are now seriously considering installing warning labels on the house:
“Caution: This Ceiling Is Not Load-Bearing for Craniums.”
Or maybe just:
“Friends Don’t Let Friends Demo With Their Faces.”

This, my friends, is why we pray. Constantly. Not just for our children’s safety, but for their common sense to hurry up and mature before the ER punch card fills up.

Because drywall shouldn't come between you and your frontal lobe.

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Talon's Summer School Adventure

Talon, my 3-year-old Gypsy Cob gelding (that’s horse-speak for “majestic feather-footed goober”), is away at summer school this year. No, not because he failed algebra—he’s learning how to drive. As in pull a cart. As in work for a living. I know, I know... shocking.

He’s studying under Melody Madison of Shamel Arabians, a trainer with nerves of steel and the kind of patience usually reserved for kindergarten teachers and bomb defusers. Me? I have the patience of a caffeine-deprived raccoon on in a cornfield. So she’s got the job.

Things didn’t start off great. Turns out Talon is what Melody gently described as “sensitive.” Which is trainer-code for melts under pressure like a snowflake on a griddle. When she introduced him to two other horses in the paddock, he panicked and tried to hide behind her. When she stepped away? He tried to hide behind a rock. A rock. You can't make this up. Unless you’re writing a sitcom, in which case boom, there's your pilot episode.

But wait, it gets better. One of the horses bit him. Three times. Did he assert himself like a proud, 1,200-pound steed? Did he puff up his chest and show them who's boss? No. He stood there blinking like a stunned librarian who just got hit with a dodgeball. Poor baby. I swear he tried to file an HR complaint.

Look, I’m not saying he’s a coward… but the goat he lives with at home has more street cred. And that goat screams at chickens.

Then there was The Great Right Turn Debacle. Talon was perfectly fine working to the left. Left was his jam. Left was safe. Left was home. But ask him to turn right? Suddenly we’re starring in a soap opera called "Why Are You Ruining My Life", starring Talon as the over dramatic lead and Melody as the long-suffering trainer with a twitching eyelid.

But then—cue angelic chorus—he finally got it. One day, mid-hissy fit, the lightbulb in his big fuzzy head blinked on. You could almost see it: “Ohhh! You meant turn this way? Pfft. I knew that. I was just... testing you. Yep. Totally intentional.” And now there’s a picture of him trotting proudly to the right like he invented it.

Meanwhile, back in the real world, a little girl at church wanted to come visit Talon. DH told her Talon was away at summer school. Her face said “I smell nonsense.” Then he added that Talon was learning to drive.

She gasped. “Horses can’t drive cars!”

I mean… technically, no. But considering how my grandson parks, I’m not ruling it out. Talon at least signals before turning—after 3 weeks of training, anyway.

He's majestic. He's fluffy. He's emotionally fragile. But by golly, he’s turning right now.

Talon’s Official Summer School Progress Report

Filed by: Melody Madison, Horse Whisperer Extraordinaire

Week 1:
• Introduced to new paddock friends
• Hid behind human
• Attempted camouflage via small rock
• Bitten three times
• Confidence level: Marshmallow

Week 2:
• Refuses to work to the right
• Mastered “I don’t wanna” body language
• Feigned dramatic exhaustion after light groundwork
• Therapy goat requested

Week 3:
• Still twitchy, but not hiding
• Cart harness introduced—looked mildly betrayed
• Minor progress turning right… if bribed with hay

Week 4:
• Successfully driving left and right
• Stopped sulking mid-session
• Looks smug, acts like he’s known it all along
• Requested return of emotional support goat

Final Notes:
Horse is a wimp, but a lovable wimp. Recommend continued training and possibly a helmet for emotional protection. He may not be fast, brave, or particularly useful yet… but by golly, he’s polite and turns right now.

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A Pig Happy Family

Well, it’s official—we’ve reached piggy peace talks. Now that the piglets are getting bigger and less… squish-prone… mama Chloe has decided it’s safe to let daddy Larry rejoin the family unit. I found the whole gang snuggled up together in their rain shelter for what looked like a cross between an afternoon nap and a piggy pile-up.

Just after I took the photo, one of the piglets let out a high-pitched squeal (the kind that makes your heart drop and your brain start counting heads), and Chloe sprang to her feet like she was shot out of a cannon. She sniffed around in a panic, clearly doing a roll call. That’s when things got interesting.

Apparently suspecting that Larry might be using one of the kids as a pillow, Chloe marched right over, shoved her nose under his rear end, and heaved. She moved that 300-pound loaf about two feet across the shelter floor. Did he wake up? Of course not. He just grunted, rolled over, and probably dreamed of corn. Typical guy.

Chloe finally spotted the missing piglet snoozing peacefully near the edge of the tent, gave a relieved snort, and laid back down to nurse. Crisis averted. Family intact. Larry still clueless.

Now I have to admit something that I never thought I’d say: piglets are dangerously cute. Like, criminally cute. I’ve always considered pigs to be DH’s department—his favorite farm animal, and absolutely not mine. But I think they’ve cast some sort of adorably muddy spell on me, because I caught myself watching them with… affection. Ugh. I feel weak.

But listen, let’s just keep this between us. DH can never know.

(Honey, if you’re reading this, I need you to focus. You are getting very sleepy. Your eyelids are heavy. You feel relaxed. You will forget you ever read this post. When I count to three, you will awaken refreshed, relaxed, and with zero recollection that your wife may or may not be softening on the subject of pigs. One… two… three… wide awake now!)

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9 New Additions

We have nine new additions to the family. No, not because I planned it. Not because anyone told me. Not because I marked a date on the calendar with a little heart and a note that said “piglets due!” No, I discovered them like every other big farm development—completely by accident, while stumbling around before my second cup of herbal tea.

There they were this morning, snoozing under a tree like they owned the place. I had no idea they were even on the way. Apparently, pigs don't feel the need to keep me in the loop. Thanks for the heads-up, sweetheart.

And here’s the kicker—this might explain Remi. A few days ago, I caught our female Great Pyrenees, Remi, inside that pasture. Now, Remi never jumps the electric fence. That girl respects voltage. So naturally, I assumed there was a predator threatening the area and she was heroically throwing herself into danger to protect the livestock. Nope. Turns out she might’ve been moonlighting as a midwife. Or just wanted to be front row for the big event. Either way, she knew what was going on before I did. Typical.

This morning, I waited until Mama Pig was off doing pig things—rooting around like she doesn’t have newborns to keep alive—before I crept in like a nosy neighbor with a camera. Took a few baby pictures while trying not to get discovered. Because, let’s be real, the only thing scarier than a protective mama pig is one who’s hangry and postpartum.

So now we have nine piglets. I don’t know their names, I don’t know their gender, and I don’t know how long they’ve been here. But I do know that my week just got a whole lot more complicated.

Farm life: where every day is a surprise party, and you're the one cleaning up after it.

Meanwhile, I found poor daddy banished to another area of the woods.

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I'm Cheap!

I admit it—I’m cheap. Not “waits for the sales” cheap. Not “cuts dryer sheets in half” cheap. I’m rural Jedi master of thrift cheap. In fancy-pants circles they might call that “frugal,” but out here in the sticks, we just call it being sensible. Or broke. Or both.

Euphemisms don’t impress me. Duct tape does.

Let me tell you a little story that sums it all up—and yes, it involves a cheese grater, detergent older than my last goat hoof trim, and one very judgmental farm animal.

A friend of mine recently removed her dishwasher. Said it was broken. Just yanked it out and shoved a cabinet in the hole like that was perfectly acceptable behavior. The result? Her kitchen now looks like it’s missing a front tooth and smiling anyway. I asked the obvious question: Why not just buy a new dishwasher?

She shrugged and said, “I never used it.”

Okay, hold up.

Two thoughts immediately ran through my mind:

1. How do you know it’s broken if you never used it?

2. Who in their right mind doesn’t use a dishwasher? That’s like saying you don’t use your toilet because the outhouse has more “ambiance.”

But I digress.

Now here comes the real gold nugget.

She had four—FOUR—family-size boxes of Cascade Complete in her pantry, now rendered useless since she’s living the handwashing life. So she asks, “Do you want them?”

Do goats eat hay?

Of course I said yes. But there was a hitch. These boxes had been sitting for so long they’d passed their soap half-life and become solid detergent boulders. Each one was basically a paving stone of concentrated lemon-scented regret.

But did I throw them out? Pfft. Not this gal.

I dragged those soap bricks back to my kitchen like they were buried treasure. Set one on the counter. Looked it in the eye and said, “It’s go time.”

Then I got out my cheese grater.

Yes. A cheese grater. And not the wimpy side with the little holes—no ma’am. We’re talking full shred mode. I grated that fossilized Cascade like I was prepping it for taco night. I was in the zone. Detergent flying. Arms cramping. Goat watching me through the screen door with a look that said, “You are truly one sad little human.”

And I grated that sucker anyway.

Because I am cheap. Determined. Possibly unhinged. And I’ll be darned if I’m letting $20 worth of soap go to waste just because it’s old enough to vote.

So now my dishes sparkle with a light hint of citrus and desperation.

Now it’s your turn. Tell me your best “I’m cheap” moment in the comments below. Don’t be shy—we’re all friends here. And you don’t need a blog or fancy login or even a dishwasher to comment. Just a sense of humor and maybe a cheese grater.

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Roxie Flunks!

When Your Dog Herds the Wrong Animal… With Style.

We took Roxie, our 2-year-old English Shepherd, to a herding clinic on Saturday. Now, the idea was to see if she had any natural instinct to herd. Turns out, she does! Just… not the right species.

The clinic was held in a muddy field, because of course it was—Mother Nature apparently got the memo that I was planning to be outside and responded with, “Release the monsoon!” So there I was, squelching through ankle-deep muck in the pouring rain, while Roxie stared blankly at the sheep like they were beige statues.

No spark. No drive. No "I am Dog, hear me herd!" Nope.

But then—then!—a trained border collie stepped into the ring to keep the sheep from scattering like popcorn in a microwave, and that is when Roxie came alive.

She didn’t herd the sheep. Oh no. She herded the herder.

She went full gladiator mode. Dropped into position like a furry linebacker and started intercepting the border collie with surgical precision. Blocked every move. Anticipated every pivot. And just to seal the deal, she ran right over its head. Gracefully. Like a linebacker crossed with a ballerina. On caffeine.

The border collie was stunned. You could see it thinking, “Wait, I’m the professional here! Who let the intern off-leash?”

I stood there, mouth open, trying to decide if I should be horrified, proud, or start selling tickets.

The instructor—who, to her everlasting credit, managed not to double over laughing—watched the whole thing and said, “Well. That’s a first.” Apparently in all her years of herding instruction, she had never seen a dog invent a new event: "Competitive Border Collie Herding."

Did she tell me to take Roxie home and try something easier, like synchronized napping? Nope. She gave me some solid advice on redirecting Roxie's laser focus to the actual livestock and not the employee of the month. Honestly, I was just impressed she didn’t hand me a refund and a participation ribbon with a sheepish smile.

Meanwhile, where was my video camera to capture this herding clinic hi-jinks? Oh, just a quarter-mile away. In the truck. With my husband. Who, being smarter than both Roxie and me that day, stayed dry and cozy while I stood ankle-deep in muddy sheep business, soaking wet and slightly humiliated.

Roxie may have flunked her first herding test, but she passed her audition for most creative interpretation of the assignment with flying colors.

Next time, if there is one… we bring the camera. And an umbrella. And maybe a therapist for that poor border collie.

Now here's something you don't see everyday - One of the other dogs attending was defending his owner from the sheep so the instructor had her put the dog up on one of them so he would see they weren't killer sheep. Now that's the first time I've ever seen THAT - and someone did get a picture.This is Palmer and her dog Shep, with Becky the instructor. Sorry, I don't know the name of the sheep, but she looks less than thrilled about the whole idea of training for a new circus act.

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