Mornings on the homestead are a whirlwind of chores, as any self-respecting farmer, homesteader, or country-dweller with more animals than sense will tell you. There’s feeding, watering, cleaning pens, collecting and washing eggs, milking, mucking, and making sure no one ends up on the wrong side of a fence (again). It’s a full production, and that’s all before breakfast.
Thankfully, I’ve got help. My 17-year-old grandson takes the lead, flanked by our English Shepherds: Roxie—also known as The Red Rocket—and Jack, her loyal sidekick who takes his cues from her like he’s trying to pass a final exam he never studied for.
First stop: the pig pen. Now, if you’ve never tried feeding a bunch of porkers who think every second between snacks is a personal insult, let me paint you a picture: it’s a bit like walking into a Black Friday sale with arms full of electronics and no security.
Enter Roxie and Jack.
They fan out like seasoned bouncers at a dive bar, keeping the pigs politely distanced until the feed is safely dumped. No one gets knocked over, no boots are lost in the mud, and the pigs live to eat another day.
Same routine with the buck goat—he’s a bit of a territorial drama queen. The dogs keep him in line like two Secret Service agents, escorting my grandson through the pasture with practiced professionalism.
From there it’s off to the goat buck’s domain. Now, our buck thinks he owns the place. Struts around like he’s some kind of land baron. But Roxie’s got zero patience for posturing, and Jack, bless his blank little head, backs her up like a well-trained but slightly confused bodyguard.
At milking time, the dogs become goat traffic controllers. Each goat files from her pen to the milk stand like it’s a TSA checkpoint, and back again in an orderly line. At least, that's the plan. One time a goat decided she was done following rules and made a run for the other side of the barn. Roxie spun into action, cutting her off mid-stride with all the authority of a drill sergeant. Jack, naturally, ran in right behind her, ready to assist in whatever was happening. I’m pretty sure he had no idea what the plan was, but by golly, he was gonna do something.
Once everyone’s fed and milked, the dogs sweep the barn like a couple of living leaf blowers. “I said OUT! NOW!” Roxie charges down the aisle barking orders and clears the barn like it's closing time at the bar. Jack follows suit, barking two seconds behind her like an echo with fur. In less than half a minute the barn is empty, orderly, and silent—except for the triumphant panting of two very proud dogs. Efficiency at its finest.
Now, about those eggs. Roxie and Jack haven’t quite figured out how to collect them. In fact, they seem to think “egg collection” means “egg sampling.” And by sampling, I mean slurping. But at least they make sure no hens wander into forbidden zones. Any chicken caught sneaking off gets herded back with a “Don’t make me come over there” look from Roxie and a frantic bounce from Jack, who just wants to be helpful.
Roxie and Jack don’t punch a clock. They don’t ask for overtime. And they sure don’t take coffee breaks. But they do earn their pay—three squares a day, all the praise they can handle, and the occasional raw egg bribe.
Good help is hard to find. But a good dog—especially one with a rocket for a nickname and a sidekick who thinks she hung the moon? Worth their weight in dog food, bacon, and maybe even a slice of cheese.
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