Redneck Truck Cap

Hey, don’t laugh. Okay, maybe laugh a little. But yes, it’s mine. That charming wooden box strapped to the back of our pickup like a rustic time capsule from 1973? That’s our Redneck Truck Cap, and let me tell you, it’s a thing of beauty.

We needed a way to transport just a few animals—like a couple of goats, maybe a pig or two, or that one sheep that thinks she’s a rodeo clown—without dragging out the full-blown two-horse trailer every time. Hooking that thing up is like preparing a battleship for launch. Too much work for one goat who just needs to go visit her boyfriend at the neighbor’s place. (Don’t judge. We all have needs.)

But a real truck cap? You ever price one of those things? I’m not saying I’d have to sell a kidney, but I definitely considered putting a few pigs on Etsy—not that I'd ever get away with it.

So we did what all good farmers do when faced with a financial dilemma—we got scrappy. Jim and I built a box out of 2x4s and barn siding, solid as a rock, smells faintly of goats, and sized it to fit the truck bed exactly. We strap it down with ratchet straps (because zip ties and duct tape are only appropriate for temporary redneck fixes, and this baby is permanent-ish). The back even swings up like a real, honest-to-goodness truck cap. You’d almost think it came from the factory that way. . . at least a factory that was way out behind a barn.

And because we are nothing if not practical, the cap has been put to uses no factory ever dreamed of. One time we had to deliver a canoe to one of our kids who was borrowing it. We slid the canoe inside the truck cap, back hatch up, canoe sticking out the rear like a giant tongue, tied down with more ratchet straps than common sense. People passing us on the highway rubbernecked so hard I’m surprised there weren’t accidents. Once we dropped the canoe off, we didn’t waste a good trip. On the way home, we stopped to pick up a goat. Same truck cap, different cargo. The transformation from “canoe delivery service” to “goat taxi” happened in one day, proving once again that versatility is the true hallmark of redneck engineering.

On that same trip, we swung by to see my brother. Over coffee, he said, “You’re not going to believe this—I saw the weirdest thing on the highway today. Somebody had built a wooden box on the back of their truck, and they were hauling a canoe sticking right out the back of it!” I nodded, kept my face straight, and said, “Really? That is strange. Wonder what that was all about?”

It might not win any awards at the county fair, but it gets the job done. Plus, it’s weatherproof enough that the goats don’t complain the whole ride—mostly.

So yeah, call it what you will—hillbilly engineering, Yankee stubbornness, redneck creativity with a North Country accent. I call it practical. And besides, a real farmer knows that function beats fashion every time.

A-yup.

Customer Reviews:

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ —“We were skeptical at first, but there was hay on the floor and nobody made us wear seatbelts. 10/10—would poop in it again.”—The Goats

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ —“Spacious. Breezy. Smelled like goat feet. No snacks were served, but we found a Cheerio in the corner. Four hooves up.”—The Pigs

⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️ — Smooth ride, good breeze, though my tail stuck out the back. Would borrow again.”—The Canoe

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Dang, It's Cold!

You know it’s cold when…

Your horse has icicles hanging from his whiskers like he just lost a frozen spaghetti-eating contest. The dogs break the sound barrier sprinting to the barn. Even their fur has goosebumps. And the chickens? They don’t even cluck until after 8 a.m.—just a bunch of fluffy bowling balls glaring at me from their perch like, “You first, lady.”

The thermometer read -17°F this morning. That’s seventeen below. And around here, that’s what we call light jacket weather. Honestly, it’s been such a mild winter, I’ve caught myself bragging, “At least it’s not -40!” like that’s a reasonable sentence for a human being to say.

But speaking of -40. . .

Let me take you on a magical journey back to a time when it was -40°F and I was brilliantly standing outside in my bathrobe and slippers. Yes. Robe. Slippers. Trash bag in hand. Clearly, I was nominated for the Darwin Awards and just needed that final push.

All I had to do was toss the garbage in the can and get back inside. Easy peasy. Except… click. That sneaky little door lock, which I hadn’t turned but must’ve nudged in just the wrong way, decided today was the day to flex its independence.

I was locked out. In -40°F temperature. In slippers made from whatever material disintegrates first in a strong breeze. My brain immediately fired up the list of terrible ideas:

1. Walk half a mile to the neighbor’s? Sure, if I was hoping to be found next spring as a tragic cautionary tale.

2. Hotwire the truck? Lady, you can’t even pair Bluetooth earbuds.

3. Smash a window? Now that had potential. I mean, what’s a little glass shard in your sock if it means survival?

So I hustle—shuffle really, because frostbite was already tap dancing on my toes—over to the workshop, grab a hammer, and march back to the house with the same determination as Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining. I raise the hammer, ready to channel my inner Nicholson, but I figure I should at least check in with the Big Guy before I go full psycho on my thermal-pane glass.

So I look up at the sky and mutter, “Okay, God. If You’ve got a better idea, now would be a good time to share.”

Clear as a bell in my frozen little brain: “Hit the door handle.”

Say what?

“HIT THE DOOR HANDLE!”

Now let me tell you something about metal at -40. It doesn’t bend. It doesn’t dull. It goes from “functional hardware” to “glass candy sculpture” real fast. I whapped that doorknob once—once—and it disintegrated into a gazillion pieces.

Second tap? Latch popped. Door swung open. Warmth, glorious warmth! I fell through the threshold like a half-thawed fish flopping back into a lake, sobbing from relief and frost-nibbled dignity.

And what did it cost me? Just a door handle. A small price to pay for a story I can now drag out every time someone complains that it’s “a little chilly.”

Moral of the story?

1. Always check the lock.

2. Hide a spare key somewhere even your chickens don’t know about.

3. And if you find yourself in a robe with a hammer, maybe pause and say a prayer before you go full Hulk.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to sit by the woodstove in six layers of flannel and conduct a life crisis inventory.

Stay frosty, my friends. But, like, not literally.

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Goodbye Kisses

 

The day began like every other morning on the homestead:
– Roll out of bed like a half-frozen cinnamon roll
– Let the dogs out before they form a mutiny
– Fire up the woodstove so my fingers don't snap off
– Dress in enough layers to resemble an overstuffed scarecrow
– Stomp out to the barn looking like I’m about to summit Everest

Then came the usual chorus line of breakfast demands: The horse wanted hay, the goats wanted hay, the chickens wanted grain, the dogs wanted justice and snacks, and everyone wanted water delivered faster than a five-star hotel. I collected eggs, washed eggs, stripped off 37 pounds of clothing, and finally managed to get something into my stomach besides goat hair and regrets.

But by 11 a.m., the script changed.

We hitched up the horse trailer, loaded up the ladies (that’s “does” to those of you still thinking goats are only for petting zoos), and headed off to deliver them to their new home.

I’d been putting it off. Pretending it wasn’t happening. Lying to myself with things like, “They’ll be fine,” and “I’m totally okay with this,” and “I didn’t emotionally imprint on a bunch of small barnyard divas who routinely chew on my coat and scream at me.”

Yeah. Lies. All lies.

Once we got them settled into their new digs, I knelt down to say goodbye.

Cue the goat farewell parade.

If you’ve never been kissed by a goat, imagine being mobbed by toddlers who just ate licorice and want to tell you secrets. One nibbled my hair like she was checking for split ends. Another helpfully tried to “fix” my jacket by eating the zipper. A third just stood on my foot like, “If I can’t come home with you, I’m at least going to cripple you.”

They all tried to get in my face at once, which is sweet unless you’ve ever been simultaneously headbutted in the jaw and sneezed on by something that eats hay and poops marbles.

I hugged them all. They tugged on my heart. And also my pockets, my braid, and the string on my hoodie.

I miss them already.

But here’s the silver lining—I’ll be getting three of their babies back next summer. Because apparently, I can’t stop. I’ve tried goat rehab. Doesn’t work. I have a brush-clearing addiction, and goats are my enablers.

Besides, without them, I’m one rainy season away from being swallowed whole by blackberry bushes and saplings. My land would go from “homestead” to “wildlife documentary set” in a matter of weeks.

So this isn’t goodbye. It’s just “see you later.” Go forth, my little hay-devouring weirdos. I’ll see your mini-me’s soon enough.

In the meantime… the buck is still here.

And he is not handling this well.

He is standing by the gate like a heartbroken country singer. Moaning. Groaning. Letting out sounds that can only be described as “goat wailing” with a side of “emotional collapse.” If I gave him a microphone and a glass of bourbon, he could record a breakup album that would make grown men weep into their flannel.

He’s refusing to eat, which for a goat is the equivalent of a full mental breakdown. If he starts writing sad poetry in the dust or sighing dramatically while staring at their old pen, I’m calling in a therapist.

Hang in there, Romeo. The next goat chapter is just around the corner.

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In Stitches

Jim has been very busy lately. He’s sent five goats and two pigs off to that great big buffet in the sky. (Or more accurately, the freezer. But let’s not sugar-coat it—unless we’re talking bacon.)

He was wrapping up Pig #2, tired, in a rush, and trying to beat the dark. That, my friends, is the Holy Trinity of Bad Ideas. Anyone who’s ever tried to “just finish this up quick before dark” on a farm knows full well that those are famous last words, usually right before you’re duct taping your own limbs together and calling it good enough.

I was in the barn, finishing up cleaning the chicken coop and deworming goats. The recent mild January weather had thawed the month-long litter in the coop. That’s farm speak for “everything in there had frozen into a gelatinous nightmare, but at least it was movable now.” I was just scooping out the last layer of chicken lasagna when I heard a very distinct, blood-curdling shriek.

“AHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Now, I’ve been married long enough to decipher the full encyclopedia of male grunts and yells. This wasn’t an “oops, dropped the knife.” It wasn’t a “got squirted in the face with the hose.” This was an “I may or may not still have all my fingers” kind of scream.

I paused, waited. . . no thud. No crash. No farm dog howling like a banshee. So, hey—he was still upright. Always a good sign.

Moments later, he strolled into the barn looking like a character from a low-budget slasher film. Finger wrapped in a bloody rag. Face pale. Voice calm. . . too calm. “Hey hon, can you take a look at this and tell me if I need stitches?”

Oh, I took a look, all right. He unwraped the rag, and there it was: a wide, meaty gash right to the bone with blood spurting out like he was auditioning for a low-budget remake of Kill Bill: Farm Edition. I could practically see his retirement plan through it.

“Yup,” I said, in my best no-nonsense nurse voice. “That’s gonna need stitches for sure.” (And no, I didn’t take a picture. You’re welcome. This is a family-friendly book. Mostly.)

I slammed the last goat with dewormer, lobbed a bag of pine shavings into the center of the coop for the chickens to scatter, and shouted for the grandson to help load the day’s final pork popsicle into the truck. Good thing it was winter which provided the necessary refrigeration to our meat cargo until we could get it to the butcher. And off to the ER we went—with Jim oozing blood and pig juice in the passenger seat and me pretending I didn’t smell what I smelled.

Now, here’s where the differences between men and women really shine. Me? I would’ve showered. Changed clothes. Maybe fluffed the hair and dabbed on some foundation so the ER staff wouldn’t call Adult Protective Services. But not Jim. Nope. He rolled into that ER with his shirt covered in mystery meat, boots soaked in what I can only assume was 70% pig juice, and bits of unidentifiable pork product stuck to his ear.

I’m sure the triage nurse thought he’d just wandered out of a true crime documentary.

And let’s be honest, even after he explained he’d cut himself gutting a pig, at least three nurses were still silently judging his boots. I saw the looks.

The good news? He missed the tendon. Sharp knives, gotta love 'em, make nice clean cuts, even if the owner of said knife was using it like he was late for an appointment with the Grim Reaper.

Three stitches. One tetanus shot. Prescription for antibiotics. And an official medical directive: Come back in ten days to have the stitches removed.

Ten days? For that? Do people really go back to the doctor for stitch removal?

Look, I could’ve handled this myself. I’ve stitched up sheep, for crying out loud. Not like I'm Frontier Doctor Barbie or anything. I'm more like Frontier Doctor, Here, Bite This Stick. I’ve got saline for rinsing the wound. I’ve got curved needles. I’ve even got horse tail hair for stitches if we wanna get old-school. (Before you ask, I would have sterilized it in alcohol first.) If he objected to that I guess I could have searched for the fishing line that's buried under 10 years of junk somewhere in the attic. Heck, I’ve got tetanus vaccine in the barn fridge—it’s the CDT combo, so bonus! He’d also be protected against enterotoxemia. (Goat and sheep people know what I’m talking about. Non farm people? Google it and try not to gag.)

I’ve got long-acting penicillin, LA200, Nuflor, and syringes the size of turkey basters. Sure, my needles might leave a welt big enough to qualify for statehood, but they’d get the job done. And hey, his finger wasn’t drooping, so clearly no tendon damage. That’s how I diagnose around here: “Is it hanging funny? No? Then you're good.”

But did he let me take care of it myself? Of course not. He chose the ER co-pay and the shame of public pig funk.

We got home just before midnight. And the chickens? Bless their feathered little hearts, they’d spread the pine shavings into a perfect layer across the coop floor like a bunch of interior decorators with beaks and OCD.

Such helpful girls. Probably would’ve stitched Jim up too, if I’d handed them a needle and some thread.

So in the end, Jim got his stitches, I got another story, and the chickens got credit for spreading out their own bedding. Business as usual on a farm where even the medical emergencies come with feathers and a side of bacon.

Jim’s Version: Just a Flesh Wound

So, it was a normal day. You know—pigs to butcher, goats to wrangle, blood to spill. The usual. I was wrapping up the last of the pigs—nothing dramatic, just another day at freezer camp prep. I was on autopilot, tired, cold, hungry, and trying to beat the clock before we lost daylight. That’s when it happened.

Now look, I’ve handled knives for years. I respect sharp objects. But let’s be honest—when you’ve spent the whole day up to your elbows in pig innards, your grip isn’t exactly at peak performance. That knife slipped faster than a politician at a press conference and next thing I know—WHAM. My finger exploded.

Well, maybe not exploded. But there was definitely blood. A lot of blood. Like, “should I be seeing stars?” level blood. It was coming out like a busted faucet on full pressure. I did what any rational man would do—I grabbed a rag, wrapped it tight, and shouted a manly “AHHHHHHHHHHH” into the void.

(Side note: that scream was entirely controlled and dignified. It was not a shriek. Ignore what my wife says.)

I walked into the barn, trying to act like my hand isn’t trying to separate from my body. I asked her to “take a quick look,” hoping for the ol’ “nah, you’ll be fine” response. Instead, I get the look. The one that says, “You’re not bleeding out in MY barn. Get in the truck.”

Now, here’s where I take issue. She says she could’ve stitched it. At home. With horse hair. And livestock syringes that look like medieval harpoons. She offered me a goat vaccine, for crying out l
oud. And she thinks I’m the crazy one?

Anyway, we head to the hospital. I didn’t have time to change clothes—I was kinda missing a piece of finger. And yeah, I might’ve looked like I lost a fight with a meat grinder. But in my defense, I won that fight. The pig is in the truck after all.

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