Best Laid Plans

The plan for Friday was simple: give Talon, the horse, a bath and a good grooming to get him looking sharp for the two-day riding clinic in Vermont over the weekend. Maybe squeeze in a little more trailer-loading practice, just to be extra prepared. The kind of calm, productive day that leaves you feeling accomplished.

The actual day? Well…

Instead of a bath, Talon opted for a full-on emergency field trip. He impaled himself on the horse trailer. That’s right. Slammed his face into it and gashed open the side of his jaw—right where the halter sits. Blood pouring out, panic ramping up, and any hope of a relaxing Friday evaporating in a fine red mist.

Here’s the kicker: he loaded beautifully earlier this week. Practically strutted in like he was born for it. I thought, “Hey, let's do a bit more practice. Keep that confidence up.” He had other ideas. Specifically, “Let’s launch my face into this metal edge and cause maximum damage.”

At first, I stayed calm. It was just a scratch, right? Until I saw the blood gushing. Then I lost my cool, my grip on reality, and almost my lunch. Enter my very good friend (we’re talking sainthood-level good here), who dropped whatever normal people do on a gorgeous Friday afternoon and rolled in with her massive stock trailer—a.k.a. barn on wheels. She assessed the situation, assured me he wasn't going to bleed out (which was news to me at the time), and got us to the vet.

Several hours, a whole lot of waiting, and $252.68 later, Talon came out of surgery with a stitched-up jaw and a face that looked like he lost a bar fight with a hitching post.

So let’s do the math, shall we?

• Original weekend plan:
  Clinic: $150
  Gas for two 4-hour round trips: Let’s call it $80
  Snacks and roadside lunches: $30 minimum
  Total: ~$260 and some horsey fun

• Actual Friday plan:
  Vet bill: $252.68
  3-hour round trip: Gas and mild heart attack
  No snacks, unless you count chewing your nails
  Total: ~$253 and a healthy dose of trauma

Honestly, it’s a wash financially—but the clinic would've been more fun, and less bloody.

Now Talon can’t wear a halter or bridle for at least a month while his face heals. So no riding, no clinic, and no more trailer adventures… yet. But once he’s healed? Oh, buddy. We’re getting back in that trailer. Preferably without impaling anything.

Get a horse, they said. It'll be fun. Because what else says "relaxing hobby" like surprise surgery, bleeding livestock, and spending your Friday night calculating the price of regret in gas mileage and gauze pads?

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.

Are You My Mother?

Remi, our female Great Pyrenees LGD (livestock guardian dog), has recently stepped into a new role—nursemaid, bodyguard, and best friend to Babydoll, our goat kid with the broken leg. (click here if you've forgotten that little drama). 

It started with Remi keeping the peace during the daily milking stampede—you know, the one where all the goats go full feeding frenzy. Picture the theme song from Jaws... but with hooves. Baby couldn’t keep up, what with the whole leg-in-a-cast situation, so Remi took matters into her own giant, fluffy paws. She parked herself in the barn corner with Baby tucked safely behind her and let out a low growl if any of the others got too close. She made it very clear: “This one’s mine.”

Since Baby can’t go outside with the rest of the herd—wet cast, muddy fields, you get the picture—Remi started staying behind with her. Not because she had to. Because she wanted to. As the days passed, something lovely started to happen. Remi and Baby forged a real bond. I’ll often find Baby curled up in a cozy nest of Remi’s soft white fur, safe and sound and snoring softly.

Last night, it dipped a little chilly here in northern New Hampshire. I was worrying about the temperature until I peeked into the barn and saw Baby curled into a contented ball, wrapped in warmth and fluff. She didn’t need extra blankets—she had Remi.

These Pyrs never cease to amaze me. Whether they're protecting eggs (see story here), keeping goat kids warm, or even treeing bears (yes, really), they’re always watchful, always ready, and always loyal.

It’s a good feeling knowing my farm is in capable paws 24/7.

Forget hired help. If I could put Remi on the payroll, she’d be Employee of the Month every month... but she’d probably try to eat the plaque.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.

Chicken's Choice

Here’s something I’ve noticed: no one else around here ever has a chicken on them.

Not me. Not Jim. Not the dog (though he might want one if it came with snacks). Not any of the other goats. But Brandy? Brandy the goat? She pretty much always has a chicken on her.

This isn’t a one-time thing. This isn’t a fluke. This is a full-blown lifestyle choice. While the rest of the hens are busy scratching, pecking, and plotting world domination, one of them always decides that Brandy’s back is the place to be. And Brandy? She doesn’t care one bit.

Maybe she likes the company. Maybe she enjoys the view from under the feathers. Maybe she’s figured out that chicken feet make a pretty decent back scratcher. Or maybe, while all the other goats are out in the field, Brandy just prefers to hang around the barn—cooler shade, fewer bugs, and complimentary back scratchers.

There she stands, half-asleep and totally unbothered, with a hen balanced on her back like it’s a perfectly normal thing for a goat to wear a bird. Which, I guess, it is now.

The other animals? They're baffled. The others stare like Brandy’s broken some unspoken farm rule. The dog tilts his head like he’s trying to solve an algebra problem. And me? I just try to get a photo before the chicken hops down and acts like she wasn’t just using a goat as a sunbathing deck.

The thing is, the chickens always choose Brandy. Not one of the younger goats, not the fence post, not even that weird decorative garden gnome I keep forgetting to move. Just Brandy.

And Brandy, bless her stubborn, noble little soul, has never once tried to shake them off. She’s the goat version of a porch swing—steady, reliable, and apparently great for chicken naps.

So if you stop by and see a goat strolling casually through the barnyard with a hen on her back like some sort of poultry Uber, don’t worry. That’s just Brandy. She's got a chicken on her. As usual.

"Anyone else want a ride? I've got another itchy spot on my shoulders."

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.

Fat Pig!

Actually… Three Fat Pigs

Let me just start by saying: I’m not insulting anyone. I’m not being rude. And no, this isn’t a twisted retelling of The Three Little Pigs. I am speaking in the most literal, unmistakable sense of the phrase.

We have pigs.

Three.

Very. Fat. Pigs.

Now, for those of you who know me, this may come as a surprise. You see, my husband—bless his animal-loving soul—loves pigs. Thinks they’re fantastic. His favorite farm animal, hands down. Me? I hate pigs. I’m actually afraid of pigs. And before anyone calls me dramatic, let me explain.

I can handle a buck in full rut. No big deal. After all, he’s a vegetarian and just trying to keep the ladies to himself. He puffs up, pees on his own face, stomps around—typical guy stuff. But he's manageable. Give him a scoop of grain and he’ll forget he even had a girlfriend.

But pigs? Pigs are omnivores. That means meat is not off the menu—including, theoretically, me. I once had an 800-pound sow knock me over from behind. I wasn't injured—unless you count my dignity—but she could’ve had me as a snack if not for my two English Shepherds springing into action like furry avengers. They barked, snapped, snarled, and chased her off with the kind of energy that said, “Not today, bacon.”

And no, they didn’t leave a mark. We checked very thoroughly after she was slaughtered and hanging from the tractor bucket a few days later.

(Here on the farm we live by one simple rule: Be nice or be tasty.)

So, we've been blissfully pig-free for a few years. But DH has been making noises about wanting pigs again. Knowing full well that I have PTSD—Pig-Traumatic Stress Disorder—he promised we’d go with a smaller, more docile breed: the Guinea Hog. Supposedly calm, friendly, and maxing out at around 300 pounds for males, with the ladies topping out somewhere in the 200–250 range. Practically lap pigs, right?

While he was shopping around, an online friend offered to sell us her adult Guinea Hog trio—a boar and two sows—for a very reasonable price. She mentioned the sows might be pregnant. Based on “timing.”

(Translation: she’s 85% sure they’re pregnant and 100% sure they eat like they are.)

So we loaded them up and brought them home last Saturday.

And friends, let me tell you… these are not dainty pigs.

These are rotund, well-fed, morbidly obese pigs.

These pigs could roll down a hill and flatten your flower bed like a steamroller with a snout. If these pigs are pregnant, I fear for the structural integrity of the barn.

Which brings me to the bottom line—pun fully intended—there are at least three someones on this farm who are about to go on a diet. (And no, it’s not me. I’m still recovering from the trauma of chasing pigs out of the barn with a snow shovel.)

I’ll keep you posted on their progress. If they slim down and behave, they might earn a place here. If not… well… you already know the motto.

Be nice. Or be tasty.

Here's what a Guinea Hog is SUPPOSED to look like:

Kind of a smallish, chubby bear. Low to the ground. Fluffy-ish. Friendly. The kind of pig you wouldn’t mind sharing a sandwich with—if pigs ate sandwiches. (Spoiler: they would.) Short legs. Squishy face. Built like a very determined meatloaf. Basically, something you’d expect to find snoozing under a shade tree, oinking gently in its dreams, not plotting world domination.

Now here's what we actually got:

HOLY COW. Or, more accurately, HOLY FAT PIGS.

My husband had learned—after the fact, naturally—that Guinea Hogs are “easy keepers.” What that actually means is: if you so much as look at them while holding food, they gain five pounds. Feed them “a little extra just in case” and suddenly you’re raising potbellied freight trains.

These hogs aren’t just overweight—they’ve taken gluttony and turned it into a competitive sport. They aren’t waddling, they’re rolling. I half expected one of them to request a chaise lounge and a personal feeding assistant.

I stood there staring at them, speechless. Which doesn’t happen often, I assure you. The only thing that came to mind was, “We’re going to need a bigger trough. And maybe a forklift.”

Now, don’t get me wrong—they’re sweet. They grunt happily, they wag their tails like dogs, and they appear to be very pleased with themselves and their current… girth. But they were supposed to be small, manageable, gentle creatures. Instead, I’ve got three porcine Jabba the Hutts who look like they could crush a wheelbarrow just by looking at it funny.

And if the sows are pregnant (which they very well might be, based on how little we can see of their actual shape under all that… shape)… then this is about to get real interesting.

So, new plan: diet time. Pasture only. No snacks, no matter how cute they look at me.

And if anyone asks what kind of pigs we’re raising over here? The answer is simple: Big. Fat. Happy. Possibly pregnant. Pigs.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.

How To Spoil A Goat In 4 Weeks or Less...

..a cautionary tale I’m now qualified to teach

Step 1: Start with a baby goat. Bonus points if she’s ridiculously cute, has ears the size of salad plates, and stares at you like you broke her leg personally.

Step 2: Allow said goat to dramatically injure herself within 24 hours of arriving at your farm. Ideally, this should involve a staircase, a poor sense of self-preservation, and a moment where time slows down and all you can think is, “No. Nope. Nope. That’s not how legs work.”

Step 3: Respond with panic and farmyard ingenuity. Build a soft cast out of whatever’s on hand—vet wrap, gauze, a large flat stick, sheer willpower—and pray the vet doesn’t laugh when you walk in. (Spoiler: he won’t. He’ll be impressed. And now you’ll start to believe you can do orthopedic work in your kitchen with a flashlight and duct tape.)

Step 4: Bring the goat inside. Just for one night, you tell yourself. One night in the dog crate next to your bed so she doesn’t feel alone. One night of ba-ba-baaing and the faint smell of alfalfa in your living room.

One night becomes two. Then three. Before long, the crate has bedding that’s fluffed just so, and you’re offering her bits of apple while you fold laundry and discuss your day like you’re roommates.

Step 5: Start carrying her everywhere. Because she can’t walk much. But also because she looks so cozy tucked under your arm like a squirmy little handbag. Bonus points if you start talking to her in baby voice. Double bonus if she answers back.

Step 6: Make “keep the cast dry” your entire personality. Strategically place towels, furniture, and plastic barriers like you’re prepping for a flood. Begin sentence with, “I can’t let her out yet, her cast might get wet…” even if the sun is shining and it hasn’t rained in a week.

Step 7: Hand-feed her treats “just to cheer her up.” Buy special goat snacks. Cut grapes into halves. Let her lick peanut butter off your finger while your other animals look on in stunned betrayal.

Step 8: Find yourself swaddling her in a blanket “so she doesn’t get chilled.” Take a photo. Share it with friends. Convince yourself this is normal. It’s not. But by now you’re too far gone.

Step 9: Realize that when the cast finally comes off… she’s not going to be less spoiled. She’s going to expect couch time. And treats. And indoor privileges. And for you to carry her like royalty every time she looks mildly inconvenienced.

Step 10: Give in. Because by this point, you’ve created a tiny, four-legged diva with the emotional pull of a Disney princess and the confidence of a goat who once lived in your house. 

And you know what? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.

Poor Baby!

We brought home a new goat on Saturday—a five-week-old Snubian we’ve affectionately named Baby Doll. For the uninitiated, a Snubian is a mix between a Saanen and a Nubian, meaning she’s got big floppy ears, a milk line to be proud of someday, and the ability to steal hearts just by blinking.

Unfortunately, she also has the ability to break her leg 24 hours after arriving.

Yep.

On Sunday, Baby Doll decided to test the physics of staircase navigation. She leapt off the bottom step like she was trying out for the Olympic goat team. Unfortunately, her leg got caught—and she kept going. Her leg didn’t.

Cue the panicked humans and one very confused baby goat with a new limp and a whole lot of trust issues.

It’s been a rough weekend for the little gal. She left her old home, her mother, and a posse of playmates to come live with us—a brand-new place with only one other baby goat for company. And just when she was starting to settle in, bam, she breaks a leg.

But don't worry—it’s not all sadness and despair.

After the initial trauma (and several emotional support cookies for me), Baby Doll got the royal treatment. She spent the evening cuddled up on the couch with “Daddy,” soaking up snuggles like a pro. She even slept in the house that night, tucked into a cozy dog crate right next to my bed like a true goat princess in convalescence.

This morning, we loaded her up and took her to the vet. I’d wrapped her leg in a makeshift cast before we left, fully expecting to be politely scolded and professionally corrected.

But the vet? He was impressed.

Turns out, my farm-fix-it cast earned me a few gold stars. (Who needs vet school when you’ve got baling twine, vet wrap, and pure motherly panic?) Baby Doll now has a proper soft cast that she’ll need to wear for four weeks.

And it absolutely cannot get wet.

…Which is adorable. Because this is a goat.

A baby goat.

On a farm.

Where water comes from not only the sky but also buckets, troughs, water bottles, and a mysterious puddle that wasn’t there five minutes ago.

So we’re on official "Operation Keep It Dry." Expect rain. Expect puddle-seeking behavior. Expect this goat to somehow dunk her cast in a water bucket I’ve already moved twice. She’s that kind of girl.

Still, she’s on the mend, she’s getting spoiled rotten, and she knows exactly how to milk it (pun fully intended). If anyone deserves a little extra love and attention, it’s a brave baby goat with a bum leg and a heart full of hope.

Hang in there, Baby Doll. We’ve got you.

AAAHH, the life of a "house goat"!

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.

Gabe, The Mother Hen!

Gabriel—Gabe to his friends—is our 120-pound Great Pyrenees livestock guardian dog. He’s a big, lumbering, majestic puff of white fur who’s supposed to keep predators at bay and patrol the property with stoic determination.

But somewhere along the way, Gabe missed the memo and decided he’d rather raise chickens Especially chicks. Gabe loves chicks.

We’ve found him curled up in the brooder more times than I can count, flat on his side like a big fluffy polar bear with tiny fluffballs hopping over him like he’s the world's warmest jungle gym. If he thinks they’re cold, he’ll gently nose them under the heat lamp. He doesn’t bark. He doesn’t fuss. He just supervises, babysits, and occasionally sighs like he’s disappointed no one brought him a juice box for his efforts.

Now, our other livestock guardian, Remi, is a little more… straightforward. When a chicken dies, we toss it to the dogs—circle of life and all that. Remi eats hers right away and gets on with her day.

Gabe? Not so much.

Gabe will carry his dearly departed chicken around like a fragile relic. He won’t eat it. He won’t bury it. He just walks the yard with it in his mouth like he’s trying to protect it from further harm—or maybe give it a proper sendoff. We’ve never been entirely sure if he ever eats it or just reluctantly sets it down when hunger finally reminds him he’s still a dog.

But what we found yesterday? That topped everything.

Gabe was laying in the corner of the barn and wouldn’t move. At all. Which isn’t all that unusual—he’s not exactly a high-performance machine. He actually pretty laid back, except when a predator is near. After some persistent calling and bribery failed, DH finally walked over and gave his giant, fuzzy backside a push.

And that’s when we saw it.

There, tucked underneath him like he was the proudest hen in the flock, was a nest.

A real nest. With real eggs. Several of them. Hidden behind the wheelbarrow by a few sneaky hens—and Gabe, bless his fluffy heart, had taken it upon himself to sit on them. Just casually, like this was his job now. Like he had accepted the call to motherhood and wasn't about to let those eggs go un-incubated on his watch.

So yes—while the other dogs are doing things like barking at raccoons or patrolling the fence line, Gabe has appointed himself… surrogate hen.

I guess every farm needs a Mother Hen. But sometimes, they come with paws, patience, and very, very confusing instincts.

And honestly? We wouldn’t change a thing.

Good grief, don't let him into the chicken coop. He could never fit into one of the nest boxes!!!!

Gabe: "Hey, they took away my eggs. I loved those eggs. Not fair!"

Remi: "Did someone say eggs? Eggs are yummy! Is it snack time?"

Please leave a comment below. I love hearing from you.