Fisher Attack

If you’ve never heard of a fisher, allow me to enlighten you—and maybe convince you to keep your chickens inside a bank vault. A fisher is a weasel on steroids. Think wolverine without the charm. It’s like nature said, “You know what’s missing from the forest? A sneaky, tree-climbing land shark with anger issues and dental work that would make a piranha blush.”

These nasty creatures have one goal in life: eat everything. They have no natural predators. Except, of course, for humans… and my Big White Dawgs.

In the wee hours this morning—when even the most caffeine-addicted rooster is still asleep—one of these fur-covered chainsaws thought it would be a great idea to swing by the Davis Café for a chicken dinner. We free-range our broiler chickens out front, and at about 7–8 pounds each, they’re lookin’ mighty plump and ready for their “processing appointment.” Apparently, Mr. Fisher wanted an early reservation.

But what he didn’t count on was our very fluffy, very large, and very territorial bouncer: Gabriel, the King of Fluff and Defender of Chickens. Gabe was stationed, as usual, in the front yard—his version of the night shift. He’s big. He’s white. He’s part dog, part mountain. And he takes his job very seriously.

But the real surprise? The first alarm didn’t come from Gabe. It came from Libby, our 4-month-old Colorado Mountain pup who was stationed with the does in the front pasture. That baby barked like she’d just found out someone was messing with her Netflix account. Her hackles went up, she hit DEFCON 1, and let the whole valley know something nasty was coming down the driveway.

Gabe leapt into action, threw himself at the gate like a medieval knight yelling, “YOU! SHALL! NOT! PASS!”—and Remi, our senior lady Pyr down in the lower pasture, came flying up from behind the pond like she’d just gotten the group text from Libby and wasn’t about to miss out on the action. She was shot out of a cannon powered by rocket fuel, ears pinned, tail high, and ready to ruin someone’s whole career.

The fisher, seeing three livid polar bears in dog suits and realizing this particular diner had a no-rodent policy enforced with teeth, did a sharp U-turn and noped its way back to the forest, probably mumbling, “Sheesh. All I wanted was a nugget.”

We didn’t lose a single bird. Not one. Take that, you bushy-tailed death ferret.

And little Libby? Oh, she was struttin’ like she’d just earned her stripes. Which she had. Gabe and Remi both gave her the canine equivalent of a standing ovation—some proud tail wags, a nose boop, and what I’m pretty sure was a muttered, “Well done, Grasshopper.”

I’m tellin’ ya—this pup’s got the makings of a real guardian. Big bark. Big heart. No patience for nonsense. And a firm belief that chickens are friends, not food.

So if you’re ever thinking about inviting a fisher to dinner, just know this:
At the Davis Café, we reserve the right to refuse service. Especially if you show up furry, uninvited, and planning to eat the staff.

"Well done,Grasshopper!"

"OK, OK, you did good kid. Now go away!"

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Farm Shuffle

Well hello there, blog world. It's been a hot minute since I've posted—mostly because life around here decided to hit fast-forward while I was stuck on pause with my foot in the air.

Let’s rewind a bit. Back in February, I had the second surgery on my right foot to fuse the big toe joint. Why? Because about four years ago a 4x8 sheet of plywood decided to swan-dive off a stack from about three feet up—right onto my foot. Crunch. You never realize how important that joint is until it’s been flattened like a pancake by a sheet of flying plywood.

So there I was, couch-bound for a couple of weeks, foot elevated like royalty, binging British detective shows and pretending to enjoy it. Then it was three months in a walking boot, clomping around the farm like Frankenstein’s cousin.

Meanwhile… everything changed.

The three grandkids all moved out. Poof. Just like that. After months of teenage energy, midnight fridge raids, and the distinct sound of video games and drums bleeding through the walls at 2 a.m., the house is now eerily quiet—and a whole lot cleaner. (And no one’s asking me where the peanut butter went. Because I know where it is. Right where I left it.)

Then Talon, my beloved Gypsy Cob, was sold to a vacation farm in Pennsylvania. You know, the kind of place where folks from the city pay real money to muck stalls and milk goats because they think it’s quaint. (I’ll let you in on a secret: they haven’t done it in February. Or in mud season.)

They also bought the saddle I had custom-made for him—because obviously, you can't have a horse without the saddle. The round pen? Sold. The horse trailer? Gone last week. And a few weeks ago, someone showed up intending to buy just one goat… and somehow drove off with five goats and four pigs. I’m not entirely sure how that happened. It was like a barnyard clearance sale where the animals negotiated their own deals.

Let’s recap what left:

• 3 grandkids (formerly known as “The Bottomless Pits”)

• 1 horse and his custom saddle

• 5 goats

• 4 pigs

• 1 round pen

• 1 horse trailer

• And, as of today, our van

At this rate, I feel like I should be stamping “SOLD” on everything that’s not nailed down and setting up a booth at the local flea market.

But don’t worry—it hasn’t been all subtraction around here.

We added a new member to the farm family: Libby, short for Liberty Bell. She’s a Colorado Mountain Dog—part Great Pyrenees, part Anatolian Shepherd, and 100% adorable. At eight weeks old, she’s about the cutest thing this side of a baby panda and about as coordinated. Right now, she’s in that bite-everything-that-moves stage, with a bonus side of random leaping.

She’s not quite ready to be in with the goats just yet. We’re waiting for her to grow out of the ankle-nipping ninja phase and grow into the goat-guarding phase. For now, she’s in her own little section where she can see the goats and they can see her, but no one can head-butt, nibble, or escape.

I feel like I’m supervising a preschool version of Survivor: Barnyard Edition—complete with alliances, betrayals, and someone always crying.

"Hey, what's going on in here?"

Gabriel, our older LGD, has been the first to accept her—he’s got that kind, fatherly soul that says “sure, kid, you can sleep here, just don’t snore.” He lets her curl up beside him and even shares meals without a grumble. It’s no small thing to be welcomed by the senior dog—LGD apprenticeships are notoriously strict.

Remi, on the other hand? She thinks Libby is about as welcome as a giant, fuzzy gnat. Every time Libby bounces her way, Remi gives her that withering side-eye that says “child, no.” It’s going to take some time before Remi gives her stamp of approval—but my bet is that by the end of the month, they’ll be wrestling like sisters and stealing each other’s dinner.

So there you have it:
We're lighter on livestock, heavier on puppy antics, and navigating life one unexpected plot twist at a time.

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Goat Kids: Powered by Chaos, Fueled by Happiness

Every morning, before I even make it to the kitchen, I glance out the window and get an instant dose of joy. There they are—zooming back and forth, ears flapping, legs flying, occasionally misjudging a landing and crashing like a gymnast who launched with confidence but landed on their face instead. It makes me laugh every single time. They don’t know why they’re running. They’re just thrilled to be alive and determined to spread that energy around like glitter at a toddler birthday party.

There’s probably some deep life lesson in that somewhere—about joy, resilience, and seizing the moment—but I’m usually too busy laughing at a 10-pound goat trying to body-slam a water bucket to be philosophical about it.

And yes, the chaos does come with its share of extras:

• Hay in my bra.

• Hoof prints on my jacket.

• A barn that now sounds like a kazoo concert in a bounce house.

If you're ever feeling grumpy, burned out, or just a little blah, I highly recommend a few minutes of goat therapy. No fancy appointments. No soothing music. Just stand near a goat pen and let the nonsense commence. It’s better than yoga. And unlike people, baby goats won’t try to sell you essential oils or argue about politics.

We’re only halfway through kidding season, and I suspect the June arrivals will bring even more wild-eyed bouncing joy. Until then, I’ll be out in the barn, laughing at the little ones as they practice their high-speed nonsense, blissfully unaware that the world is anything but a playground.

This is proof that joy comes in small, fuzzy, bouncing packages.

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