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 BWDs (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 Cafe for a chicken dinner. We free-range our broiler chickens on our lawn, 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 pup 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!” Then Remi, our senior lady down in the lower pasture, came flying up from behind the pond like 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-weasel 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 telling you, 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 Cafe, we reserve the right to refuse service—especially if you show up furry, uninvited, and planning to eat the patrons.

"Well done,Grasshopper!"

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

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Naming Your Supper

I grew up around my Aunt May’s farm, where nobody bothered with “life lessons.” You just figured them out. Nobody ever explained that the ani
mals were food—you just noticed one day that the cow you’d been scratching behind the ears last week was now on a sesame bun between two slices of cheddar. Simple math: animals go in, dinner comes out.

Aunt May had one hard rule: don’t name the animals. Naturally, being the obedient child I was, I named every single one of them. What’s the difference between calling a cow #8305 from its ear tag or Delores? Either way, she was bound for the grill. Personally, I think Delores tastes better than #8305. Adds character.

I grew up eating Cuddles stew and Betsy sandwiches like it was the most normal thing in the world. If you’ve never slathered mayo on a piece of Wonder Bread and topped it with slices of your “best friend” Betsy, then clearly, you weren’t raised right.

So of course, I raised my kids the same way. My son wanted meat rabbits. Fine. We picked some does and a fine buck for breeding. They named him “Flopsy.” Cute, right? I didn’t see a problem. He wasn’t meant for the pot—he had a romantic career ahead of him. Flopsy was supposed to be the Don Juan of rabbits, the Hugh Hefner of hutches, the Barry White of bunnies.

But Mother Nature has no respect for career paths. One night something tried to break into the cage, busted the door, and in the morning I found Flopsy under the hutch with a broken back. So much for romance. He went from Playboy Bunny Mogul to Campbell’s Special of the Day.

The kids were inconsolable. Snot, tears, the whole ugly cry. When I served Flopsy stew, they refused at first. “We can’t eat our pet!” they wailed. I told them firmly, “This is what rabbits are for.” Eventually, they each took one tiny bite—faces scrunched up like they were being forced to swallow poison. Then, like clockwork, the magic happened:

“Can we (sob) have (sob, sob) more Flopsy stew?!”

Folks, nothing prepares you for the sight of a child weeping uncontrollably while simultaneously shoveling meat into their mouth like they’re at a Vegas buffet. It was tragic. It was hilarious. It was farm life in one scene.

Fast forward a few years, and the grandkids were continuing the tradition. They named everything. Jimmy the pig. Ron the cow. And they’d ask for Jimmy sausage or Ron burgers with all the casual cheer of kids ordering Happy Meals.

But then came Wilbur.

We bought six piglets—one for the freezer, one for a pig roast, and four to sell. Naturally, they named the runt Wilbur, because of course they did. Charlotte’s Web had ruined an entire generation.

When pig roast day came, Wilbur was the perfect size. Goldilocks herself couldn’t have picked better. So we roasted him whole, as you do. What I neglected to do was warn the grandkids that Wilbur was going to come out of that roaster looking. . . well. . . like Wilbur, only extra crispy. It just never occurred to me.

When Jim opened the roaster lid, it was like we had just unveiled Satan himself. The children screamed—screamed—like we’d set Disneyland on fire. These weren’t normal screams. These were movie-quality horror screams. Exorcist screams. Neighbors probably peeked out their windows and wondered if we were filming a low-budget slasher flick called Night of the Pork.

I swear I saw one of my grandkids’ souls leave their body when Wilbur’s little snout poked through the steam. You know you’ve messed up when a seven-year-old looks at you like you just personally murdered Santa Claus.

They refused to eat. Refused! Wouldn’t even touch a roll from the table, like it might have “Wilbur essence” on it. Jim had to drive to the store for hot dogs—which, let’s be honest, are basically mystery pig parts ground together with hope and lies—and somehow those were fine. “Oh, this? A mashed-up collection of Wilburs from around the world? Sure, we’ll eat twelve.”

To this day, I think they’re still traumatized. They are all full-grown adults now, most with kids of their own, but you so much as mention “pig roast,” and their eyes twitch like they’re having a flashback.

And poor Flopsy? My daughter still tells people, “When I was a kid, my mom packed me sandwiches for school lunch made from my pet rabbit.” She says it with the same tone other people reserve for recounting childhood trauma involving creepy clowns or a house fire.

I don’t even try to deny it. Because she’s right.

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Farm Shuffle

Sometimes it feels like life hit fast-forward while I was stuck on pause with my foot in the air. I try to write, to record it while it's still fresh in my memory. And sometimes I have to think back a ways to make sure nothing escapes my forgetful brain.

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 3/4” 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 angst, 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 now I know where it is. Right where I left it, wherever that might be.)

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

Then Talon, my beloved Gypsy Cob, after almost a year on the market, 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 for greener pastures:

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.

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, 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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A Tale of Two Goats

It was the best of births, it was the worst of births.

Around here, Sunday mornings have a pattern. I go to church, enjoy the peace and quiet, have a little spiritual reflection, and then drive home to Sunday dinner and relax for the rest of the day, maybe even tap a nap. Usually!

This particular Sunday I get home to discover the barn has gone completely feral. I’ve learned that my animals will save their most dramatic nonsense for the one time I leave the property. And for maximum effect? They wait until I’m wearing my nice clothes.

Alice was five years old, which in goat years is old enough to know better but young enough to still cause trouble. She was one of those “I run this place” personalities—sturdy, opinionated, and deeply convinced she was management, not mere staff. Abigail, her three-year-old daughter, was also an experienced mom but much more the “just get the job done” type. The two of them had managed to get themselves pregnant at the same time, which I’m sure was less of a coincidence and more of a family conspiracy.

If they’d been human, I imagine they would’ve sat side by side on the porch in mismatched lawn chairs, sipping sweet tea, and fanning themselves. Then they'd be comparing belly sizes, swapping pregnancy cravings, and making subtle jabs about whose ankles were more swollen. But goats don’t bother with such small talk. They just keep eating everything that isn’t nailed down—and some things that are—while pretending the rest of the herd is beneath them.

Now, when goats are close to birthing, we put them in “jugs”—private pens where they can deliver without the rest of the herd tromping over the newborns in a quest for the most desirable hay flake. In the pasture, they’d find a quiet spot to get down to the business of kidding, but still within shouting distance of the others. A jug is basically the barn’s version of a maternity ward, except with more hay in your hair and less hand sanitizer.

I had the jugs ready—fresh straw, clean water, everything looking like the goat equivalent of a birthing suite. But since neither was due for another five days, I figured we were fine. Plenty of time. Foolish, foolish me.

That Sunday morning, I checked them before leaving for church. No signs. No pawing the straw. No goo. No looking uncomfortable. Just two smug, pregnant goats chewing cud and giving me their usual look of mild contempt. “You girls behave,” I said as I headed to the truck.

Those were my famous last words.

A couple of hours later, I turned into the driveway, thinking about lunch and how nice it had been to spend a few hours without mud, hay, or animal hair clinging to me. That’s when I heard it.

The first scream hit me before the barn even came into view.

If you’ve never heard a goat scream in crisis, let me describe it for you: it’s like a toddler in full meltdown mode, a dying bagpipe, and a crime scene siren had a love child. It’s the kind of sound that makes you think, something terrible is happening, and I am 100% going to have to get involved.

I slammed the brakes, gravel flying, and just sat there for a second thinking, Please let this be something small. Please let this be “I can’t reach the hay.” But no. The second scream confirmed it: this was major.

I ditched all thoughts of keeping my church clothes clean and marched straight to the barn. By the time I flung open the doors, I was braced for anything.

And “anything” is exactly what I got.

Two brand-new goat kids—one still slick and steaming, the other slightly more dry and already on its feet. One was parked next to Abigail, the other was tucked under Alice, who looked smug enough to be posing for the cover of Mother of the Year Monthly.

At first glance, I thought, “Well, isn’t that tidy—they each had one kid.” Which was adorable of me. But logic doesn’t live here.

Nope. Upon further inspection I realized both kids were Abigail’s. What happened was simple: Abigail delivered her first kid, and while she was busy working on the second, Alice—full of hormones for her own impending delivery, and apparently running a black-market adoption service—snatched the first one and claimed it as her own.

She stood over him like a medieval queen guarding her heir, glaring at me with an expression that clearly said, “Touch him and you die.”

The baby, still slightly wet, blinked up at her like, “Eh, you smell like a mom. Close enough.” Never mind that Alice had no milk yet. She was running entirely on maternal delusion and adrenaline.

Meanwhile, Abigail had popped out her second kid and was spinning in circles, clearly thinking, “I swear I had two. Did I miscount? I know I can count to two. . .”

I grabbed the stolen kid—who bleated in protest at being taken from his “mother”—and plopped him in the jug with Abigail and his sticky sister. Abigail gave me the goat equivalent of a high-five: a single, exhausted glare that said, “Finally. Human to the rescue!”

And me? I was now decorated in birth goo, bits of hay, and the smell of barn drama, right down to my shoes.

Alice was furious.

For three days, she paced the barn screaming like she was auditioning for a barnyard opera. She called for her “missing” baby at all hours, shooting me the kind of look that could curdle milk. I half expected her to file a kidnapping report with the barn cats as witnesses.

Then, right on schedule, she had twins of her own and instantly forgot about the whole thing, because apparently goat memory is about as long as a soap bubble’s lifespan.

And me? I threw my church clothes straight into the washer, muttered a few things under my breath that probably weren’t very holy, and reminded myself that some folks get Sunday dinner. I get Sunday goat custody battles.

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