From Guard Dog to Couch Critic

Each spring, we give our Great Pyrenees a good shearing to help them stay cool through the warmer months. Usually, they grow back their luxurious, snow-proof coats by the time frost returns to the air. Remy, our white polar bear with a bark that could peel paint, has always followed the plan.

Until this year.

This year, Remy's undercoat came in... well, let’s just say “reluctantly.” As in, it RSVP’d "maybe" and then ghosted her entirely. What little fluff did return was patchy at best, leaving her with two large bald spots on either side and a smaller one right over her withers. The poor thing looked like she lost a bar fight with a weed whacker.

Naturally, this called for an urgent and very expensive vet visit. Skin tests, a full blood panel, and a thyroid test later, the diagnosis was in: Remy is in perfect health. Go figure. Just a little thin on hair and thick on drama. The vet recommended supplements to encourage coat growth, but in the meantime, there’s one glaring issue—she’s not exactly equipped for our North Country winters.

And that’s how Remy became... a house dog.

She’s not thrilled about missing the thrilling excitement of fence patrol, barking at wind-blown leaves and invisible woodland demons. But she’s made some interesting indoor discoveries that are starting to grow on her—unlike her coat.

The first and most important discovery? The couch. Oh yes. She claimed it like a Viking taking over a new land. As is typical of a Pyr, she doesn’t recognize the word “no” unless it’s followed by “you can have that roast chicken.” So now, the couch is hers. We’re allowed to sit there, but only if we ask nicely and bring snacks.

Next up: grooming. Being a house dog apparently comes with spa appointments. Baths, brushing, and the dreaded blow dryer—Remy tolerates it all with the resigned nobility of a queen forced to mingle with the peasants. But she’ll put up with anything if it includes a car ride, which she enjoys like she’s auditioning for The Fast and the Furriest.

And then there's the kitchen—a place of magic and mystery where smells live. She's taken on the self-appointed role of pre-rinse cycle for the dishwasher and considers it her patriotic duty to inspect every plate for trace crumbs. She's surprisingly thorough. Borderline obsessive.

All in all, while the house may be a bit less exciting than the open pasture, it has its perks. Remy’s adapting. She still sighs dramatically when she sees the other dogs outside, but let’s be honest—she's got heated floors and unlimited couch access.

The real issue is going to be when her coat does grow back and it’s time to send her back outside.

Although… I could’ve sworn I saw her the other day pawing through the grooming supplies. And was that… did she just give herself another bald spot?

Coincidence? I think not.

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The Never Ending.....

We’ve all had that song stuck in our heads. You know the one—“This is the song that never ends, yes, it goes on and on, my friend. . .”? Yep. That little earworm that loops itself into your brain until you start twitching involuntarily and muttering lyrics under your breath in the produce aisle. Or maybe you remember The NeverEnding Story movie—complete with the giant flying dog-dragon thing that looks like it belongs in a Lisa Frank binder.

Well, today I didn’t have a song or a story stuck on repeat. Today, I had The Never Ending Kitchen.

It began, as these things always do, with good intentions and a pile of dirty dishes. Now, I could have done them last night, but let’s be honest—Sunday is the Lord’s day, and I firmly believe He wouldn’t want me elbow-deep in dishwater when I could be on the couch under a blanket pretending not to hear the chaos in the kitchen.

So Monday morning greets me with a mountain of crusty reminders that last night’s supper was, in fact, a thing. First chore: clean kitchen. That includes unloading the dishwasher, refilling it with every dish in a 20-mile radius, scrubbing the pots and pans that didn’t make the cut, and wiping down the counters and stove so it looks like I have my act together.

Next? Out to do the goat milking, collect eggs, and take care of barn chores. Then into the milk room—or as I like to call it, “The Barn Kitchen”—because why limit the madness to one building?

Back in the house, time for breakfast. Which— you guessed it—creates more dirty dishes. Clean kitchen.

Toss in a load of laundry. Then decide to make a batch of cajeta because I like to overachieve on Mondays. (If you don’t know what cajeta is, consider yourself lucky—you don’t know what you’re missing. If you do know, grab a napkin. You’re drooling.)

Cajeta on the stove. Clean kitchen.

Switch laundry to dryer. Get a snack. Dirty plate. Clean kitchen.

Check email. Go for a walk with the goats and dogs because, at this point, I need to be outdoors or I will fuse to my kitchen floor.

Return home. Lunchtime! More dirty dishes. Clean kitchen. Fold laundry. Cajeta’s done. Strain it, jar it, refrigerate it. Clean kitchen.

Make a batch of ricotta because apparently I’ve given up on sitting down today. Clean kitchen.

By the time Jim rolls in from work, I’m back at it again—cooking supper and mentally preparing myself for the next round of. . . yep. . . you guessed it: Clean. Kitchen.

Are you picking up on a pattern here? Because The Never Ending Kitchen is real, folks. I think it’s been cursed. Or enchanted. Or possessed by the ghost of June Cleaver with a bad attitude and a sink fetish.

Now, I know some folks would say, “Why not just do it all at once? Let the mess build up and clean it once at the end of the day.” And to those people I say: “How do you live like that?!” I can’t function in chaos. I start twitching when the spatula’s in the sink instead of the drawer. It’s not a choice—it’s survival.

So I clean as I go. And go. And go. Some days, it feels like I’m trapped in an endless loop of suds and crumbs, like I’ve been sentenced to some sort of culinary purgatory. But at least I’m not barefoot and pregnant. Just barefoot and mildly unhinged.

Stay strong, my fellow dish warriors. We may not win the battle, but we will wipe down that counter one more time.

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Berry Good Morning

There’s a certain kind of smug satisfaction that comes from strolling out to your own garden and harvesting breakfast like some sort of off-grid woodland sprite who also knows how to use a pressure canner. This morning, I kicked off the day by wandering into the blueberry patch in my pajama pants, barn boots, and yesterday’s hair—because nothing says “living the dream” like bedhead and bug bites before 7 a.m.

The blueberry bushes are putting on a show this year, absolutely dripping with fruit. And not just ripe fruit—no, these overachievers are flaunting every possible stage of berry development. It’s like a Pinterest board of blueberries: sassy green ones just starting out, blushing pink teenagers, moody purple middle children, and the fully ripe, indigo jewels bursting with juice and attitude. If you’ve ever wondered what abundance looks like, it’s a bush so heavy with berries it looks like it’s about to call it quits and file for berry-related workers comp.

This year has been a banner year for growing stuff. Apparently, Mother Nature is in a good mood or owed us one after last summer’s monsoon/heatwave/volcano combo. We’ve had the perfect mix of hot sun and well-timed rain, and now everything’s growing like it’s in a competition. With each other. And possibly with us.

We grow most of our own food here on the farm, which sounds romantic until you realize it means someone (me) has to figure out what to do with 40 pounds of zucchini every third day. Our garden is bursting at the seams with the usual suspects—carrots, beans, potatoes, tomatoes, squash, and the pride of the patch: a well-established asparagus bed that we treat like royalty. (Seriously, if those stalks ever rise up and declare themselves in charge, I won’t argue.)

Fruit-wise, we’ve got apple, pear, and plum trees. We had a peach tree. It met an untimely end last year when the goats staged a coordinated prison break and decided the peach tree was both delicious and in their way. RIP, sweet fuzzy fruit.

Berry-wise? Oh honey, we could open a roadside stand with a side hustle in experimental jam flavors. Raspberries, blackberries, blueberries, gooseberries, elderberries, red currants, strawberries—basically, if it ends in “berry,” it’s somewhere on this farm. We also have rhubarb, which I fully count as a fruit because it’s red and sour and goes great with sugar. Also, because I say so.

We get milk and meat from our goats, eggs and meat from the chickens and ducks, and pork from the pigs. The only thing we don’t raise ourselves is beef, but we buy that from a friend down the road who pasture-raises Herefords and is always good for a solid handshake and a long conversation about weather and fence repairs. It's like farmers’ market meets front porch gossip hour.

The animals do double duty as our land management crew. The goats are top-tier brush clearers. Their philosophy is “if it’s leafy, eat it; if it’s in the way, headbutt it.” The pigs are excellent at stump removal, mostly because they don’t understand boundaries or respect the sanctity of tree roots. They just dig like their life depends on it—and honestly, it kind of does. The chickens and ducks handle the bugs, the composting, and the morale. We used to have sheep, but... well, we don't really like lamb, I don’t spin wool, and they’re just not what you’d call “smart.” Let’s just say their main contribution was slapstick comedy, mostly involving fences and regret.

So here we are—hip-deep in food and farm chaos, heading into the season of “now what do I do with all of it?” The kitchen has transformed into a battlefield of canning jars, dehydrator trays, and sticky surfaces. There’s a constant bubbling noise from something fermenting, and I’m not entirely sure it’s intentional. At any given moment, I may be freezing green beans, making elderberry syrup, and yelling at someone to stir the applesauce all at the same time.

It’s messy. It’s exhausting. It’s also more satisfying than a whole cart of overpriced “organic” produce from the grocery store.

And it all started with a handful of blueberries this morning, still warm from the sun, eaten while I stood barefoot in the garden and pretended the mosquito bites were just nature’s love taps.

Come winter, when the snow’s up to the eaves and we’re eating stew made from our own pantry shelves, I’ll remember mornings like this and smile. Or maybe I’ll just remember the goat that killed the peach tree. Either way—it’s all part of the adventure.

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Morning Reflection

Some mornings sneak up on you like a cat on a sunbeam. You step outside expecting the usual farm chaos—someone stuck in a fence, someone else yelling about being “starving” despite having eaten thirty seconds ago—and instead, you’re met with quiet. Not the unsettling kind, but the kind that drapes over your shoulders like an old quilt, warm and familiar, and makes you stop mid-step without meaning to.

It was that kind of morning—cool, misty, brushed with that soft early light that makes everything look like a memory you haven’t had yet. The pond lay still, a sheet of glass without a ripple, and along its edge stood the whole goat herd—spread out, unhurried, peaceful. Like they knew.

Nine goats, each doing their own thing yet somehow part of the same slow dance: two tucked under the pines nibbling bark like it was the breakfast special; one perched on a stump, queen of her tiny kingdom; the rest with noses buried in grass, tails flicking in a lazy rhythm. No bickering. No hollering. Just the whisper of grazing and the occasional contented grunt.

And in the pond? Their reflections—perfect little mirror images painted on the water—until one kid wandered too close and sent a ripple through the whole picture. But for that one brief, held-breath moment, it was magic. The kind of scene you’d find in a dusty old children’s book—The Morning the Goats Stood Still.

And there was Gabriel, our old reliable Great Pyrenees, planted at the edge like the world’s fluffiest marble statue. Just watching. Not barking. Just. . . being. I don’t know if it’s instinct, love, or some ancient guardian spirit that lives in dogs like him, but he takes his post seriously. Sitting there between the goats and the pond, he looked like he was guarding something sacred. And maybe he was.

There’s a particular hush to mornings like this. Not true silence—there’s still the hum of insects and the sigh of the breeze—but a hush that reaches past your ears and settles somewhere behind your ribs. It makes you forget the to-do list, the muddy chores, the bad knee, and whatever tangle of thoughts you woke up with. You just stand in it, breathing it in like medicine.

I’ve had a lot of mornings on this farm—loud ones, muddy ones, ridiculous ones where a goat ended up on the roof or let herself into the kitchen. But every now and then, a morning like this tiptoes in and reminds me why we stay. Why we traded sidewalks for uneven pasture and vacations for vet bills. Why we live this life with all its ridiculous, beautiful mess.

Because sometimes the pond is still. Sometimes the goats behave. Sometimes your old dog sits like a sentry at the edge of the world. And sometimes—just sometimes—you get to see your whole life reflected in the water, clear as truth.

And you remember: this is home.

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