The Great Fluffpocalypse

It was grooming day here at the farm—also known as “The Great Fluffpocalypse.”

Dora, a Cockapoo, is our needy child. She has that wonderful, non-shedding poodle coat and had just gone to the groomer last week for her usual shampoo, haircut, and diva treatment, so she was in zero need of a brush. But don’t tell her that. The second she saw the grooming tote, she assumed the position like a diva about to take center stage. Stump of a tail wagging, butt wiggling, eyes sparkling, vibrating with the chaotic energy of a toddler who just ate three chocolate bars—she needed this. I gave her three pity brushes, praised her like she’d won Best in Show, and sent her back inside. She strutted off like a celebrity leaving a red carpet event and resumed her nap on the couch with the satisfaction of someone who knows they’re fabulous.

Next up: Shaymus. Terrier mix of mysterious origin. Part dog, part tumbleweed with legs. When we adopted him, he didn’t shed. At all. We thought, “Wow! How lucky to find another non-shedding pooch!” Turns out, he just didn’t have an undercoat because of the poor nutrition common to stray street dogs. Fast forward to now—he’s healthy, thriving, and shedding like he’s in a competition to clone himself. I brushed him for 15 minutes and produced enough hair to stuff a futon. My porch looked like a dog exploded in slow motion. There was fur in my hair, on my teeth, inside my eyeballs, in my soul. Shaymus just sat there with the smug grin of a dog who knows he’s both the problem and the prize.

And then came Gus. Gus is our livestock guardian dog: massive, goofy, and under the impression that grooming is just an extreme sport version of cuddling. The moment he saw the brush, he belly-flopped like a sack of flour with fur and rolled over dramatically, ready for what he assumed was a 90-minute belly rub. Trying to brush Gus is like grooming a beached manatee that won’t stop wiggling. Every time I made a little progress, he rolled over like a furry rotisserie chicken and smiled like, “Was this the experience you were hoping for?” I had to use one hand to brush and the other to shield my face from joyful, slobbery kisses. By the end, I smelled like dog, mud, and despair.

We finished with a mountain of hair large enough to qualify for its own zip code. Dora was still napping like royalty. Shaymus was actively shedding in the breeze. And Gus was trotting toward the newly mowed pasture to roll and color himself green.

So yes, it was grooming day. I’m wearing enough fur to be mistaken for a border collie and my dignity is somewhere under the pile of fluff on the porch. But hey—it’s all in a day’s work on the farm. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got fur in my mouth, slobber on my shirt, and a giant green dog to tackle before he gets captured by a leprechaun. Let’s roll.

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June 21st: The Worst Day of the Year (Don’t @ Me)

Ah yes, June 21st. The sunniest of all sunny days. The longest stretch of daylight we get all year. Birds are chirping. People are frolicking. Instagram is ablaze with flower crowns and iced coffee.

Meanwhile, I’m over here side-eyeing the sun like it just double dipped at a potluck. Why? Because this—this bright, chipper, UV-saturated day—is the beginning of the end.

That’s right. We peaked. It’s all downhill from here. The days only get shorter now. Every evening, a few more seconds of light get snatched away like nature's version of daylight robbery. It’s a slow-motion horror film for those of us who like to finish chores without a headlamp strapped to our foreheads.

And I know what you’re thinking: “But summer is so beautiful!”

Just so we’re clear, I’m not anti-summer. I enjoy a good watermelon. I’ve been known to frolic occasionally. But what really grinds my gears is that from this point on, every morning sunrise is a little later, every evening sunset a little earlier. By the time August hits, I’m already mourning the light. Because I know what’s coming. I’m emotionally preparing for the return of seasonal depression and frozen windshields.

Yep. Come winter, I’m out in the chicken coop stringing up bulbs like it’s Studio 54. Chickens need 12 to 14 hours of light a day to keep laying eggs, and let me tell you—those divas do not perform under poor lighting conditions. So there I am, running extension cords through snowdrifts so Henrietta can keep dropping eggs like the little oviparous prima donna she is.

Which brings me to my favorite day of the year: December 21st.

The shortest, darkest, most Vitamin D-deficient day on the calendar. While the rest of the world is clutching their SAD lamps and threatening to move to Florida, I’m out here in my thermal underwear doing a victory lap around the barn. Because that day? That day means we’re on the upswing. More daylight tomorrow. Even more the day after that. Eventually—gloriously—I get to unplug the chicken light.

And it's not just any unplugging. Oh no. This is a ceremony. There’s pomp. There’s circumstance. There may or may not be a bathrobe involved. I march out there like the Queen of Daylight, extension cord in hand, chickens watching with mild confusion as I declare, “Ladies, the sun hath returned! Lay at will!”

And just like that, we’re back on track.
No more electric bills for your eggs, Henrietta.

So while the rest of you are out twirling through the summer solstice in your flip-flops, sipping sun tea and pretending not to notice the mosquitoes, I’ll be in the shade with my iced herb tea and a countdown clock to winter.

Happy First Day of Summer.
Let the shrinking begin.

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Back in the Barn Boots --- Again

Or How I Gave Up Retirement for Hay, Hens, and a Whole Lot of Fence Fixing

In 2019, Jim and I did what any sensible, slightly stir-crazy couple does after years of livestock, mud, and frozen water buckets—we sold the animals, bought a 26-foot travel trailer, and rode off into the sunset like a pair of geriatric cowboys chasing 70 degrees.

We became snowbirds. Not the kind that nest in RV parks with satellite dishes the size of dinner tables. We zigzagged through the southern states (excluding Florida—because even in winter, it feels like soup in your shoes). We swapped barn boots for sandals and mud for sand. And for a while, it was great.

But then… things changed - again.

We sold the trailer, settled back into home life, and something strange started happening. I missed it.

Not the trailer. Not the questionable campground bathrooms. But the work. The real, gritty, unglamorous kind of work that makes your muscles sore and your back say things your mouth shouldn’t repeat.

Turns out, daily walks and beach chairs don’t keep you strong. Who knew? So I did the only reasonable thing: I got a dozen chickens, a few sheep, and started reacquainting myself with the joy of hay splinters, grain bags that laugh in the face of gravity, and fencing that mysteriously breaks only when it’s raining sideways.

And you know what? I love it.

This blog is my way of getting back to the roots—sometimes literally, when I trip in the pasture. I’ll be sharing the ridiculous, heartwarming, occasionally muddy realities of life on a (very) small farm. Expect animal shenanigans, fence-related swearing (edited from what my brain may be thinking), and the occasional life lesson courtesy of a hen with no sense of personal space.

Thanks for stopping by. Kick off your boots—or leave them on if you’re chasing chickens. Either way, grab a cup of coffee or hot chocolate. It’s going to be a good ride.

P.S. – Before I came crawling back to the barn, I wrote a travel blog during our RV days. If you want to see how we fumbled our way across the country (and how many times I said, “Did you lock the trailer?”), check out crosscountrycruzin.blogspot.com. It’s got sunsets, scenic views, and at least one emergency involving a black tank.

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