Gus Saves the Day

The bobcat didn’t even make it near the fence.

One second it was creeping in on silent paws, probably picturing itself stretched out with a bucket of extra-crispy chicken thighs, and the next second? Poof. Gone. Somewhere deep in the woods now, contemplating a vegetarian lifestyle and rethinking its life goals.

Why the sudden change of heart? Because Gus barked.

And not just any bark. Not the “Hey, there’s a butterfly out here!” bark. Not the “There’s a squirrel in the tree at the end of the pasture” bark. No. This was THE BARK—the kind that starts in the belly and rolls out like distant thunder, rattling the pine cones and punching fear into the hearts of all woodland creatures with bad intentions. The kind that promises, I will ruin your day.

We hadn’t seen or heard a thing. But Gus had.

That big white floofball might spend most of his time belly-up with a goofy grin, legs every which way, like someone unplugged him mid-zoomie. But let something sneak into his turf, and he goes from nap mode to national security in 0.6 seconds flat.

Don’t be fooled by the calm, goofy demeanor. Let something dare to cross the line, and he transforms faster than you can say “bucket o’ chicken,” from porch philosopher to full-on, no-nonsense livestock guardian.

It was that “I mean business” bark that alerted us, the mere humans, that something was out there—lurking, creeping, plotting poultry plunder. Well. . . until Gus opened his mouth and made the forest take notice.

Meanwhile, the chickens—God bless their tiny pea brains—were entirely unaware of the close call. They didn’t even blink. Just kept fluffing feathers, pecking indignantly, and bickering over who gets the top roost like it was Real Housewives: Chicken Coop Edition. Maybe they’re too dense to realize they nearly became bobcat tapas. Or maybe they’re just too used to having Gus on guard to worry about such trivial matters.

And that’s the thing about Gus. He’s 90% lovable doofus. He’ll tumble off a hay bale because he forgot legs were involved. He’ll try to make friends with a stick. He once challenged a snowball to a duel because it looked at him funny. But that other 10%? That’s guardian mode—no hesitation, no fluff-nonsense, just deep instinct, devotion, and full-body commitment to protecting his home and his half-witted, feathered freeloaders.

He might not win any obedience awards (unless there’s a tasty treat involved), but when it counts, Gus shows up.

Good boy, Gus.
Protector of poultry. Defender of the yard. Bringer of Nose Boops.
Even if you did eat a crayon last week.

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