Apparently, My Chickens Live in Poverty

I’m just a country gal. Nothing fancy. If something works, I leave it alone. If it’s held together with baler twine and sheer stubbornness, I consider it a success. My style is practical, functional, and not likely to show up in any glossy magazine—unless there’s a Rustic Chaos special edition, which, honestly, should exist.

So you can imagine my reaction when I stumbled upon an article about a horse barn done up like a luxury hotel lobby. Brick walkway, laid in a herringbone pattern (naturally), crisp white walls, ebony-stained trim, and chandeliers. A whole row of chandeliers, twinkling above the stalls like the horses were hosting a gala. Because apparently, these days, your horses need mood lighting while they kick holes in the walls and smear poop everywhere.

But it didn’t stop there. Oh no. I’ve seen chicken coops—chicken coops—with vinyl flooring, matching curtains, wallpaper, and yes, more chandeliers. Apparently, if your coop doesn’t look like the cover of Poultry Palace Monthly, you’re just not trying hard enough. Meanwhile, back at my place, Hennifer Lopez and her feathered entourage are finally laying eggs in the nest box and defending it like it’s prime real estate. They don’t seem too concerned about the lack of interior design.

And just when I thought barnyard luxury had peaked, I saw it. A goat barn. Two stories tall, with a second-floor balcony. A proper balcony, mind you, complete with rocking chairs, a braided rug, and—you guessed it—a chandelier hanging gracefully above the whole setup. Because clearly, if you’re going to sip your sun tea while watching goats act like caffeinated toddlers on a playground, you deserve proper ambiance.

Oh, and the goats? They weren’t left to just stand around—no sir. They had their own full-blown playground. Jungle gyms. Seesaws. Climbing ramps. A proper goat amusement park. I half expected to see a ticket booth and a sign that said, “Next show: 2 PM.” Because nothing says “responsible livestock management” like building an outdoor adventure course for animals who will still, without fail, choose to stand on your car if given the chance.

I don’t even have goats anymore, but I’ll admit that balcony looked pretty inviting. I wouldn’t mind sitting up there, rocking gently, watching someone else’s goats bounce off the walls. But still—a chandelier. On a barn balcony. For goat-watching.

Back at my farm, the barn floor is plain wood, sealed with Blackjack 57, and topped with pine shavings. My lighting? Bare bulbs, exposed fixtures, no frills. They come on when I flip the switch, and that’s good enough for me. No one’s throwing a cocktail party out there. My sheep think tipping over their water bucket is the height of entertainment. If I hung flowers in their pen, I'd come back to bare stems and zero apologies.

I admire folks who style their barns like magazine spreads. I truly do. They’re creative. Dedicated. Probably exhausted. Me? I’m just trying to keep the barn swept, the grass mowed before I lose a chicken in it, and the animals fed before they stage a revolt.

Maybe one day I’ll hang a chandelier in the barn—strictly as a perch for the chickens. Functional and decorative. That’s my kind of style. Until then, I’ll stick with pine shavings, and bare bulbs. Because let’s be honest: the animals don’t care. And neither do I.

As for that balcony? I’m not saying no. I’m saying not yet.

In the meantime, I’ll be on my imaginary balcony, rocking away, watching the chaos I call a farm—and loving every minute of it.

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The Guinea Fowl Debacle: A Cautionary Tale

I’m in several Facebook groups dedicated to chickens, sheep, and various other forms of controlled barnyard chaos. These groups are equal parts helpful, terrifying, and wildly entertaining—kind of like watching a soap opera, only with feathers, hooves, and the occasional goat climbing a kitchen counter. They’re the kind of virtual hangouts where people post photos of poop and ask, “Is this normal?” They swap advice on everything from worming schedules to whether their rooster might be emotionally unstable.

This morning, in one of the chicken groups, the topic took a lively detour into the world of guinea fowl—those screechy, helmet-headed, weirdo guard dogs of the poultry world. One person raved about how they’re great watchdogs (watchbirds?), alerting you to anything even slightly unusual: predators, falling leaves, suspicious clouds, possibly ghosts. Another chimed in about their excellent reputation for drastically reducing the tick population. And then one brave soul asked the real question:

“Do they ever shut up?”

Cue the collective sigh from everyone who’s ever tried to own guineas and live a peaceful life.

I was instantly transported back to my guinea fowl misadventures. Yes, plural. You’d think I’d have learned the first time. I’ve tried them—really, I have—but I’ve never successfully managed to keep them around or stay sane.

Try #1: The Great Guinea Getaway

It all began with 15 adorable, chirping keets (that’s baby guineas, for those blissfully unaware). I was feeling optimistic, full of hope, maybe a little cocky. (Pun intended.) I raised them like royalty—fed them well, kept them warm, gave them love. I was the Mary Poppins of poultry.

The moment they got their flight feathers? Whoosh! They peaced-out like a group of teenagers who just found out the Wi-Fi password at someone else’s house.

No goodbye. No farewell peep. Gone. Vanished. No note. No text. Just a puff of dust and the faint sound of flapping wings. Straight into the woods and gone forever. Probably joined a gang. I’m still bitter.

Try #2: Guinea Math and Desperate Neighbors

The second time, I didn’t mean to get guineas. Fast-forward a year or two—I went to pick up a sheep. Just one sheep. But the farmer was drowning in guineas and looked desperate.

"Please take some," he begged.

You’ve heard of chicken math? You know, that phenomenon where you go for one and end up with 20? This was guinea math—only a darker, louder force of nature.

We drove home with one sheep and four guineas, two mated pairs. I tried to do things right this time, keeping them in a large wire dog crate for a week so they could get the lay of the land, fall in love with the coop, maybe write a few songs about it, and learn where home was.

Apparently, “home” was not to their liking.

As soon as I let them out, they strutted around the farm like they were on a real estate tour, then decided the neighbor’s yard had better amenities. Every day, they’d eat breakfast at my place like freeloaders, then head off to the neighbor’s to scream at squirrels, admire their own voices, and park themselves right in front of his sliding glass doors like tiny, feathered salesmen who refused to leave.

My neighbor called.

"Uh… Sandy? Did you. . . by any chance. . . happen to get some guineas?"

"Yes," I said cautiously.

"Well, they’ve adopted my porch. They’re watching us like feathered surveillance drones. They stare at us for hours. And they. . . Never. Stop. Yelling. Can’t you do something to keep them home?" he asked, sounding like a desperate man planning an emergency trip to the hardware store for chicken wire, porch netting, and possibly a priest.

I told him they were edible—kind of like pheasant but less gamey—and he was welcome to have them for dinner. He didn’t appreciate that suggestion. Something about his kids being traumatized if dinner came with a name and a staring problem.

Enter the Mirror of Doom

Desperate, I turned to the internet and discovered a fun guinea fact: they are ridiculously vain. Like, full-on feathered narcissists. Apparently, they love staring at their own reflections in a mirror.

Cue Operation Narcissus.

I found a large, old mirror in the barn and propped it up along their morning commute to the feed trough. I placed a large dog crate nearby and waited.

Right on schedule, the guineas strutted up, saw their reflections, and froze. It was like watching a poultry version of a high school prom photo shoot.

I imagine the conversation went something like this:

Martha: “Fred, do you see her? She looks just like me—stunning!”

Fred: “Indeed, Martha. And look at that dashing male beside her—quite the specimen. Honestly, a model.”

Sally: “Hold on, everyone. This one over here? Feathers like spun silk. I must know what shampoo she uses.”

Roger: “I don’t want to brag, but the guy in front of me? A real stud muffin. A true Adonis of the guinea world! Probably works out.”

While they fawned over themselves like barnyard Kardashians, I tiptoed up and gently nudged the crate closer. . . closer. . . BAM! They marched right in like it was a VIP lounge. Caught by their own vanity. I didn’t know whether to be proud or deeply concerned about what I’d just witnessed.

Almost Freezer Camp… Almost

I couldn’t just let them go again, so I stuck them in an empty chicken tractor—a bottomless mobile pen you can move around the yard for fresh grass. They weren’t happy about it, but I reminded them that this was Plan B. Plan A was to stay in my barnyard, but that ship had already sailed.

Jim had plans to send them to “freezer camp” that weekend. But before we could sharpen the knives, Mother Nature got involved.

One blustery afternoon, I looked out the window just in time to see the chicken tractor take flight across the field like a low-budget barnyard production of The Wizard of Oz. It flipped upside down on the far side of the fence, and the guineas shot out like feathered cannonballs. They headed for the woods at top speed, squawking a final, offended farewell.

Gone again. Of course.

A Mystery for the Ages

The next summer, I overheard some folks chatting at the feed store:

"Have you heard about that wild flock of guineas over by Ridge Road?"

"Yeah! Weird, right? Wonder where they came from."

I just nodded politely and said, “Huh. That is strange.” Then I walked away. Slowly. Casually. Like a woman with nothing to confess and no regrets. . . except for the part where I ever brought home guineas in the first place.

Let’s just say I’ve retired from guinea fowl ownership. If anyone asks, I’m strictly chickens and sheep these days. Chickens might be mini velociraptors, and sheep might think a strong breeze is a valid reason to panic, but at least they don’t spend their afternoons admiring themselves in mirrors or heckling the neighbors. Usually.

If you’re thinking of getting guineas, here’s my advice: Don’t. Unless your neighbors really need more excitement in their lives. Or you have an extra mirror lying around and a lot of patience. Or you just really enjoy poultry that screams all the time.

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Want to swap livestock war stories? Or maybe just confess how many chickens you really have?  Share it in the comments! Misery loves company—and so do livestock owners.

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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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A Page Turns, A Chapter Ends, But The Book Isn't Finished

The quiet goodbye I didn’t want to write

Some chapters in life don’t end with fireworks. They end in silence—in the quiet thud of a barn door closing for the last time, in the soft crunch of hay under boots that won’t make this walk again, in the weight of a phone conversation that says, “Yes. . . she’s for sale.” This is one of those chapters.

After long, sleepless nights and a heart heavy with decision, I’ve chosen something I never thought I would: to let go of my homestead—my dream, my living, breathing creation—built with my own hands, Jim’s steady help, and a few determined dogs. And it breaks me.

You don’t just do this life; you become it. It wraps itself around your soul, changes your rhythm, and gives you a heartbeat that matches the bleating of goats, the sigh of a sow settling into straw, the flap of chicken wings in the morning mist. It teaches you commitment—not the Hallmark kind, but the cold-hands, sore-back, no-days-off, mud-on-your-face kind. For years, I carried it—happily, proudly, fiercely. But somewhere, without warning, something shifted.

Not overnight—oh no. It was a slow unraveling, so slow I didn’t see it until the day I stopped, looked around, and realized my dream had drifted just out of reach. Joy had slipped into exhaustion, and freedom—something I had never allowed myself to want—was whispering my name. The truth is, small farming doesn’t give much back. Not in money, not in rest, not in time. You don’t go on vacation, you don’t take long weekends, you don’t even get to be sick. Animals need you—every day, in every weather, no matter how empty you feel. And sometimes, the person who could carry that weight just isn’t the person you are anymore.

I had plans. God, I had plans. A little commercial kitchen in the barn. Cheese-making. Spring milkings turning into jars of chevre. Fall festivals with wheels of aged goat cheese wrapped in wax and pride. Community. Creation. Purpose. But life is not obligated to honor our blueprints. Sometimes it knocks the cheese right off the cracker and leaves you staring at the mess.

Jim and I have been hearing the open road call our names. We want to travel. Visit family. See this beautiful country. Maybe just escape the northern winters. We want to wake up and decide what to do that day—not have the day already decided for us.

So, I say goodbye. Goodbye to the goats who made me laugh when I didn’t think I could. To the chickens who shadowed my steps. To the pigs who rooted their way through both the pasture and my heart—and, somehow, made me like them. Goodbye to the guardian dogs who walked the fence lines in every season, whose eyes missed nothing and whose hearts missed no one; who stood between us and every shadow, keeping us safe when we slept. They’ll find new farms to guard, new flocks to love, and new hearts to call their own—but they will always be mine in spirit.

It hurts—deep, raw hurt that sits behind my ribs and climbs my throat when I speak. These animals were not just livestock. They were chapters. Companions. Witnesses. I cry over every phone call. I write ads through a blur. I whisper promises as each one leaves—swearing they’ll be loved, that I’m not abandoning them, that this is kindness, even if it feels like loss. I need them to hear it, and I need you to hear it too.

This isn’t failure. It’s transition. A pause. A breath between the chapters. Farming runs in my blood. I was made for it—I know this. And maybe someday, I’ll return. Maybe with fewer animals, less pressure, more balance. Maybe to this quiet little homestead at the forest’s edge. Or a greenhouse. Or a farmstand. Or one ridiculous goat who thinks she runs the place. But not today.

Today, I grieve. I let go. I walk away—not because it wasn’t good, but because I have changed. Because life has changed. Because even the strongest dreams sometimes need to rest. To those who have walked with me—thank you. For the kindness, the laughter, the help with muck buckets and runaway hens. For reading these stories and loving this farm alongside me. And to my animals—my sweet, chaotic, miraculous animals—thank you for letting me love you.

The farm may be quiet now, but the book is still open, and I am still here. When the time is right, I’ll turn the next page. Until then. . . God bless. Perhaps I’ll see you on the road.

Some dreams rest, but they do not die—they wait, like seeds beneath the snow, for the season to come again.

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No Kidding? Yes, Kidding!

Well, folks, it's that time of year again—kidding season is officially underway! The first arrivals came on Monday, April 1, and trust me, it’s no joke. Meet our adorable new arrivals: triplets! They’re mini-Nubians, born from a Nubian mom and a Nigerian Dwarf dad, and they are seriously too cute for words. Two girls and one boy—because who wouldn’t want a goat gang of three?

These pictures were taken just hours after their grand entrance into the world, and while they might not be holding still for their glamorous photoshoot, you’ll get the idea. More pictures to come, as soon as I can chase them down long enough to snap a few!

As for the mama and her little ones, they’re all doing great. Mom’s handling motherhood like a pro (even though she looks a little worn out from the whole giving-birth-and-raising-kids thing), and the babies? Well, they’re doing what babies do best: nursing, cuddling, and being ridiculously cute.

Now, how am I holding up, you ask? After spending the day crawling around the milk room floor, making sure these little guys got their first meal, drying them off, and making sure they were nice and comfy, I’m exhausted. But hey, there are still five more does left to kid, so no time for naps! I can do this! Deep breath. Only a few more to go, and I’m sure I’ll have enough stories to write a book about the chaos.

Stay tuned for more updates (and probably more hilarious pictures of little ones causing havoc)!

Stanley - male

Mona - female

Melody - female

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Coming to a Farm Near You

The U.S. Department of Transportation has proposed a rule to reclassify all farm equipment as commercial vehicles. This proposed change would mean that anyone operating any piece of motorized farm equipment would have to have a CDL (commercial driver's licence), with all the resultant schooling, expensive licensing and insurance, and record keeping that those who drive 18 wheelers have. It would also mean that farm workers, from the farmer's 14 yr old kid who helps with baling hay, to the elderly farmer who no longer drives on public roads, could no longer operate farm equipment, even on their own property. Now just to be fair, the DOT is holding public hearings on this matter until today, August 1. But in my experience this really means they're going to do what they want but want to give the impression that they're listening to input from affected parties. However, just last week, a DOT opinion piece closed with this statement:

"Everyone in this Administration - from President Obama, Vice President Biden, and Secretary LaHood on down - is committed to the long-term success of America's agricultural industry. In many ways, agriculture is the backbone of our economy - feeding hundreds of millions of Americans and billions more around the world. As the largest user of freight transportation in the nation, the agricultural industry is also one of USDOT's most important constituents. We hope that this comment period is the start of a new and productive relationship. We may not ultimately agree on every issue, but we will always listen - and do our best to help America's farmers succeed."

If this is helping farmers to succeed I'd hate to see what damage they could do if they were actually TRYING to hurt us. It is up to not only every farmer, from those with backyard gardens to those who make it their livelihood, as well as everyone who eats, to oppose this. If you think this doesn't affect you because you don't own any farm equipment, wait till the increase in costs is reflected in the increase in prices at the grocery store. To make a comment to the DOT, visit www.regulations.gov. Follow the instructions for submitting comments on the Federal electronic docket site. Or you can fax your comments to 1-202-493-2251. To read more about this proposed legislation see http://www.theblaze.com/stories/agenda-21-update-family-farms-are-under-attack/

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And The Miracles Continue

You may remember the story I shared not long ago about the fire that tore through the farm where I recently bought three beautiful goats. That family lost nearly everything. The barn. The animals. The tools and supplies that make a life out of hard work and hope. What they didn’t lose, though, was their spirit.

Lately, I’ve found myself thinking about them more and more—how they must be trying to pick up the pieces, rebuild not just their farm, but their daily rhythm, their income, their identity. And I realized… maybe I could help.

See, I had purchased five does from them—three new girls and two others a while back, both in milk now. They were good goats, solid goats. I’d been toying with the idea of selling them, but hadn’t found the right buyer. Or so I thought.

I sent off a quick email, just to offer. No pressure, no expectations—just a “hey, would you be interested?”

The next morning, bright and early, the phone rang. Her voice cracked as she said, “We want them. All seven.”

Seven. All seven. The 5 I bought from her, plus 2 more high quality gals that were similar bloodlines.

And just like that, I had goosebumps. The kind that run down your arms and stop you in your tracks. The kind that whisper, this was never random.

When I look back at how this all came together, it’s impossible not to see a pattern stitched by something greater than chance. Call it divine timing. Call it fate. Me? I call it God.

I only meant to buy two new goats. That was the plan. But when I called this woman—whose goats I knew and trusted, and already had a few from her—she said she had three. I sent a check for two and tried to leave it at that. But something nudged me. A whisper I couldn’t explain. A week later, I called her back. “I’ll take the third.”

I also had a buyer for two of my does. A buyer appeared—then vanished. No deposit. No response. Just… gone. I tried to follow up, but couldn’t reach her. I was frustrated, but I let it go.

When I sent that email to offer the goats, it went straight to her spam folder. And—this part gets me every time—she told me she never checks her spam. But that night, something made her look. And there it was. My email. Waiting. Right on time.

I can’t explain it away. I don’t want to.

These goats—these quirky, demanding, utterly lovable souls—aren’t just going to a new home. They’re going back to the place they came from. Back to the arms that raised them. Back to a family who needs them now more than ever.

And yes, my heart aches. Every goat I’ve ever owned has wrapped herself around a little piece of my heart and refused to let go. These girls are no different. I know each bleat, each nudge, each attitude-filled toss of the head. I know who likes their grain soaked and who screams bloody murder if the hay isn’t exactly right. They have been my morning chaos and my evening peace. My laughter and my therapy.

But this… this is bigger than me. This is what grace looks like. When all the wrong turns somehow lead exactly where you need to be. When pain is turned into purpose. When letting go becomes a gift instead of a loss.

They’re not leaving just yet—the family is still making space for them in the new barn. So I have a little more time to soak them in. A few more mornings of being yelled at for being three minutes late with breakfast. A few more evenings of head scratches and nose kisses and warm milk.

And when the day comes, I’ll help load them onto that trailer. I’ll stroke their soft ears one last time, whisper a promise that I’ll never forget them, and watch them head down the road toward something beautiful.

Not an ending. A beginning.

Because the story doesn’t stop here.
The story continues.

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The Chicken Murderers

Jim is the tall guy in the center.

Every farm community has that group—the one that shows up when someone’s in trouble, tools in hand, ready to tackle whatever disaster life has cooked up. Ours just happens to call themselves The Chicken Murderers. It’s possible we should be concerned.

Last week, a fellow farm family lost their barn to a fire. Total devastation. No water, no power, and not even a chicken coop left standing. Only the broiler chickens out in the field survived. So naturally, our ragtag New Hampshire Small and Beginning Farmers group rallied the troops.

Jim (my husband and resident “Head of All Things Sharp and Pointy”) joined five other generous souls from around the state—some driving up to three hours just to say, “Hey, want us to kill your chickens for you?” Because nothing says we care like rolling up to your burnt-out farm and offering to process your poultry.

Since the fire left the original farm more like a pile of kindling with charred memories, the whole chicken shebang was moved to a nearby farm with functioning water, power, and, importantly, a place where feathers could fly freely.

Enter: the mobile poultry processing unit. This isn’t your average backyard setup. This thing is a trailer of doom on wheels. Stainless steel everything, cones lined up like a poultry guillotine, a scalder the size of a hot tub, and a plucker that looks like it could double as a wood chipper. It’s like the Batmobile of backyard butchering. Normally you rent it, but something tells me this gig was more of a “pay what your conscience allows” situation.

The rig rolled in around 9:30 AM, full of promise and potential chaos. The chickens made their entrance at 10:00, riding in high style in a horse trailer. You could tell they were suspicious. There’s just something about arriving at a party where nobody clucks back that feels… off.

Setup took a while, as these things do. The cold well water took forever to heat, which gave the crew plenty of time to stand around rearranging equipment eight different ways and pretending to know where everything goes. Meanwhile, deep conversations blossomed—everything from livestock guardian dogs to soap that smells like lavender instead of barnyard funk. It was like a farmer’s TED Talk with feathers.

And then... 2:30 PM hit. The water was finally hot. The cones were lined up. The plucker was spinning menacingly. It was go time..

Let’s pause to appreciate that five hours were spent preparing for one hour of poultry pandemonium. But once they got rolling, it was a well-oiled (and slightly feathery) machine. Chickens in, chickens out. Heads off, hearts out, into the bag, onto the ice. There’s something oddly poetic about a group of folks bonding over a shared task involving beheading 50 birds. It's like the most morbid barn dance you’ve ever seen.

By late afternoon, 50 chickens had been properly dispatched, cleaned, bagged, and iced. The family had food. The community had stepped up. And Jim came home smelling like wet feathers, scorched water heater, and... Eau de Chicken.

Chicken drying/packaging rack.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned about farmers, it’s this: when things go up in smoke, we don’t run away—we run toward the smoke, with coolers, knives, and coffee strong enough to dehorn a bull.

Also, apparently, we give ourselves serial killer nicknames. But hey, every good support group needs a little dark humor. And a plucker.

Photos courtesy of Lisa Richards

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Sponsor A Cheese, Save A Dairy!

I'm sharing this very important information via The Never Done Farm. Let's all stand together to protect our consumer rights to choose our own food.

One of our members over at the Homesteading Today forums is currently under attack for selling raw milk cheese. Now mind you they have been doing so for 30 years, have never had a case of illness from their cheese and have a substantial client base that is happy with their product. Here is a news article on their story. You can follow their saga on their blog here. One of the members over at HT came up with the idea to "Sponsor a Cheese" to help out Morningland Dairy and to help show that people are willing to stand up for our family farms. Here is her idea:

Sponsor A Cheese, Save A Dairy!

I'll assume most of us are aware of the assault against Morningland Dairy that began back in August, and has resulted in anti-raw milk pencil pushers (and toadies of corporate dairy concerns) demanding that the dairy destroy all their cheese in stock (SIX MONTHS WORTH OF PRODUCT!) -- despite the fact that all FDA testing done at the dairy proved that there is absolutely NO contamination of their healthy food.

So... I had an idea. Here's what I am going to do, and if you'd like to do the same, I certainly encourage you to join the Un-Cheese Party!

Here's the low down:

If Morningland can't sell the cheese because the Missouri Milk Board and the FDA are against wholesome food, they may well lose their family business of THIRTY YEARS. (And through all those years they are able to boast the NO ONE has EVER been made ill by their cheese!)

I'm not going to let that happen if I can help it.

I'm going to "sponsor" a few pounds of that embargoed cheese. I invite anyone else who is interested to join me in our

CYPER-SPACE UN-CHEESE PARTY!

There are 50,000 pounds of cheese slated for destruction. This is not counting the cheese destroyed due to the recall.

Here's how to SPONSOR A CHEESE:

The average price per pound is $5. You can paypal a donation to

morningland@centurytel.net

Or, you can send your sponsorship checks or money orders directly to the dairy. Just let them know what the money is for, and a note of encouragement would certainly be appreciated.

Morningland Dairy

6248 County Road 2980

Mountain View, MO 65548

Now, folks, this is a PARTY, so INVITE YOUR FRIENDS, your neighbors, your mere acquaintances to join us!

Plaster the message on other boards you frequent, put it on your Facebook Status, make a YouTube video and hey! maybe it'll go viral!

We have to stand together as raw milk consumers and producers, or we WILL see the day where we can't even grow food for our own consumption!

(see the thread, "Another threat against raw milk" [at http://www.homesteadingtoday.com/] for sample letters to write to your politicians to make an even bigger impact.)

Let's get Morningland back on its feet-

SAVE THE CHEESE!!!

We'll be sponsoring some cheese, how about you? If we, as small farmers and consumers, don't stand firmly together, it isn't just Morningland Dairy that looses, we ALL do! Below are some links that you may well find interesting and informative. The government, FDA, CDC, DHHS and others, have no business tellling you what you can consume and what you can't, but if SB510 passes that is exactly what will happen. Please call your Senators and let them know what you think and ask that they vote "NO" to SB510. There are proposals to ask for an amendment but IMHO this bill needs to be killed completely. I've even called our Governor asking that "if" this bill passes that they block it with state law. Remember it's your freedom of choice that is at stake and all because of the GREED and CONTROL of Big Industry!

http://usfoodtrace.com/information/political/sb510

Farm to Consumer Legal Defense Fund

Farm and Ranch Freedom Alliance

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Farmhand Follies: Why Good Help Is Worth Their Weight in Dog Food

If the sun’s up, the animals are up—and if the animals are up, so am I.

Mornings on the homestead are a whirlwind of chores, as any self-respecting farmer, homesteader, or country-dweller with more animals than sense will tell you. There’s feeding, watering, cleaning pens, collecting and washing eggs, milking, mucking, and making sure no one ends up on the wrong side of a fence (again). It’s a full production, and that’s all before breakfast.

Thankfully, I’ve got help. My 17-year-old grandson takes the lead, flanked by our English Shepherds: Roxie—also known as The Red Rocket, and Jack, her loyal sidekick who takes his cues from her like he’s trying to pass a final exam he never studied for.

First stop: the pig pen. Now, if you’ve never tried feeding a bunch of porkers who think every second between snacks is a personal insult, let me paint you a picture: it’s a bit like walking into a Black Friday sale with arms full of electronics and no security.

Enter Roxie and Jack.

They fan out like seasoned bouncers at a dive bar, keeping the pigs politely distanced until the feed is safely dumped. No one gets knocked over, no boots are lost in the mud, and the pigs live to eat another day.

From there it’s off to the buck goat’s domain. Now, our buck thinks he owns the place. Struts around like he’s some kind of land baron. But Roxie’s got zero patience for posturing, and Jack, bless his blank little head, backs her up like a well-trained but slightly confused bodyguard.

At milking time, the dogs become goat traffic controllers. Each goat files from gen pop to the milk stand like it’s a TSA checkpoint, and back again in an orderly line. At least, that's the plan. One time a goat decided she was done following rules and made a run for the other side of the barn. Roxie spun into action, cutting her off mid-stride with all the authority of a drill sergeant. Jack, naturally, ran in right behind her, ready to assist in whatever was happening. I’m pretty sure he had no idea what the plan was, but by golly, he was gonna do something.

Once everyone’s fed and milked, the dogs sweep the barn like a couple of living leaf blowers. “I said OUT! NOW!” Roxie charges down the aisle barking orders and clears the barn like it's closing time at the bar. Jack follows suit, barking two seconds behind her like an echo with fur. In less than half a minute the barn is empty, orderly, and silent—except for the triumphant panting of two very proud dogs. Efficiency at its finest.

Now, about those eggs. Roxie and Jack haven’t quite figured out how to collect them. In fact, they seem to think “egg collection” means “egg sampling.” And by sampling, I mean slurping. But at least they make sure no hens wander into forbidden zones. Any chicken caught sneaking off gets herded back with a “Don’t make me come over there” look from Roxie and a frantic bounce from Jack, who just wants to be helpful.

Roxie and Jack don’t punch a clock. They don’t ask for overtime. And they sure don’t take coffee breaks. But they do earn their pay—two squares a day, all the praise they can handle, and the occasional strip of bacon slipped under the table.

Good help is hard to find. But a good dog, especially one with a rocket for a nickname and a sidekick who thinks she hung the moon? Worth their weight in dog food, belly rubs, and the warmest spot by the woodstove.

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Survival Seeds

DH and I have spent the past few years chatting (and sometimes debating) about the importance of growing and storing non-hybrid, non-GMO vegetables. As hybrid seeds and genetically modified crops take over the market, it just seems smart—old-fashioned smart—to invest in seeds you can actually replant year after year. I bet you've thought about it too, or maybe you're already ahead of us and growing your own stash of heirloom goodness.

We’ve browsed more websites than I care to admit—some of those seed packages are priced like you’re buying a gold mine, not a tomato. One of them actually made me wonder if I’d accidentally clicked on a mortgage refinancing site. But then we stumbled across a gem: Hometown Seeds.

They sell a survival seed package that’s about 1½ pounds of 16 different vegetable seeds, all sealed for long-term storage. It comes with planting and storing instructions and, get this, it’s affordable. Like, actual people on actual farms can afford it affordable. They're even running a sale right now, and I have to say, the customer service was downright refreshing. A gal named Joni sent my order out, and it was in my mailbox four days later. That's faster than it takes me to find my gardening gloves.

Now all I have to do is wait for spring. I’m already picturing rows of healthy, non-GMO, non-hybrid vegetables waving in the breeze. And the best part? I can harvest the seeds from this year’s crop and use them for next year’s garden. That’s the kind of recycling I can get behind!

(And no, before you ask—that beautiful garden photo isn’t mine. That’s from Hometown Seeds' website. Mine looks a bit more... realistic. But I’m thinking of printing out that photo and posting it right in the middle of my garden for inspiration. Or maybe intimidation. “See this, lettuce? This is your potential. Shape up.”)

So if you’ve been toying with the idea of survival seeds, this might be the perfect time to start. It’s one small step toward food independence—and one giant leap for your zucchini plants.

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Farmers Will Drive Lamborghinis

Jim Rogers, famous investor and all-around money guy, predicts that the next wave of wealth will come from farmers. Yep, you heard that right. Not Silicon Valley hotshots or crypto bros in their hoodies. Farmers. Folks with dirt under their fingernails and a list of chores that never ends. According to Rogers, farming is the vocation of the future.

Now, I don’t know if we’ll ever be rich. Around here, we’re still trying to get the chickens to stop pooping in their waterer. But I wouldn’t mind surviving better than most. You know—paying the bills without checking the bank account twice and maybe fixing that sagging gate, instead of replacing it, before it becomes a full-blown livestock jailbreak.

But let’s be honest: most farmers I know are far too practical to be caught dead behind the wheel of a Lamborghini. First of all, have you seen our roads? That thing wouldn’t make it down the driveway without bottoming out or collecting a full garden’s worth of mud.

And where would you even put the feed bags? Or the dog? Or your dignity, after the neighbors see you trying to pull a stuck hay wagon with a sports car that costs more than your barn?

No, if we suddenly struck it rich, we’d probably just buy a newer used pickup and maybe splurge on a zero-turn mower with cup holders. A souped-up tractor though? Now you're talkin’. Something with horsepower and hydraulics. Maybe even a cab with air conditioning, Bluetooth, and a seat that doesn’t make your backside go numb after two hours.

Let the Wall Street guys keep their flashy cars. We’ll take practicality and peace of mind, with a side of fresh eggs and the satisfaction of doing honest work.

But hey—if the day ever comes when a farmer does roll up in a Lamborghini, just know it’s probably hauling a sack of grain and has a chicken riding shotgun.

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The Future of Food

This video is rather long but if you're interested in genetically engineered food, Monsanto, and how our nation's food is being genetically modified this is well worth the time. Very educational!

The Future of Food: What Every Person Should Know with Deborah Garcia

What should every person know about the food they ingest? The documentary "The Future of Food" changed the way we think about food (and continues to do so) by answering this very question. But, just how has food actually changed? Do we need to worry about genetically modified foods? What about artificial foods? Learn all this and more as Kurt Olson, host of the Educational Forum, sits down with Deborah Garcia the award winning creator of "The Future of Food."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XPFk4S1Q6vo&t=41s

I'm SO Proud of Myself!

Yes, I’m proud of myself.

“Why?” you ask. Well, I’m glad you asked that question. Pull up a hay bale and let me tell you about this year’s lambing season, now officially in the books.

We’re done lambing—done! As in, all our pregnant ewes are no longer pregnant, and I’m sleeping through the night again (well, mostly). We had six ewes lamb this spring, three of which gave us twins. That’s nine spring lambs, plus the one born last November—ten lambs total, ready to head to market in the fall. That’ll cover winter hay, grain, and maybe even a few chocolate bars to keep me going through next lambing season, if they last that long.

Everything went pretty smoothly overall—no breech births, no tangled-up twins trying to come out in a jumbled heap, and all the moms figured out which end of the lamb to lick. Well, almost all.

One first-time mom apparently got her wires crossed. She decided she liked the lamb in the next pen over better than the one she’d actually birthed. Classic case of “the lamb is always cuter on the other side of the fence.” So I put up a sheet of plywood between the pens to break the visual confusion and then gently encouraged her to nurse her own lamb by pinning her against a wall until the baby latched on. (Gentle encouragement on a farm often involves more arm strength than you’d use in a pilates class.)

This all went down at 2:00 a.m., and by that point, I was mentally preparing for a bottle baby. But come morning, the ewe had come to her senses and was mothering her own lamb like she’d planned it all along. Whether it was confusion, first-time jitters, or full-blown postpartum barnyard madness, we’ll never know. But she worked it out, and I call that a win.

Then there was the lamb who got scours at just a day old. For the uninitiated, “scours” is a polite farm word for explosive bacterial diarrhea. The smell alone could strip paint. I almost lost the poor little fella, but a round of antibiotics and some electrolytes had him bouncing around by the next day like nothing had happened. I kept up the meds for several more days, just to be safe—and also to spare myself the trauma of reliving that diaper disaster.

The final lamb born was a bit of a concern too. He was one of a set of twins, and while his brother hit the ground like he had a to-do list, this guy seemed. . . meh. Just not vigorous. And lambs already look like white, wrinkly old men when they’re born. He just looked extra shriveled. A few days in, he still wasn’t filling out his skin, which meant mama might not have been producing enough milk for both, or maybe the stronger twin was hogging the milk bar.

So, I stepped in with goat’s milk. And just like that, he perked up—started pushing his brother around and demanding extra helpings. I’m still giving him a little extra on the side just to keep him beefing up, and now he's living his best lamb life.

But now we get to the real reason I’m proud of myself (you knew we’d get here eventually, didn’t you?).

One of my ewes prolapsed after lambing. And for those of you with delicate constitutions, maybe just stop reading here and go hug a houseplant. For everyone else—a prolapse means that part of her insides decided they wanted to be on the outside. In this case, a vaginal prolapse. Think “barnyard horror movie” meets “do-it-yourself vet care.”

So what did I do? I put on a glove, washed her up, coated the uterus with sugar (yes, I know, but it reduces swelling so everything fits inside again), pushed everything back where it belonged (yes, everything), inserted a prolapse retainer (which basically looks like a plastic spoon designed by a medieval torturer), and gave her a shot of long-acting penicillin.

Three days later, I removed the retainer as per the instructions (yes, it came with instructions, and yes, I actually read them). Next morning? Prolapse again. Wash, rinse, repeat—literally. This time I added stitches to keep things tucked in, gave her another round of antibiotics, and so far, so good—she’s holding it together, literally and figuratively.

When I was a kid, I wanted to be a vet. I didn’t get to go to vet school, but I’ve apparently picked up enough to do what needs doing when no one else is around and things are falling apart—sometimes literally.

This lambing season gave me my first case of mom confusion, my first bottle supplement, my first case of scours, and my first prolapse. And yet. . . no casualties. No vet bills. Just me, my gloves, and a healthy amount of determination, not to mention a strong stomach.

So yeah—I’m proud of myself. And tonight, I’m going to bed early. After all, I just pulled off four barnyard firsts without losing a single animal. But if any more problems arise, I’m burying my head in the hay!

Protect Our Food Supply - Stop NAIS

If I learn nothing else in my life I should learn this - whenever "big brother" wants to save me it's not a good thing! Almost every time the government makes more regulations they mess things up. With regard to NAIS - I believe the best and only protection for my food is to buy from the local farmer that feeds his/her own family the same thing they're selling me, or to grow it myself. NAIS will put such a burden on the small producer it will become impossible for them to continue. This is an interesting article that I found cross-posted on one of my e-lists. Sorry it's so long, but I found it extremely informative.


NAIS STINKS! Big government to the rescue again. By Henry Lamb

Some of the world's finest Texas longhorns live in Ohio. And they love it. Rich grass grows belly high; fresh spring water feeds 16 of the 17 lakes and ponds on the nearly 5,000 acre spread; 62 miles of fencing separates 49 pastures; and the four seasons are as distinct and different as the hills and valleys that define the Dickinson Cattle Company.

Darol Dickinson is no newcomer to the cattle business. He grew up in a cattle family in Colorado. He started raising registered Texas longhorns in 1967. But Colorado's bitter winters and windy, dry summers sent him searching for new land from Mexico to Canada, and many places in between. He found in Ohio enough fertile land to do justice to the business he envisioned.

Darol's cattle are prime breeding stock and home ranch for many international champions. His business includes providing semen and embryos to cattle producers around the world. Son Joel is the hands-on cattle manager, in charge of daily operations. Darol's wife of 45 years, Linda, is in charge of administration. She's the one who records everything about everything. She pays the bills, keeps the shipments straight, monitors inventory in every pasture, and documents every vaccination and individual health event.

A few years ago, Darol attended a USDA-sponsored "listening session." A federal employee explained a new program: the National Animal Identification System (NAIS). Darol was shocked to learn that the ranch would have to be registered with a new seven-digit identification number in a new government database. He learned that each of his animals would have to have a new identification device bearing a new 15-digit identification number, loaded into another new government database. And he learned that every time one of his animals was moved off the property, the event would have to be reported and recorded in the government database within 24 hours.

"Well, that just left a horrible taste in my mouth," Darol says. "The way it was presented, we had no choice. It was a done deal. We would be forced to sign up."

The USDA spokesman talked about how foot-and-mouth disease would wipe out an entire herd in a matter of hours, and how dangerous anthrax is, and, of course, he talked about the dreaded mad cow disease. This new USDA program would make it possible for the government to trace back any diseased animal to its source within 48 hours, the groups was told. Darol knew something was not right. "It did not pass the basic hubcap sniff test," he says.

He contacted a specialist at Texas A&M, Uvalde, Texas, who confirmed that there had not been a case of foot-and-mouth disease in the United States since 1929. He also learned that anthrax is no longer a problem because ranchers can vaccinate against it for 80 cents a head. Mad cow disease is not a problem because it is not contagious, and the new system would do nothing to stop the disease even if a case were discovered.

Darol's cattle, like most livestock inventory, are already identified quite thoroughly. Every new calf is weighed, given a vitamin shot and tagged, the same day it is born. At weaning, each animal is branded with the famous Paintbrush-D brand, along with a unique identification number and the year of birth. In addition, the USDA tags every female with a number that is recorded in a USDA database, along with an ear tatoo. The other ear is tagged with the critter's registered name, so the cowhands can easily identify the cow by sight.

Wtih all of this proof-positive identification on each cow, and on the ranch computer, why in the world would USDA require another 15-digit number linked to still another database?

Darol sees the NAIS program as a direct and serious threat to his business. The proven growth of the family business is providing foundation stock for new producers.

"Every year, we help about 75 new producers get into the business," Darol says. "I can sell them on quality stock, but I CAN'T SELL THEM ON HAVING TO COMPLY WITH THESE NEW REGULATIONS THAT ARE GOING TO REQUIRE THAT THEY ALSO BUY A COMPUTER, AND TAG- OR CHIP-READING EQUIPMENT, AND REPORT TO THE GOVERNMENT EVERY TIME THEY TURN AROUND."

Darol thinks the NAIS would destroy the family business in five years or less. That's why he has become an outspoken critic of it. He spends from two to eight hours a day doing everything he can to oppose the program. He's even set up his own website: NAISstinks.com. It is full of articles and press releases and other information that traces the flawed development of the program back to 2003.

Darol is not going to surrender to this program without a fight. His resistance, along with a near rebellion by the majority of animal owners, caused USDA to abandon its initial plans to make the program mandatory and, in 2006, the agency announced that the program would henceforth be voluntary. But what USDA means by "voluntary" is anything but voluntary.

Judith McGreary is working on a lawsuit that challenges the authority for the USDA to even engage in the National Animal Identification System. Part of the argument deals with how USDA is funding organizations and states to force participation in the NAIS, while USDA claims that the program is voluntary.

Judith was perfectly content living with her husband, Mike, on their 40 acres just outside Austin, Texas. Mike retired from the Coast Guard, and Judith turned her Stanford BS into a degree in environmental law from the University of Texas. Life was great. They had a couple of Quarter Horses, several lambs, a bunch of barred rock chickens and turkeys, and were well on their way to developing a business providing eggs and poultry and lamb chops to a growing neighborhood market.

"I remember it well," Judith says. "Mike came in and told me he had learned that the government was going to require us to put a microchip into every one of our chickens." That was the day Judith discovered the NAIS. "I told Mike it had to be an internet rumor; not even the government can be that stupid."

Chickens do not require a microchip under the NAIS plan, but they do require an individual 15-digit identification number, along with each of her horses and lambs and turkeys.

"It's just ridiculous," Judith says. "My chickens range over the pasture. They produce far better eggs than the caged factory hens. How am I going to report the death of one of my chickens within 24 hours, if I don't even know about it? When a fox gets a chicken, I might not even find a pile of feathers. It's just ridiculous."

Judith was already concerned about government regulations that seemed to be squeezing small farmers, especially farmers who are trying to use responsible, sustainable, best practices. She had talked to Mike and to some of her friends about the need for an organization to try to deal with some of the legislative issues. When she discovered that the state of Texas was ready to make the NAIS mandatory, the decision was made. She formed Farm and Ranch Freedom Alliance http://farmandranchfreedom.org/content/

Almost simultaneously, she got involved with the creation of the Liberty Ark Coalition http://libertyark.net/ as a founding member of the steering committee. She began researching, writing and helping others get informed about the impact this program would have on all livestock owners.

"It will put us out of business," she says. "And it's not just the cost and aggravation this program will put on us personally, because it will have the same impact on thousands of other small operators. USDA should be encouraging small farmers and homesteaders to produce what they can for local markets. Instead, THEY ARE DELIBERATELY TRYING TO DRY UP ANY COMPETITION TO THE BIG GUYS."

Along with Sally Fallon, president of the Weston Price Foundation, Gary Cox, and a few other attorneys, farmers, and activists, Judith helped to form the Farm-to-Consumer Legal Defense Fund (www.ftcldf.org). In May, the group sent a 25-page Notice of Intent to Sue to USDA, alleging that the NAIS has not followed proper rule-making procedures, has not met environmental impact assessment standards, has not been subjected to a cost-benefit analysis, and a variety of other short comings.

There are thousands, perhaps hundreds of thousands, of livestock owners who do not yet know they are subject to the reach of the NAIS. Everyone who owns even a single horse or chicken or pig or sheep or any of 29 different species will be subject to the NAIS. Even though the program is said to be voluntary, no one believes it will stay that way. In fact, the FORMER SECRETARY OF THE DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE HAS SAID THAT THE USDA RETAINS THE AUTHORITY TO MAKE THE PROGRAM MANDATORY WHENEVER IT DEEMS IT NECESSARY.

USDA apparently is not concerned about the Fourth Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, which is supposed to guarantee that every citizen is "secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures..." A mandatory NAIS would force individuals to surrender private, personal information about their property and their movements to the government without probably cause, without a warrant, and for no good reason, as far as many people can see.

Bert "Nevada" Smith is one of those people. Bert is a western rancher who has seen it all. In his part of the country near Layton, Utah, ranches are measure in sections, not acres. His cattle have no need of a government-assigned number, and his ranch has no place in a federal database. Just ask him.

"My brand is enough identification," Bert says. "Every load I sell is certified healthy by a state veterinarian. The USDA's got no business poking its nose around my ranch and my cattle." And he's not at all bashful about telling the USDA so. Bert has been quite outspoken at cattle association meetings in both Nevada and Utah. USDA big wheels invited to promote the NAIS don't escape Bert's withering condemnation of the program."

He has seen the USDA's shenanigans over the years. He is especially skeptical of its claim that the NAIS is voluntary. He remembers when USDA said that signing up for grazing allotments was voluntary, and how ranchers all over the West lost both their water rights and grazing rights when voluntary became mandatory.

Bert really gets upset about the money USDA is paying organizations to promote the NAIS. "Why, it's bribery. What else can you call it when USDA gives the Future Farmers of America $600,000 to teach the kids to persuade their parents to register their premises in NAIS?"

He's even more upset with the major trade associations for taking the government money. "THEY'VE GOT THEIR HAND IN THE HONEYPOT, AND THEY'VE SOLD OUT THEIR MEMBERS," he says. "THESE TRADE ASSOCIATIONS AND BREED REGISTRY ORGANIZATIONS SHOULD BE HELPING THEIR MEMBERS SHUT DOWN NAIS, INSTEAD OF PROMOTING IT."

There has been a lot of internet speculation that use of the word "premises" in USDA's registration forms somehow strips constitutional protection from the property owner, or converts the property owner into a "tenant" of the federal government.

Jim Burling, director of litigation at the Pacific Legal Foundation, says, "I can see no way that the use of the word "premises" versus "property" has any impact on the ability of the government to enter property without a search warrant. The underlying nature of the property rights cannot be changed by a label. Referring to a property as the "premises" in no way converts a fee simple property into a leasehold."

Bert's not so sure. He is in full agreement with R-CALF, USA (Ranchers-Cattlemen Action Legal Fund), one of the few livestock organizations that opposes the NAIS. R-CALF advises its members: "REGISTERING A PREMISES WITHOUT ENTERING INTO A CONTRACT THAT EXPRESSLY LIMITS THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT'S AUTHORITY OVER THE PREMISES MAY RESULT IN SUBJECTING THE PREMISES AND ITS REGISTRANT TO ALL FUTURE RULES, REGULATIONS, AND POLICIES THAT THE FEDERAL GOVERNMENT MAY LATER DECIDE TO IMPOSE UPON SUCH REGISTRANT."

Aside from the possible legal hocus-pocus, Bert is convinced that the NAIS is just not necessary. "Animals are already identified with a brand, and they have to be certified healthy before they can be sent to the slaughterhouse. All the NAIS is going to do is put the little guy out of busines," he says.

The opposition to the NAIS expressed by Darol, Judith and Bert is just a sampling of the sentiments expressed by animal owners across the nation. Already, at least 15 state legislatures have responded to appeals from animal owners by entering legislation to prohibit mandatory NAIS at the state level. Four states (Arizona, Missouri, Nebraska and Kentucky) have actually enacted laws to this effect.

USDA claims that the NAIS is needed to provide a mechanism to trace the origin of a diseased animal within 48 hours. But the agency has no evidence that the need for or benefit from this mechanism outweighs the cost. When pressed, USDA EMPLOYEES ADMIT THAT AN ELECTRONIC TRACE-BACK SYSTEM WILL OPEN NEW INTERNATIONAL MARKETS -FOR THE LARGER MEAT EXPORTERS. But even when pressed, USDA HAS NO ANSWER FOR WHY THE REST OF ANIMAL OWNERS SHOULD HAVE TO BEAR THE BURDENS OF COST AND AGGRAVATION FOR THE BENEFITS OF THE BIG EXPORTERS.

It was the big exporters and the manufacturers of the electronic tags and tag-reading equipment - all members of the National Institute for Animal Agriculture (NIAA) - that LARGELY DESIGNED THE PROGRAM AND PREVAILED UPON THE FEDS TO IMPLEMENT IT.

USDA may have miscalculated the strength of the opposition to its NAIS. When first introduced, USDA expected the program to be fully implemented by early 2009. They anticipated that every premises where a livestock animal is housed would be registered; that every livestock animal would be identified, most with a computer-readable tag or chip; and that every off-premises movement would be reported to the government within 24 hours.

Obviously, this is not going to happen by 2009, if ever. The rate of the new signups has slowed, and people were registered are beginning to request that their names and premises be removed from the databases. It's a sure bet that even more states will be introducing anti-NAIS legislation next year.

But the federal government carries the big stick - MONEY. State legislatures are aware that USDA can withhold federal funds if a state fails to knuckle under to the demands of the federal agency. Consequently, the anti-NAIS campaign continues to focus on Congress, as well as on state legislatures.

The jury is still out on NAIS. Whether USDA will be responsive to the expressed will of the animal owners who do not want it, or responsive to the members of the NIAA who do, remains to be seen. One thing is certain: Darol, Judith, Bert and hundreds of thousands of other animal owners are not going to sit idly by and let USDA steamroll over them without a fight. If you're a gambler, be careful which way you bet.

Henry Lamb is founder of the Environmental Conservation Organization and chairman of Sovereignty International.