Best Laid Plans!

We had quite the day here on the farm.

A friend brought her two goat kids over for disbudding. Along for the ride were their mama goat (lounging in the back seat like a hairy queen), and her adult son, who has Down syndrome, riding shotgun. She had thoughtfully lined the back seat with a tarp and some big towels to catch any stray poops. They’re Nigerian Dwarf goats, so they didn’t take up much room—physically. Chaos-wise, they’re full-sized. The seat coverings would have been a great idea. . . if the thing that happened next hadn’t happened.

You know what they say about best laid plans.

She pulled into our parking area, turned off the car, got out, shut the door, and walked over to let me know she’d arrived. You see where this is going, right? You can probably already hear the ominous dun-dun-DUN in the background. She left the keys in the car. Her son, who is deathly afraid of dogs (and honestly not wild about the goats in the back seat either), heard our dogs bark and did what made perfect sense to him—he locked the doors. All of them.

She tried everything to get him to unlock them. Nope. Not happening. I think he was pretty sure that if he let her in, she’d try to drag him out into the Land of Barking Dogs. He’s nonverbal, but he understands some sign. She signed for him to unlock his door. He pointed at her door like, “Nah, you go open yours.” She signed back that her door was broken and she needed him to open his. He stared her down, then slowly turned his head like, “Nice try, Mom. Not falling for it.”

So we called the police. They don’t cover our town. They gave us the state police number. Called them—they don’t unlock vehicles anymore but would be happy to send a wrecker. I called my neighbor with a tow truck—he’s in South Carolina visiting family. Of course he is.

This, friends, is why God invented AAA.

The first thing they did was thank me for my 21 years of membership. Touching. Really. But what I wanted was someone to come unlock a goat-filled, poop-sprinkled vehicle before it turned into a rolling barn. They agreed to send someone—about 45 minutes away. Not ideal, but it’s not like we were in a position to negotiate. I should also mention that the weather was freezing rain and roads were getting slicker than a greased pig. Our AAA guy was not going to be happy.

So we waited.

She kept trying to coax her son into unlocking a door—any door. The goats, meanwhile, were staging a slow-motion barnyard uprising. They stomped the tarp, shuffled the towel, and began sprinkling goat berries into every single crevice of the back seat. I’ve seen better containment in glitter explosions.

We ordered pizza and passed the time by watching the steady spread of poop distribution.

When the AAA guy arrived, he looked confused. He saw someone in the passenger seat and assumed we’d gotten back in and forgot to cancel. She sprinted over to explain that no, the man in the passenger seat was not a willing participant. Nor were the three goats in the back.

He got to work. Less than 10 seconds later, pop—door open. And suddenly he’s face-to-face with three goats. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I’d bet money it was something along the lines of, “This isn’t in the employee handbook,” follo
wed closely by, “Please never send me here again.”

And here’s the kicker: one of the back windows was cracked open an inch. My husband had tried earlier to wedge a pole through it to reach the lock in the front—but couldn’t quite get to it. Turns out, the AAA guy just slid his tool straight down and popped the back door lock in one try.

Hubby admitted he hadn’t considered that. In his defense, maybe it was because goat heads were pressed to the glass, and trying to eat the pole like it was an hors d'oeuvre on a stick.

We tipped the AAA guy for braving freezing rain, my friend hugged him, we finished our pizza, and then finally got around to the original reason for all this: disbudding the goat kids. She made it home safe, though the roads had gotten worse by then.

The rest of the day was calm. Actually, a little boring by comparison.

But I guarantee she’ll be finding goat berries in that car for the rest of its life. And that next time, she’ll take her keys. . . and maybe a shop vac.

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Free Tractor (aka Government Economics)

Our old tractor was getting, well... old. Not the wise, dependable kind of old like Aunt Ethel who bakes pies and remembers the war, but the kind of old that groans every time you try to start it and leaves mysterious puddles on the barn floor. So last summer, we started looking at new tractors. Then we looked at our bank account. And promptly stopped looking.

But this year, I got smart. I figured out how to use the same economic principles the U.S. government uses to get a free tractor. That’s right. Free. Tractor. And before you start questioning my sanity or checking for fumes in the barn, let me break it down for you:

Let’s say you want a $60,000 tractor. But instead, you choose a $30,000 tractor. Boom. You’ve saved $30,000. Apply that savings directly to the cost, and you’ve now paid nothing. Zero. Nada. Tractor = free.

But wait! It gets better. The dealer gave us a $10,200 trade-in for the old one. (Bless their hearts, they must not have actually started it.) Now, we also got a backhoe attachment for about $10,000. Which means, according to my math—and I checked twice—we are now owed $200.

Naturally, we expected the finance company to send us a thank-you note and maybe a nice fruit basket for helping stimulate the economy with such brilliance. Instead, they’re demanding we make monthly payments. Can you believe it? I even tried explaining the government-style math to them, complete with hand gestures and everything, but they just weren’t getting with the program. I may have to draw them a pie chart. Maybe with actual pie.

Anyway, I’m now applying the same economic model to future projects. That new $12,000 roof I need? If I just don’t get the $24,000 slate one I was never going to buy anyway, I’ve saved $12,000. Meaning the roof is already paid for. Technically, I should have $12,000 leftover to fund the matching chicken coop expansion.

I don’t know why everyone isn’t doing this. It’s genius. It’s foolproof. It’s… exactly how the government does it.

Only difference is, they have a printing press.

---

Budget Breakdown (a.k.a. How to Retire Rich on Barnyard Math):

• Wanted Tractor: $60,000

• Bought Tractor: $30,000

• Instant savings: $30,000

• Trade-In Value: +$10,200

• Backhoe Attachment: -$10,000

• Total Owed to Us: $200

• Finance Company’s Opinion: Irrelevant. Clearly they don’t understand economics.

---

But wait, there’s more!

Order your Free Tractor Plan™ today and we’ll double your confusion at no extra cost! Operators are standing by to explain this exact system to your accountant, your spouse, and the poor kid at the bank who’s about to reconsider his life choices. But act now—because logic like this doesn’t come around often, and neither do interest-free financing options.

Call 1-800-GOV-MATH. That's 1-800-468-6284.

The Free Tractor Plan is not responsible for repossessions, financial audits, or hard stares from your spouse. Use with caution. Offer not valid anywhere sanity is still required.

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Sheep Wrangling

The other day, I made the questionable life choice of going to a friend’s house to help her deworm her sheep. Because apparently, I woke up that morning and said to myself, “You know what sounds like a fun way to break a hip? Playing tag with livestock!”

Now, my friend—bless her optimistic, wildly misguided soul—does not have a catch pen. That’s Farming 101 right there. It’s like going fishing without a net or raising toddlers without caffeine. Not technically impossible, but why would you?

Yes, sheep are dumb. Dumb as a box of rocks. But they’ve got this uncanny sixth sense that lets them detect one thing instantly: a stranger with a drench gun = probable death. Doesn’t matter if I’m smiling, speaking gently, or handing out free samples—they’re convinced I’m there to murder them one by one.

For the non-farming folks: a drench gun is a big syringe but instead of having a needle on the end, it has a long tube. Stick the tube w-a-a-y back in the animal’s throat, push the plunger, and voila!—liquid goes down. Easy, peasy. But, of course, you have to catch said animal first.

The first sheep was a piece of cake. She had been a bottle baby so she basically thought I was her mother, therapist, and personal chef all rolled into one. Deworming her was like giving a snack to a golden retriever.

But from that point on, the party was over.

The rest of the flock took one look at that drench gun and immediately filed a class-action lawsuit against me under the Sheep Geneva Convention. They scattered like I was handing out IRS audits. One by one, I managed to catch them and do the deed.

Then there was the last one. The boss ewe. Big. Hairy. Full of attitude. Picture a linebacker in a wool coat with the suspicion level of a TSA agent. She saw what I did to her buddies and decided she was having none of it.

She stayed exactly one corner away from me at all times. No matter where I moved, she mirrored me like we were in some weird barnyard version of Swan Lake. It was majestic. And infuriating.

So I turned to the universal sheep bribe: grain.

I tossed a little at my feet and casually pretended to be just another farm gal with zero ulterior motives. The other sheep—traitors—wandered over, shoving each other like they hadn’t eaten in three years. Slowly, Miss Mountain O’ Wool crept in too, lured by the intoxicating scent of molasses, cracked corn, and bad decisions.

When she got close enough, I went full ninja.

I simultaneously dropped the grain bucket and launched myself through the air like a deranged flying squirrel, latching onto her fleece with both hands. She shot off like a cannonball with me riding her like I was eight seconds from a rodeo championship.

She zigged. She zagged. She ran what felt like a full marathon with me clinging to her neck like a particularly determined burr. This panicked all the others, so now there was a full barnyard stampede. They had no idea where they were racing to—apparently, somebody yelled “RUN,” and they thought that was a good idea.

Finally—finally—she collapsed in a heap like she’d just done two hot yoga classes back-to-back. There I was, still on top of her, panting, covered in dust, and questioning every life choice I’ve made since 1973. Did I
mention she was extremely large? It was like doing a five-point restraint on a Shetland pony.

My friend, who I swear was selling tickets and handing out popcorn at this point, ran up, looped a rope around the ewe’s neck, and chirped, “Okay! I’ve got her. You can get up now!”

Oh, really? Right. I’ll get right on that.

I won't say I'm elderly just yet, but I can qualify for the senior discount most places. I’ve got a knee that sounds like bubble wrap when I move, a back that protests louder than a toddler at bedtime, and enough extra fluff around the middle to make gravity a real bully. And you want me to just hop off this woolly freight train like I’m dismounting a bicycle?

Yeah. No.

Eventually, through a series of loud grunts and what can only be described as interpretive flailing, I managed to get upright. Graceful it was not. But we got her dewormed.

And then?

She just stood there, staring up at me with her beady little eyes and this weird expression that clearly said: “Hey lady… that was kinda fun. Wanna go again?”

Final thoughts:

• Sheep are dumb.

• I’m dumber.

• And if anyone needs me, I’ll be icing my everything and rethinking my friendships.

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Sccool?

I found this just over the border into Vermont. I think the painters need to attend the nearby school for spelling lessons. Now this brings a question to mind - when you misspell a word on the road do you use black-out to correct it? Apparently this road crew didn't have any so they just painted over it, probably hoping no one would notice.

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You Might Be A Redneck If... Your Parade Float Has An Outhouse!

Now where is my camera when I actually need it?! Of course, not in the truck, not in my purse, and definitely not in my hand—because otherwise, I'd have photographic proof instead of folks trusting my “I-swear-I-saw-this” version of events.

It started innocently enough. I was in town on the 4th of July, running errands and pretending I was “just swinging by for one thing.” (The biggest lie since “the check’s in the mail.”) I cruised past the parade float lineup—pure Northern New England Americana in all its glory: patriotic bunting flapping in the wind, kids sticky with popsicle juice, fire trucks so polished they could blind you, and the high school band wheezing out “Yankee Doodle”. Even the Boy Scouts were there, standing at attention like little soldiers bribed with root beer floats and the promise of extra s’mores at the next campfire.

And then… it happened.

A float that stopped me dead and made me rethink what had brought me to this curb.

I don’t know what group, company, or loose coalition of third cousins twice removed sponsored this thing, but what it lacked in branding it more than made up for in sheer, unapologetic commitment. Imagine a hillbilly porch slapped on a trailer, overalls (shirts optional), a couple of guys with guitars—two of which were actually in use—and, the crown jewel: an outhouse.

Not just any outhouse. This one had only the bottom half of the walls. Waist-up? On full display for Main Street to enjoy. And inside—sitting proud, serene, and apparently at peace with all his life choices—was a man leafing through what looked like a vintage Sears catalog, as if auditioning for “Rustic Bathroom Chic: The Calendar.” And to top it off, t
hey were playing “Ode to the Little Brown Shack Out Back.” (If you’re not familiar with this, it’s a little ditty sung by Billy Edd Wheeler in the 1960s—a sentimental ballad to, you guessed it, the outhouse. Go ahead, look it up!)

I wish I was making this up. I’m not. My imagination isn’t this deranged.

The man had the air of someone living his absolute truth. He might have been humming. I don’t know—I was too busy praying to every saint in the book that they weren’t about to toss Tootsie Rolls into the crowd. Because we all know exactly what that would’ve looked like.

It’s not the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen in this town. . . but it’s a firm top-five contender.

So here’s the takeaway from the curbside, front-row seat to pure Americana:
You might be a redneck if you ride in an outhouse in a parade—I assume fully clothed, catalog in hand, waving to the crowd like you’re the Grand Marshal of Bathroom Breaks.

And yes, even in Northern New Hampshire—where duct tape is legal tender, and your neighbor’s goat might be better dressed than you, somehow. . . this still won’t be the strangest thing I see all summer.

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Death Metal Rooster

Check out this rooster's crow. Too funny!

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A43JOxLa5MM

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Red Wilde's Cat

Here's yet another great story by my friend Jesse Taylor II. If you like his stories please let him know by leaving a comment in, of all places, the comment section.

--Guest post by Jesse Taylor II

I've never felt any real sense of shame when telling folks that my Daddy was a heavy drinker. That's just the plain truth. I grew up with it and accepted it as part of his nature. He wasn't a "mean drunk". If anything, drinking brought out the entertainer in him. It was the times when he was drunk that he most often turned to his music and story telling talents and enjoyed the laughter it brought from his friends. Having said that, let me tell you a little more about the man.

Daddy was a heavy construction worker. That's what he liked. He would rather work on a bridge building crew, a road crew, or with a crew that dug ditches than to operate some factory machine. Of course, back in "his time", many of the construction crews quit for the winter. Cold weather takes a heavy toll on machinery, materials and men. It can be dangerous...much better to wait for better weather.

During lay-offs, there wasn't much to do except sit around the house, which Daddy couldn't stand. He didn't have any real hobbies, except for drinking, and he craved the company of his pals. Even so, there's only just so much time anyone can spend at the local VFW, or anywhere else with a fine selection of bar stools. The mind can only enjoy as much as the seat of the pants can endure. So, it wasn't unusual for men of Daddy's kind to "take the show on the road", so to speak. They'd get a "pint or a fifth" and a cold six pack and drive around to see the sights. Yes, yes, I know...drinking and driving is a terrible thing. It was back then, too, but it wasn't the huge crime it is now days. It was more socially accepted and that's just the way it was.

Of course, you realize this is all leading up to a story. So, having "set the stage", here it is.

It was a few days before Christmas. It had been real cold and the snow was heavy and deep. Daddy was laid-off from his job, so he was pursuing his favorite hobby...we'll call it "socializing".

As it so happened, Daddy was socializing with a workmate named, Russel Wilde. Folks called him "Red", because of his bright red hair and full, red beard. Red was another "old drunk", for lack of a better description. He made good money, but like most of his kind, he kept it all "drunk up". He lived as poor as a church mouse. The old house he rented was sparsely furnished and was heated by a single "pot-bellied" stove. His wife did have an electric cook stove.

Oh yes, he was married. Poor old girl, she was a good wife and mother who struggled along and endured Red's ways for the sake of her family. As I recall, she wasn't much to look at, but that's neither here nor there. Time is seldom a friend to a woman's beauty and that's especially true for a woman who has a drunk for a husband.

I went to school with Red's daughters. I'll never forget their names...Kathy, Lootie, and Vondretta. They were all healthy and happy little girls, even if they didn't have all the "niceties" denied them by Red's over indulgence. As I mentioned, their Mom was a very good mother and she saw that they were well fed and had clean clothes to wear, even if they weren't of the latest fashion.

Still, every once in awhile, she'd pack the girls up and leave Red to stay with her mother. It never seemed to worry Red. He knew she'd come back. He just went along with business, or lack there of, as usual. Lord only knows why, but Red was the love of her life. They say a woman marries a man hoping he'll change, but he seldom does...and a man marries a woman hoping she won't change, but she always does. Such is life, but to continue...

When we left our "heroes", it was about 2:30 or 3:00 am and Daddy and Red were driving around the countryside when Red says, "You getting hungry, Willard?"

Daddy maintained that he could go for a bite. So, Red suggested they go to his house where he'd "get the old woman up out of bed and have her fix us some 'tatters and eggs". So, that was the plan.

When they got to Red's house it was almost as cold inside as it was outside. The fire had gone out in the old pot-bellied stove and there wasn't anyone around to re-stoke it. A note on the kitchen table told the whole story. The wife had packed up the kids and ran back to her mother's to spend Christmas "in a decent family fashion". This didn't bother Red. He just told Daddy to pull up a seat while he kindled up a fire and they'd fry up their own 'taters and eggs right on top of the old stove.

Now, you didn't really want to sit down on Red's upholstered furniture, or what was left of it. You see, Red loved cats and he had about 20 of them in and around the place. So, always being fashion conscious and with an eye to keeping cat hair off his clothes, Daddy pulled an old, hard-backed chair in from the kitchen and sat down in front of the stove. Beer in hand, legs crossed and his foot nervously twitching, partly to provide a little warming exercise, Daddy sat there, observing Red's fire building skills.

Red had a rather unusual way of building a fire. First, he put a couple of large, split pieces in the stove, followed by a liberal covering of kindling, followed by an armload of wadded up newspaper. Over this, he poured a large "soup can" full of kerosene. Then, he grabbed up another section of newspaper and began twisting it into a torch, which he would throw into the stove to ignite the kerosene. He was having some difficulty getting his old "Zippo" lighter to work, but finally got a spark and was turning the torch over and over so as to insure enough flame for positive ignition when it was applied to the combustion chamber.

As this was taking place, Daddy continued his "cross-legged" vigil, sipping his beer and bouncing his foot, as was his nervous habit. As Daddy later recalled, it was about this time that Red's favorite cat, a white, long-haired cat that Red called an "Angora", took it upon itself to spring into action...no doubt coaxed into a playful venture by the dancing strings of Daddy's nervously bouncing work boot. From around the corner of the couch, it sprang onto Daddy's foot. Being startled by the unexpected attack, Daddy kicked his foot. He said the cat sailed through the open door of the stove even as Red turned and threw the flaming torch in, right behind it. Red slammed the door shut and stood over the stove, clapping and rubbing his hands together as if expecting instant heat. Daddy, somewhat bent over towards the stove, looked up at Red and said, "Red...I think I just kicked ye cat in the far (fire)!"

Red said, "You done what?"

About that time, they heard "Scritch, scritch, scritch" in the stovepipe. The cat worked the damper as it went through, rounded the elbow into the chimney and continued to "scritch" its way on up. Red, who's eyes were big as saucers as they intently followed the sounds, gave a big jerk and took off towards the front door with Daddy right behind him.

Outside, both men stood in the knee-deep snow, staring straight up at the chimney on top of that big, 2-story house. The snow was still falling fairly heavy, but they could see there wasn't any smoke coming out. Then, there was a large "poof" of black smoke, presently followed by, what looked like, an animated and independent portion of that smoke descending down the side of the chimney to the roof, where it smoked it's way along the peak, sat down on the gable end and started to lick itself.

Daddy was on his knees, laughing, but Red was not amused as he stood there, staring straight up at the smoking, black cat. Daddy said he'd just got up off his knees and was dusting the snow off his pants when Red shot him a glance and said, "Well, damn it! I hope he's got enough spit to put himself out!" Daddy hit the ground again.

Cousin Harvey

--Guest post by Jesse Taylor II

My Daddy insisted this story was true. You'll have to make up your own mind about that.

My Cousin Harvey Taylor wasn't as tall as the rest of the family. He topped of at a very skinny 5-foot six. Daddy always said smoking and drinking had stunted his growth. Harv claimed to have smoked his first cigarette when he was only 5 years old. In a tobacco growing country, where "roll your owns" are common and kids will be kids, that may be true. But, one thing is true, by the time he reached 15 years of age he'd developed a healthy taste for alcohol. Boys grew up fast in the coal camps of old Kentucky. Times were hard and the poverty took its toll. When he was 16 years old, "Little Harv" lied about his age and joined the Army. Hard to believe, but it really happened. But, I digress. We're not really here to talk about Harv's younger days. Let's have a word about his hobby...and chief occupation. Namely, that of being a drunk.

Now, just because Harv was a drinker, that didn't mean he was lazy. A great many heavy drinkers are very hard workers. They know that if they quit working then the money for alcohol will disappear. Harv didn't have any trouble holding down a job. Things were very different from what they are, today.

Anyway, as it so happened, Harv's outfit had a three day weekend. This meant Harv had Thursday night, all day Friday and all day Saturday to practice his hobby. He set to the task with gusto, according to reports. When Sunday morning came, Harv woke up in the bar. Actually, he woke up on the countertop of the bar, proper. You might say he had been "over served". As bad as he felt, he knew it was Sunday. He also knew there wasn't any use in trying to call anyone to come pick him up. Them that weren't in church would be in no shape to drive, having spent their time involved in their own hobbies.

Harv claimed he had a ringing in his ears, blurred vision, stomach cramps and a headache. Also, he knew that, if he was going to get back home, he was going to have to walk. His thinking was clear enough to realize that he really didn't want to put up with the noise of passing traffic, should he take the "easy route" by walking along the highway. Unsteady as his legs were, he decided he'd be better off taking the more direct and private route, down along the river. If the birds weren't singing too loud, he thought he might be better able to stand it.

As Harv walked along the river, he heard a sound that, in his impaired condition, sounded for the world like someone shouting for help. Somebody might be drowning. This spurred Harv into action. He took off at a "lope". The route took him over a high embankment and he ran head-long into a big "baptising" service.

Now, Harv was no stranger in the community. Some of those folks recognized him and knew him well. They knew what he'd been up to and could see he wasn't "up to snuff", so to speak. Well, one of the fellows clamped Harv in a good, old fashioned, "hand shake". This involved a few hearty pats on the back and a round of "well-wishings". Its a common occurrence between friends in that part of the country. Also, its not an uncommon trait that good friends can sense a conspiracy when it comes up. The first man passed Harv off to the second man, who passed him off again, and so on and so forth. Next thing Harv knew, he was standing in the river, shaking hands with the preacher. The preacher, being no stranger himself, grabbed Harv and, promptly, dunked him under.

Harv came up spitting and slinging water. The reverend, still holding Harv by the shirt collar, shouted, "Have you found Jesus?"

Harv shouted, "No!!" So, the reverend dunked him under, again.

Harv came up blowing more water and waving his arms around. The reverend shouted, "Have you found Jesus!!?"

Harv shouted, "No!!!" Back under he went.

Harv came up spitting and clutching at the air and the reverend repeated the question, "Have you found Jesus, yet!!!?"

Harv reached out, grabbed the reverend by the shirt, drew him in close and asked, "Reverend...are you right sure this is where he went under!!?"

City Evangelist, Country Church

--Guest Post by Jesse Taylor II

Back in the Appalachian Mountains of old Kentucky, when I was a boy, the churches were one-room, white, simple little buildings. They weren't anything fancy. Not that the size or construction of the church matters to the Lord, but our churches were simple and small because the people led simple lives and, when it came right down to it, didn't have the money to support the building and maintenance of a large church.

In fact, the day to day maintenance of the church was so simple that one man could take care of it. All that really needed to be done was dusting the pews and window ledges, sweeping the floor, and in winter, building a fire in the little "pot-bellied" stove. The outhouse might need some attention or, if the day was unusually dark or if the service was after dark, the kerosene lamps might need filling and lighting. Usually, this task was taken up by Uncle Jim Gibbons.

Uncle Jim was a simple man who lived alone in the same two-room cabin he'd grown up in. He never married, so he considered his only obligations were to his fellow man and his Lord.

I recall one Sunday morning when the whole community was "all a-buzz" because we were expecting to have a big revival, led by a big city evangelist. As luck would have it, Uncle Jim had been busy with his old mule, that morning. Seems the poor old creature wasn't feeling the best and Uncle Jim had been tending to him to the point where he clean forgot about the time. When he finally realized his mistake, Uncle Jim took off for the church in such a hurry that he didn't have time to grab himself a bite for breakfast.

Uncle Jim didn't drive, so his only way of getting to the church was to walk. He was accomplishing this with great speed that morning. He was going along at such a clip that he almost stepped on a possum. Now, Uncle Jim considered a possum to be some mighty fine eating...as did most folks around the area. Since he hadn't had any breakfast, he knew he'd be mighty hungry by the time church let out. So, never one to pass up a good meal, Uncle Jim found a stick and collected what the Good Lord had provided.

He didn't have time to run it back home, so he took it along, stopping only long enough to "field dress" it when he reached a stream crossing. He rinsed off his pocket knife and his hands and continued along to the church, freshly cleaned possum by his side.

As was mentioned, the church was a one-room, simple building. There weren't any closets...no "nooks or crannies". There wasn't anyplace to put the possum out of sight. The only place Uncle Jim could find was a ledge, just over the door, on the inside of the church. The menfolk used to put their hats on it, but that practice had ceased since someone had donated a double row of fancy, brass coat-hooks, which had been installed along the back wall. Now, there was ample room for everyone to hang their coats and hats and nobody had to strain up to reach the shelf.

So, it was up there, out of sight, that Uncle Jim decided to hide his possum. It seemed like the perfect place. After all, everyone would be in a church pew and would be paying attention to the evangelist, who would be putting on a real show from a little "riser" that ran across the front of the church. Nobody would be facing the back of the church, except for the evangelist and he would be too busy with the sermon to notice a possum tucked back up on that shelf.

The church service got underway. The evangelist was introduced and the "stage" was turned over to him. The preaching soon reached a fevered pitch. This was the old "fire and brimstone" type of preaching. These preachers believed you had to put the fear of God into your congregation. There was much pacing and jumping and stomping and waving of hands, gnashing of teeth and wailing of voices. The evangelist was putting on quite a show. As he paced back and forth, stopping every so often to bounce up and down for effect, he was laying on the gospel thicker and heavier. His voice was rising and falling. He was pounding his fist into his hands as he preached, "Every day of our lives we've got to get down on our knees and thank the Good Lord for the blessings we've received. Every day of our lives we've got to get down on our knees and thank the Good Lord for the food He puts on our table and the clothes He puts on our backs. Every day of our lives we've got to reach out our hands up to heaven, raise our eyes towards the sky and say.....Good God! What a rat!!!"

After that, Uncle Jim was always fond of saying that, "You can't hide what the Good Lord wants revealed." Bless his heart.

Some Days Are Just Like That

Some days start off sideways and just keep veering off into the weeds. Yesterday was one of those days.

It started out like any other charming day on the homestead—except my dog was limping, my patience was already on empty, and I had no idea I’d be involved in vehicular assault by 11 a.m.

Indy, our refined, older Weimaraner (read: moody senior citizen in a dog suit), started limping around like he’d just come back from a Civil War reenactment. His front paw was swollen, and since he’d already had a foot infection in the other paw. I figured we were just collecting them now, like vintage coins or unpaid parking tickets.

Since I needed the truck to get him to the vet, I had to get up at 5:00 a.m. to take my grandson to work. I came back, tried to sleep for twenty more precious minutes, then called the vet’s office right at 8:00. Or tried to. I got their cheerful little voicemail letting me know their hours are “from 8 to 6!” I guess that means for them, not for us poor saps who call. I’ve learned not to leave a message because they apparently check voicemail sometime between now and the Second Coming.

So I called every 15 minutes like a woman trying to win concert tickets on a radio station. At 9:00, someone finally answered. “Sure, bring him in at 9:45. We’ll squeeze you in.” Right. The vet’s office is about 45 minutes away, and I still hadn’t done the barn chores. So I made a mad dash to feed everyone, break up two chicken arguments, unhook the sheep from whatever weird thing they got into this time, and speed off like I was late for the Kentucky Derby.

I arrived at 9:55, breathless but victorious, only to spend the next 40 minutes in a waiting room that felt like the seventh circle of Dog Hell. A very enthusiastic teenage girl and her boyfriend sat beside me. She was taking photos of every animal that walked in. Then she showed me her entire pet photo album. I nodded politely like I wasn’t wondering if chewing off my own arm would be less painful. Her boyfriend didn’t say a word the whole time, which I think was a survival tactic.

Enter: Junior.

Junior was a boxer puppy. A very young, very enthusiastic, very untrained boxer whose sole purpose in life seemed to be pulling his owner’s arm out of its socket. And he was a “puppy” in the way a wrecking ball is a “pendulum.” His owner, a woman who clearly hadn’t planned for this level of chaos when she got dressed that morning, was practically choking him in an attempt to keep him from launching into orbit.

“Junior! Junior, come here!” “Junior, don’t eat that!” “Junior, get off the lady!” “Junior, that’s not a chew toy—that’s her leg!”

And then came the cat.

The vet has a couple of resident cats who clearly have a death wish, and of course one decided this was the perfect moment to strut through the hallway, like a Vegas showgirl, in front of a pack of drooling, under-medicated dogs. Indy was frozen like a statue, his whole body trembling with suppressed cat-homicide instincts. I could feel the leash vibrating like it was attached to a jackhammer. He lay at my feet looking calm on the outside, but inside he was screaming, “LET ME AT HER!”

Finally—finally—we got called in. After examining Indy (translation: poking his paw for 14 seconds while Indy vibrated like a tuning fork aimed at the cat buffet), the vet nodded and said, “Yup. Probably cellulitis again.” Then he added those magic words every dog owner dreads: “Just keep him quiet at home for a few days.”

Oh. Okay. Sure. Let me just explain that to my Weimaraner. You know, the breed that was specifically designed to chase things forever, run on nuclear power, and sleep only when dead. But, blessing of blessings, Indy was getting older and finally calming down.

I laughed. “What you see in here is not what he’s like at home,” I told him, as Indy continued trembling with unspent rage at the hallway cat and the scent of liver treats. “This whole vet office experience has him juiced. The other dogs, the cat—who he clearly sees as lunch—and the endless treat potential have his brain lit up like a pinball machine.”

“Honestly,” I said, “at home, he’s a couch potato. A nap-loving, snore-barking, sofa-hogging lump of fur. He’s basically a furry sack of potatoes with legs.”

The vet paused, looked at Indy, who was still trembling with violent hope that the cat would make a fatal hallway detour, and then turned to his assistant and said, dead serious: “That’s what my wife says about me. If I were a dog, I’d be this dog.”

And just like that, I didn’t need a vet degree to know this man gets it. Because honestly? I, too, aspire to be a dog that naps hard, snacks often, and only gets riled up when there’s drama in the hallway.

After a total visit of 5 minutes, including the conversation with his assistant, we had this: Diagnosis? Probably cellulitis—again. Prescription? $58. Time wasted? Somewhere between one and three years off my life expectancy.

I put Indy back in the truck and went back in to pay. While I was standing there, Junior decided he hadn’t done enough damage yet and tried to eat my shoe—while it was still on my foot. This dog was a one-dog demolition crew. I told the receptionist I wasn’t sure if the dog wanted a snack or just had strong opinions about footwear.

I paid the bill, headed out, and while backing out of my very tight parking spot in a lot designed for lawnmowers, I gently (and by gently, I mean barely) clipped the fender of the gray car next to me.

Not just any gray car. A gray car with a vanity plate that read “BIG GUN.”

Of course it did.

I sighed, walked back into the waiting room (now a circus missing only a guy in a top hat yelling, “Behold the bearded lady!”) and asked, “Who owns the gray car with the plate ‘Big Gun’?”

Guess who? Junior’s mom. Of course!

At this point, the woman practically short-circuited. She was leaving for Florida tomorrow and now couldn’t remember how to breathe. I told her it was a little dent, nothing major, and she still looked like she might throw Junior at me and flee the scene.

Out she came, dragging Junior, who by this time looked like he’d just done a marathon through a swamp—tongue hanging out, eyes wild, drool flying. Her daughter, who looked to be about ten and had braved tagging along, trotted behind them like this was all just another Tuesday.

While Junior the Wrecking Ball tried to body-check the bumper off my truck, she called her insurance company right there in the parking lot. I handed over all my info, took photos of her car (thanks to my daughter-in-law, who’s trained me to document every moment like I’m prepping for a congressional hearing), and wished her the best.

My truck? Unscathed. Her fender? Slight dent, paint scuff. Her dog? Still possessed. Her stress level? Catastrophic. Her vacation? Probably going to need another vacation from her vacation.

So yeah—some days are just like that. You wake up thinking, “I’ve got this day, no problem,” and by noon you’ve footed a vet bill, been photo-bombed by a teenager, had your footwear attacked, and accidentally assaulted a car named Big Gun.

Next time I’m staying in bed—with Indy.

Please leave your comment below. I really enjoy reading them.

Stupid Sheep - Part 2

After yesterday's struggle getting my dumb sheep into the other pasture I figured today had to be easier. Surely, those two lambs who gave me the runaround would remember the simple concept of “follow the flock through the open gate,” maneuver, right?

Ha. Foolish me. I keep forgetting who I’m dealing with.

So I opened the gate, called to the sheep, and watched as the main flock hustled through into the lush pasture like it was opening night at the salad bar. All good so far. But then, as if on cue, those same two lambs decided they didn’t want to be left behind again.

Which sounds like progress—until they absolutely body-slammed the fence right next to the gate. Full speed. Zero hesitation. One of them hit it so hard he bounced back and landed square on his woolly little butt, blinking like he’d just met a force field.

Then, naturally, they ran along the fence line in the opposite direction from the actual opening.

At this point, I was no help. I was doubled over laughing, wheezing like an asthmatic donkey, tears in my eyes. I couldn’t even yell at them properly.

Maybe my hysterics triggered some sort of momentary sheep self-awareness, because they both came trotting back toward the gate—probably to investigate what ridiculous human behavior was happening this time.

And then, miracle of miracles, they noticed the open gate.

They looked at it. Looked at each other. Looked at me. And then, ever so casually, like they totally knew what they were doing all along, they walked through the opening. Calmly. Like dignified, rational creatures.

They even had the audacity to look surprised that it worked.

So maybe, maybe they can be taught.

Or maybe they’ll forget again tomorrow and try tunneling in from underground. Honestly, with these two, anything is possible.

Stupid Sheep

Sheep have got to be one of the stupidest creatures on Earth—if not the stupidest. And before anyone jumps in to defend them with words like “instinct” or “flocking behavior,” let me stop you right there. I have seen things. I have lived the chaos. And I’ve got hoof prints on my boots to prove it.

So the grass in one of our unused areas was getting thick—perfect for grazing. I opened a small gate off the main paddock, called to the sheep, and, thinking I had grain, they came stampeding. If you’ve never seen a flock of sheep in full-speed panic-hopefulness, picture a wool-covered bowling ball with hooves and zero regard for personal space. Now multiply that by twenty.

Most of them followed me right through the gate. Once inside, they realized they were in grass heaven and spread out to graze like it was a high-end buffet. One ewe hesitated, probably debated with all two  brain cells she had, then bravely stepped through to join the others.

So far, so good.

The lambs, who are about two months old now and clocking in around 40 pounds of fluff and nonsense, mostly followed—except for four. These four watched the rest of the flock go through the open gate and then… ran in the opposite direction. Because logic.

No problem, I thought. I moved behind them, doing my best herding dog impersonation (minus the barking, because I still have some dignity), and pushed them back toward the gate. They got close and I backed off, hoping the light would finally flick on upstairs.

Nope. Right past the gate they went. Ewe got to be kidding me. (Sorry, couldn't resist.)

Alright, fine. Round two. I got behind them again, repeated my fancy footwork routine, shuffled them back toward the open gate. Still nothing.

So I got a goat. Because goats, while occasionally jerks, are at least smart jerks. I led the goat through the gate several times, putting on a whole demonstration like I was starring in a barnyard instructional video. Two lambs watched, finally got it, and followed. The other two? Still rooted in fear and confusion, bleating like the world was ending while their mothers, bless them, were too busy inhaling fescue to care.

At this point, I’m starting to think these two lambs might actually be allergic to open gates.

I decided to up the odds and opened the other gate—a glorious, 12-foot-wide entrance, practically shouting, “WELCOME, DUMMIES!” I herded them toward it. Surely now?

Nope. Past it they ran. Again.

By now, I’m questioning the entire concept of animal intelligence. I went back to the barn, grabbed a little grain, and called the whole flock back through the small gate into the paddock. Stampede, round two. The plan: regroup and try again, this time with the two stubborn lambs swept up in the crowd.

It worked. The flock stuck together like the herd animals they pretend to be, and finally, the two daft holdouts wandered into the land of plenty. Crisis averted. Grass achieved. Sanity… questionable.

After all that, I’ve come to one conclusion: anything this stupid deserves to be eaten.

But that leaves me with a troubling question:
If you are what you eat… what does that make us when we eat stupid animals?

Just food for thought.
(Sorry. Couldn't resist again.)

(Be sure to check out what happens next at Stupid Sheep - Part 2)

Pig Pen Plunge

So there I was, minding my own business, thinking I could have a normal farm day. (I know, I know—rookie mistake.) We’d had rain like it was trying to re-flood the Earth. Puddles became ponds. Mud became quicksand. And the pigs? Oh, they were living their best swamp life.

The electric fence around the pig pen had gone all sad and droopy, like an overcooked spaghetti noodle. It needed to be tightened up. So I got clever: I distracted the pigs with food—a classic move in the “how to avoid being trampled” handbook—and snuck into their pen to fix the fence.

About halfway through my mission, my left boot made a bold decision to abandon the rest of me. It stuck firmly in the mud while my body kept moving forward with the grace of a drunken giraffe. What followed can only be described as interpretive dance meets panic attack—arms flailing like airport ground crew on espresso, one leg locked in the mud muttering, “I live here now,” while the other thrashed about like it was auditioning for Riverdance.

Then came the moment gravity won. And somehow, despite my forward motion, I ended up flat on my back like a turtle flipped upside down. Don’t ask me how. Newton himself would’ve thrown his apple and said, “Nah, that ain’t right.”

And this wasn’t just any mud. This was pig mud—a luxurious blend of topsoil, rainwater, leftover slop, and pig poo, aged to perfection. The kind of smell that grabs your nostrils and shouts, “WELCOME TO THE FARM, BABY!”

As I lay there, auditioning for Swine Survivor, I tried to figure out how to get up without adding more pig-based goo to my person. That plan lasted exactly five seconds, because the pigs, now done eating, decided to investigate. And by investigate, I mean gallop toward me like a snorting stampede of short-legged hippos.

At this point, survival instincts kicked in. I pushed myself up, now adding mud to my arms and the front of my shirt. The pigs, sensing weakness (and probably hoping I was a snack), took the opportunity to notice the fence was completely down. Off they went on a joy-filled, mud-slicked jailbreak.

I stared at their chunky behinds disappearing into the distance and thought, “Well. . . at least now I can fix the fence without anyone chewing on my ears.”

I wrangled the fence back into place, which was easier said than done, considering I was moving like a Roomba with a drinking problem. The pigs actually stopped running and ambled back to watch—not out of concern, heaven forbid, but with the quiet curiosity of creatures wondering whether to intervene or just let nature run its course.

Just when I thought I might actually finish the job and slink away with a shred of dignity—BAM!—the right boot betrayed me too. Apparently, it couldn’t stand the separation anxiety and decided to join its partner in muck-based rebellion.

Now I’m wallowing around in my socks, which instantly became one with the mud, absorbing every earthy, squishy, pig-poo-soaked molecule. I swear I heard them sob, resigning themselves to their fate. Every step made a squelch so loud it echoed. My socks were no longer socks—they were now biohazards.

At this point, my feet were wet, my boots were buried somewhere around ankle-deep, and I was just slogging through the muck with the grace of a toddler wearing oversized flippers. I wasn’t fixing a fence—I was starring in a one-woman mud wrestling match, and the mud was winning.

Then I spotted a broken fence post nearby—blessedly pointy on one end and sort of solid on the other. Did I hesitate? Not for a second. I snatched it up and used it like a walking stick-slash-battle staff, stabbing it into the mud for balance like a deranged farm hobbit crossing the Misty Mountains of Pig Filth.

I looked like Gandalf’s muddier cousin, limping through the sludge yelling, “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!”—mostly to the pigs, who were eyeing me like I might be the second course. Then, like a grain-based pied piper, I lured those porky escapees back into their pen with the promise of more grain. Pigs are easily manipulated—just like me, apparently.

I squelched my way back to the house—mud oozing out of my socks and clinging to my backside like a diaper at DEFCON 1. My hair, once long and lovely, was now a mud curtain. There was mud on my face, my neck, my soul.

I hollered into the house, “EVERYONE CLOSE YOUR EYES!” and proceeded to strip down outside like a feral cavewoman. Modesty has absolutely no place when covered with pig mud. I walked to the shower stark naked, trailing clumps of pig pen behind me.

Three full rounds of scrubbing and I still smelled like Eau de Hog Heaven. So I did what any desperate woman would do: I grabbed my teenage grandson’s Ax body wash. If that stuff can mask the teenage boy stench of dirty socks, football practice, and puberty sweat, surely it could handle a little pig manure.

The clothes got hosed down, washed, bleached, and blessed by a priest.

The gloves still stank and got tossed straight into the trash. Turns out pig mud is like glitter—once it’s in your life, it never fully leaves. And the boots? They died as they lived: in a pit of muck. I didn’t even try to save them. I just saluted and whispered, “Thank you for your service.” I’d wanted new ones anyway. To my knowledge, they’re still buried out there, unless the pigs ate them.

So, next time you hear someone say, “Farm life must be so peaceful,” just know that somewhere out there, a woman is flailing in pig mud, losing her boots and her dignity, while pigs laugh in the face of her misguided efforts.

The moral of the story?

Never trust mud.

Always bring extra clothes.

And keep your teenage grandson’s body wash locked and loaded.

Obituary - Androscoggin Rooster, 2006-2009 (Approximately)

We gather today—briefly, and with appropriate caution—to mourn the passing of Androscoggin Rooster, a strikingly handsome Partridge Rock with a flair for drama and a taste for human ankles. He died today at American Way Farm in northern New Hampshire, following a brief but ill-advised scuffle with his owner, Sandy.

In recent weeks, Androscoggin and Sandy had reached what could best be described as a tense truce. There had been. . . incidents. And discussions. And a few choice words. And, for a time, there was peace in the barnyard.

That illusion shattered yesterday.

Perched on a fence post like a feathered gargoyle, Androscoggin launched a surprise aerial assault while Sandy attempted the simple act of opening a gate. He was promptly confronted and retreated to the safety of the henhouse like the overconfident barnyard bully he was. Another “come-to-Jesus” conversation ensued, in which Sandy clearly laid out the terms: one more incident, and it would be his last.

Apparently, Androscoggin did not take her seriously.

This morning, as Sandy was lovingly tending to a newborn lamb—a pure, gentle moment of peace and maternal devotion—Androscoggin saw his chance for vengeance. Like a mustache-twirling villain in a bad Western, he charged. He flapped. He flogged. He bit off more than his spurs could handle.

Sandy, channeling the wrath of every woman who’s ever had one too many things go sideways before breakfast, left the lamb, fetched the .22, and ended the skirmish with a single shot. He was dispatched swiftly, and his body was tossed over the fence into the waiting jaws of the dog for natural processing. All that remains are a few loose feathers, some entrails, and the faint echo of a warning crow.

A brief memorial service will be held this evening from 8:00 to 8:01 p.m., or until the subject of dinner is introduced.

No charges are being filed, as authorities have ruled it a clear-cut case of barnyard self-defense.

Androscoggin is survived by 12 hens, none of whom appear particularly broken up about it. In fact, morale in the coop seems noticeably higher.

Condolences and expressions of sympathy (or victory dances on behalf of the hens) may be posted in the comments section. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that you simply respect personal space and refrain from underestimating farm women in possession of firearms.

This Place Is Insane!

There are moments on the farm when I pause, look around, and wonder if I accidentally stepped into a deleted scene from a Monty Python movie. Today was one of those days.

We have an 8-foot hay feeder out in the pasture with a slanted plywood roof—practical, straightforward, keeps the hay dry, does what it's supposed to do. What it’s not supposed to be is a launch pad for sheep gymnastics.

One of our ewe lambs decided the feeder was not for feeding, but for freedom. She’d get a running start, charge up the slanted roof like she was storming Normandy, and hurl herself off the top—onto the backs of the other sheep. Most of them were not amused. There was a lot of panicked shuffling, annoyed grunts, and the kind of side-eye that said, “Seriously?”

But Bruce—oh, sweet Bruce the ram—just stood there. Like a saint. Or a bored playground dad who’s been used as a jungle gym one too many times. She’d land on his back, spring off again, land back on the feeder, and repeat the whole process like she was auditioning for Cirque du So-Lamb. Sometimes she'd fall off him entirely and just zip around to do it again, like a woolly little parkour expert with no sense of personal space or gravity.

Eventually, the rest of the flock had enough and shuffled away to the far side of the pasture. All but one ewe, who stood nearby, clearly regretting her life choices. She watched the whole routine with a look on her face that can only be described as, “This place is insane.” You could practically see the gears turning in her head as she weighed whether she, too, should find somewhere else to stand. Or maybe move out entirely.

And then I noticed why she looked so particularly done with the day:
She had a chicken roosting on her head.

Just standing there like it was the most natural thing in the world. The chicken was perched up high like she owned the place, and the ewe stood there like a woman stuck at a dinner party she couldn't escape. The combination made her look like she was wearing the world's weirdest hat. For you Harry Potter fans, imagine Neville Longbottom’s grandmother's vulture hat—but more... barnyard chic.

So, yeah. I have to agree. This place is definitely insane.

Do The Funky Lamb

We think we finally figured out the reason for Lambchop’s mysterious limp (see yesterday’s post).

Try as I might, I can't seem to get her weaned—not even after a week in a separate pen with nothing but hay, water, and her own thoughts. Lambchop is stubborn, determined, and apparently training for some kind of sheep-level Olympic sport. She’s about half the size of her mother and twice as wide. She’s developed a rather... creative technique for nursing, since she's too big to maneuver herself into the normal nursing position.

Here’s the scene:

She backs up about ten feet like a batter getting into the zone. She plants her feet—seriously, it looks like a bull squaring up for a charge—leans back just a smidge, takes a deep breath, and goes for it.

Head down.
Momentum building.
Eyes on the prize.

She takes aim and charges at full speed. Right before impact, she spreads her front legs wide and belly-flops into a full-speed slide, slamming into her mother’s udder with the force of a cannonball. The impact nearly knocks Mama Sheep sideways. Mom stumbles, looks vaguely offended, and then, like all long-suffering mothers, just sighs and continues on about her business.

And here I am watching this little wool missile launch herself across the pen like it’s completely normal. Now I'm no vet, but something tells me it might just be that front leg spread and full-body skid that’s messing up her shoulder. Just a hunch.

Still, I think she’s onto something. If TikTok ever discovers this move, it’s going viral. I’m calling it “The Funky Lamb.” Step 1: Back up. Step 2: Launch yourself like a bowling ball. Step 3: Skid on your belly into the heart of whatever problem you're trying to solve. Bonus points for dramatic flair.

McSheep At McDonalds?

The plan was simple: take Levite, one of our Great Pyrenees, to the vet for a re-check on an ear infection they found when he went in for his shots. While I was at it, I figured I’d bring along Lambchops—our three-month-old Rambouillet lamb—because she’d been limping and favoring her right front leg. I couldn’t see anything wrong, but since we were already making a trip to the land of poking and prodding, we might as well toss a sheep into the mix.

    Now, Lambchops is not exactly built for carpooling. So I loaded up a large dog crate in the back of the truck, and Grandson helped load her in. We tossed a blanket over the crate and strapped it down—because nothing says “we’re totally normal” like a covered mystery crate in the bed of a pickup.

The vet said Levite’s ear was healing fine and
couldn’t find anything obviously wrong with Lambchops. Probably just pulled a muscle doing whatever it is lambs do when they’re unsupervised—parkour, maybe. Diagnosis: Rest, and maybe don’t let her try to leap off the hay bale like she’s a stunt double in Lamb Hard: With a Vengeance.

So we’re headed home, and Grandson—now of driving age, though not quite of driver’s license—was behind the wheel with me riding shotgun. We were both hungry, and since neither of us had packed a lunch (because that would have required planning ahead, which we absolutely did not), we decided to swing through McDonald’s.

Grandson was on the ordering side. We rolled up to the speaker, and this is where things took a turn.

McDonald’s Voice: “Hi, welcome to McDonald’s! May I take your order?”

Grandson: “Give us just a minute—”

And then… from the back of the truck, Lambchops let loose.

BAAAAAA.

Now this wasn’t your sweet little Mary had a little lamb baa. This was more like burly trucker just crushed a can of Mountain Dew and let one rip. A deep, echoing, full-chested BAAAAA that shook the tailgate.

McD: (chuckling) “Okay, just let me know when you’re ready.”

Grandson: (a few seconds later, trying not to laugh) “Okay, we’re ready—”

Lambchops: “BAAAAAA.”

Grandson: “We’ll have a—” BAAAAAA “—#6 with a Coke—” BAAAAAA “—and a #8 with a diet, no—” BAAAAAA “—ice.”

By this point, the McDonald’s worker was laughing so hard she could barely get the words out.

McD: “Will that be all?”

Grandson: (barely able to breathe) “Yes.”

Lambchops: “BAAAAAAA.”

We pulled up to the first window, and the poor woman had tears running down her cheeks. She was completely speechless. Couldn’t even take our money at first. Just stood there, clutching the register for support, while Lambchops continued her unsolicited commentary on our lunch choices.

Grandson, still laughing so hard he was wheezing, leaned over and whispered, “I really hope they don’t arrest me for sexual harassment. I can’t control the sheep.”

So if you happened to be working at the McDonald’s that day—or behind us in the drive-thru—and you’re still telling people about the unseen lamb that heckled the combo order: Yes, she was real. Yes, her name is Lambchops. And yes, she will loudly critique the menu selections.

Just another normal day at American Way Farm—where the vet bills are high, the sheep are mouthy, and the drive-thru comes with a side of farm-fresh chaos.