The Great Fluffpocalypse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Gus Saves the Day

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

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

Why the sudden change of heart? Because Gus barked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Stitches? I Don't Need No Stinkin' Stitches!

Charlie went to the vet’s last Tuesday to be neutered. He’s a little over a year old now, which is the canine equivalent of being a rowdy teenager with a learner’s permit—old enough to get into trouble, and just young enough to think it’s a good idea.

He jumped into the truck like we were headed on the greatest adventure ever, tail wagging, tongue flapping, not a care in the world. He strutted into the vet’s office like he owned the place, sniffing every corner and introducing himself to everyone. “Hi, I’m Charlie. You smell like a snack. Wanna be friends?”

And then it hit him.

“Wait. You’re leaving me here?” he asked, ears back, eyes wide with betrayal.

“Yes,” I said, channeling my calmest mom voice. “You’ll be fine. I’ll pick you up later.”

Well, the dog we got back that evening was not the same confident explorer who’d leapt into the truck that morning. This one looked like he’d sat on a wasp nest and was absolutely certain it was our fault.

Then came the infamous Cone of Shame.

Even with that, by Wednesday Charlie had pulled all his stitches out, broken the cone, and ripped it off his head like it was on fire and full of bees.

“Charlie, what did you DO?” I gasped.

He looked me dead in the eye. “Stitches? I don’t need no stinkin’ stitches!” (Yes, that’s paraphrased from Blazing Saddles, but it was definitely the vibe.)

To top it off, his regular vet was on vacation. Of course he was. It’s a universal law: if something can go sideways, it will, and the vet will be sipping margaritas somewhere out of cell range. So off we went to the emergency clinic, where they gave him a bigger collar, a generous helping of staples, and a round of antibiotics. Surely that would do the trick. They also gave me a bill that could have bought a used car and a headache big enough to have its own zip code.

By Thursday, he’d broken the collar again and yanked out the staples for good measure. When I confronted him, he made it clear he had no intention of being held together with office supplies. This dog is part livestock guardian, part Houdini, and part chainsaw—and I’m single-handedly keeping Gorilla Tape in business just trying to keep the cone from total collapse.

I called his regular vet’s office again, and they gave me the ol’ shrug. Since he was clearly on a mission to remove anything foreign from his body—no matter how many times we reinstalled it—they said putting more staples in would be “pointless.” The wound would eventually granulate and heal on its own. (Granulate: fancy vet word for “It’ll scab up if he stops acting like a maniac.”)

Their one helpful tip? A blow-up pillow collar that looks like one of those neck pillows people wear in airports. It’s supposed to keep the cone from collapsing and maybe keep him from turning himself into a DIY project again.

So now poor Charlie is wearing a neck floatie and the Cone of Shame. We’re keeping him inside to avoid fly strike, and he's miserable. What should have been a few days of recovery before he was back out with his goats has turned into weeks of indoor incarceration, complete with wardrobe. He has lost not only his dignity, but also his masculinity and his freedom—all at the hands of the humans he once trusted.

He’s taken to sighing dramatically and lying by the door, like a disgraced action hero waiting for one last mission that will never come. Every exhale is heavy with betrayal, every glance at the doorknob a silent plea for freedom.

So here’s to Charlie—formerly intact, veteran of suffering, fashion icon of inflatable accessories, protector of goats, breaker of collars, and sole survivor of The Snipening. His resume grows by the day.

Please send Charlie your thoughts, prayers, and maybe a cone forged from steel-reinforced titanium with NASA-grade duct tape. He’s going to need it.

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From Guard Dog to Couch Critic

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

Until this year.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coincidence? I think not.

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Morning Reflection

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you remember: this is home.

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Fisher Attack

If you’ve never heard of a fisher, allow me to enlighten you—and maybe convince you to keep your chickens inside a bank vault. A fisher is a weasel on steroids. Think wolverine without the charm. It’s like nature said, “You know what’s missing from the forest? A sneaky, tree-climbing land shark with anger issues and dental work that would make a piranha blush.”

These nasty creatures have one goal in life: eat everything. They have no natural predators. Except, of course, for humans… and my BWDs (Big White Dawgs).

In the wee hours this morning, when even the most caffeine-addicted rooster is still asleep, one of these fur-covered chainsaws thought it would be a great idea to swing by the Davis Cafe for a chicken dinner. We free-range our broiler chickens on our lawn, and at about 7–8 pounds each, they’re lookin’ mighty plump and ready for their “processing appointment.” Apparently, Mr. Fisher wanted an early reservation.

But what he didn’t count on was our very fluffy, very large, and very territorial bouncer: Gabriel, the King of Fluff and Defender of Chickens. Gabe was stationed, as usual, in the front yard—his version of the night shift. He’s big. He’s white. He’s part dog, part mountain. And he takes his job very seriously.

But the real surprise? The first alarm didn’t come from Gabe. It came from Libby, our 4-month-old Colorado Mountain pup who was stationed with the does in the front pasture. That pup barked like she’d just found out someone was messing with her Netflix account. Her hackles went up, she hit DEFCON 1, and let the whole valley know something nasty was coming down the driveway.

Gabe leapt into action, threw himself at the gate like a medieval knight yelling, “YOU! SHALL! NOT! PASS!” Then Remi, our senior lady down in the lower pasture, came flying up from behind the pond like she was shot out of a cannon powered by rocket fuel—ears pinned, tail high, and ready to ruin someone’s whole career.

The fisher, seeing three livid polar bears in dog suits and realizing this particular diner had a no-weasel policy enforced with teeth, did a sharp U-turn and noped its way back to the forest, probably mumbling, “Sheesh. All I wanted was a nugget.”

We didn’t lose a single bird. Not one. Take that, you bushy-tailed death ferret.

And little Libby? Oh, she was struttin’ like she’d just earned her stripes—which she had. Gabe and Remi both gave her the canine equivalent of a standing ovation: some proud tail wags, a nose boop, and what I’m pretty sure was a muttered, “Well done, Grasshopper.”

I’m telling you, this pup’s got the makings of a real guardian. Big bark. Big heart. No patience for nonsense. And a firm belief that chickens are friends, not food.

So if you’re ever thinking about inviting a fisher to dinner, just know this:
At the Davis Cafe, we reserve the right to refuse service—especially if you show up furry, uninvited, and planning to eat the patrons.

"Well done,Grasshopper!"

"OK, OK, you did good kid. Now go away!"

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Farm Shuffle

Sometimes it feels like life hit fast-forward while I was stuck on pause with my foot in the air. I try to write, to record it while it's still fresh in my memory. And sometimes I have to think back a ways to make sure nothing escapes my forgetful brain.

Let’s rewind a bit. Back in February, I had the second surgery on my right foot to fuse the big toe joint. Why? Because about four years ago a 4x8 sheet of 3/4” plywood decided to swan-dive off a stack from about three feet up—right onto my foot. Crunch. You never realize how important that joint is until it’s been flattened like a pancake by a sheet of flying plywood.

So there I was, couch-bound for a couple of weeks, foot elevated like royalty, binging British detective shows and pretending to enjoy it. Then it was three months in a walking boot, clomping around the farm like Frankenstein’s cousin.

Meanwhile. . . everything changed.

The three grandkids all moved out. Poof. Just like that. After months of teenage angst, midnight fridge raids, and the distinct sound of video games and drums bleeding through the walls at 2 a.m., the house is now eerily quiet—and a whole lot cleaner. (And no one’s asking me where the peanut butter went. Because now I know where it is. Right where I left it, wherever that might be.)

"Hey, what's going on in here?"

Then Talon, my beloved Gypsy Cob, after almost a year on the market, was sold to a vacation farm in Pennsylvania. You know, the kind of place where folks from the city pay real money to muck stalls and milk goats because they think it’s quaint. (I’ll let you in on a secret: they haven’t done it in February. Or in mud season.)

They also bought the saddle I had custom-made for him—because obviously, you can't have a horse without the saddle. The round pen? Sold. The horse trailer? Gone last week. And a few weeks ago, someone showed up intending to buy just one goat. . . and somehow drove off with five goats and four pigs. I’m not entirely sure how that happened. It was like a barnyard clearance sale where the animals negotiated their own deals.

Let’s recap what left for greener pastures:

3 grandkids (formerly known as “The Bottomless Pits”)

1 horse and his custom saddle

5 goats

4 pigs

1 round pen

1 horse trailer

And, as of today, our van

At this rate, I feel like I should be stamping “SOLD” on everything that’s not nailed down and setting up a booth at the local flea market.

But don’t worry—it hasn’t been all subtraction around here.

We added a new member to the farm family: Libby, short for Liberty Bell. She’s a Colorado Mountain Dog—part Great Pyrenees, part Anatolian Shepherd, and 100% adorable. At eight weeks old, she’s about the cutest thing this side of a baby panda and about as coordinated. Right now, she’s in that bite-everything-that-moves stage, with a bonus side of random leaping.

She’s not quite ready to be in with the goats just yet. We’re waiting for her to grow out of the ankle-nipping ninja phase and grow into the goat-guarding phase. For now, she’s in her own little section where she can see the goats and they can see her, but no one can head-butt, nibble, or escape.

I feel like I’m supervising a preschool version of Survivor: Barnyard Edition—complete with alliances, betrayals, and someone always crying.

Gabriel, our older LGD, has been the first to accept her—he’s got that kind, fatherly soul that says “sure, kid, you can sleep here, just don’t snore.” He lets her curl up beside him and even shares meals without a grumble. It’s no small thing to be welcomed by the senior dog—LGD apprenticeships are notoriously strict.

Remi, on the other hand, thinks Libby is about as welcome as a giant, fuzzy gnat. Every time Libby bounces her way, Remi gives her that withering side-eye that says “child, no.” It’s going to take some time before Remi gives her stamp of approval—but my bet is that by the end of the month, they’ll be wrestling like sisters and stealing each other’s dinner.

So there you have it: We're lighter on livestock, heavier on puppy antics, and navigating life one unexpected plot twist at a time.

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Are You My Mother?

Remi, our female Great Pyrenees LGD (livestock guardian dog), has recently taken on a new job title—nursemaid, bodyguard, and best friend to Babydoll, our goat kid who has a broken leg.

It started during the daily milking stampede—you know, that moment when all the goats go full feeding frenzy. Picture the Jaws theme, but with hooves and slightly more attitude. Baby couldn’t keep up, what with the whole leg-in-a-cast situation, so Remi stepped in. She parked herself in the barn corner, Baby tucked safely behind her, and let out a low growl at any goat that dared get too close. The message was clear: This one’s mine.

Since Baby can’t go outside with the rest of the herd— the need to keep the cast dry amid muddy fields, and lingering puddles—Remi started staying behind too. Not because she had to. Because she wanted to. And somewhere along the way, the two of them became inseparable. I’ll often find Baby curled up in a cozy nest of Remi’s white fluff—safe, warm, and snoring like she’s a guest at a five-star hotel with a luxury bed.

Last night, it dipped a little chilly here in northern New Hampshire. I peeked into the barn, half-ready to throw extra blankets on Baby, and there she was—curled into a perfect little ball, wrapped in Remi's fur like she's snuggled into a custom-made fur sleeping bag. No blankets needed.

These Pyrs never fail to impress me. Whether they’re guarding eggs, babysitting goat kids, or treeing bears (yes, bears), they’re always watchful, always ready, and always loyal.

Honestly, it’s comforting knowing my farm runs on capable paws 24/7. Forget hired help—if I could put Remi on the payroll, she’d be Employee of the Month every single month. . . though she’d probably eat the plaque, the time clock, and most of HR before lunch.

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Gabe, The Mother Hen!

Gabriel—Gabe to his friends—is our 120-pound Great Pyrenees livestock guardian dog. He’s a big, lumbering, majestic puff of white fur who keeps predators at bay and patrols the property with stoic determination.

But somewhere along the way, Gabe missed the memo and decided he’d rather raise chickens Especially chicks. Gabe loves chicks.

We’ve found him curled up in the brooder area more times than I can count, flat on his side like a big, fluffy polar bear while tiny puffballs hop over him like he’s the world’s warmest jungle gym. If he thinks they’re cold, he’ll gently nose them under the heat lamp. He doesn’t bark. He doesn’t fuss. He just supervises, babysits, and occasionally sighs like he’s disappointed no one brought him a juicy steak for his efforts.

Now, our other livestock guardian, Remi, is a little more. . . straightforward. When a chicken dies, we toss it to the dogs—circle of life and all that. Remi eats hers right away and gets on with her day.

Gabe? Not so much.

Gabe will carry his dearly departed chicken around like a fragile relic. He won’t eat it. He won’t bury it. He just walks the yard with it in his mouth, as if he’s trying to protect it from further harm—or maybe give it a proper send-off. We’ve never been entirely sure if he eventually eats it or just reluctantly sets it down when hunger finally reminds him he’s still a dog.

But what we found yesterday topped everything.

Gabe was lying in the corner of the barn and wouldn’t move. At all. Which isn’t exactly unusual—he’s not what you’d call a high-performance machine. He’s generally pretty laid-back, except when a predator shows up, then he's all business. After some persistent calling and bribery failed, Jim finally walked over and gave his giant, fuzzy backside a push.

And that’s when we saw it.

There, tucked underneath him like he was the proudest hen in the flock, was a nest.

A real nest. With real eggs. Several of them. Hidden behind the wheelbarrow by a few sneaky hens. Gabe, bless his fluffy heart, had taken it upon himself to sit on them—gently, like this was his job now. He had accepted the call to motherhood and wasn’t about to let those eggs go un-incubated on his watch.

While the other dogs are doing things like barking at raccoons or patrolling the fence line, Gabe has appointed himself surrogate hen.

I guess every farm needs a Mother Hen. But sometimes, they come with paws, patience, and very, very confused instincts. And in Gabe’s case, an alarming amount of confidence that he could explain all this to the chicks when they hatch.

Good grief, don't let him into the chicken coop. He could never fit into one of the nest boxes!!!!

Gabe: "Hey, they took away my eggs. I loved those eggs. Not fair!"

Remi: "Did someone say eggs? Eggs are yummy! Is it snack time?"

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It's Raining

It's been raining for what feels like the last thirty-seven years. I’ve forgotten what dry socks feel like. The driveway has become a river, the barnyard’s a mud spa, and my boots now make squelching sounds that would make a frog blush. Welcome to storm season at American Way Farm, where the forecast is always “damp with a 90% chance of regret.”

And yet, despite the biblical weather, the Livestock Guardian Dogs (or LGDs, for those who’ve never had the pleasure of owning a 120-pound shed monster with a martyr complex) are still out there, bravely doing their job. Job description? Keep all four-legged predators away from the goats. Personal satisfaction? 10/10. Shelter provided? One sad tree.

This particular LGD (let’s call her “Soggy Sue”) has stationed herself beneath the only tree in the pasture, which, bless its barky little heart, is trying really hard to be a pine umbrella. It’s not. It's more of a decorative suggestion of shelter. Like those cocktail umbrellas—cute, but ultimately useless in a thunderstorm.

Now, I know what you’re thinking: “Surely the dog is just dozing out there in the drizzle, off the clock like the rest of us in weather like this.” Oh no. You see, even when she looks dead asleep, snoring and soggy, that dog is on full alert. Her ears may be flat against her head, but trust me—any sudden movement, suspicious scent, or twig snapped in an unapproved direction would launch her to her feet like a canine missile with an attitude problem. It’s like she’s got predator radar wired into her soul.

And what about the goats she’s protecting, you ask?

Where are they during this courageous display of damp dedication?

Oh, they’re in the barn. Dry. Cozy. Possibly toasting marshmallows.

I walked in earlier and I swear one of them had made a little blanket fort in the hay and was humming to herself. They're all nestled in there like royalty, looking out the barn door at their loyal guardian as if to say, “You missed a spot behind your ear, Your Majesty.”

Now listen, I have a suggestion. Just a friendly, totally-not-judging, whispered-through-a-cracked-window sort of suggestion:

Go inside.

Seriously, girl. Go lay down wit

h the goats. Snuggle up. Live your best fleece-lined life. You’ve earned it. I promise that bobcat isn’t going to brave the squelch-fest of a pasture just for a wet goat burrito. And if he does, we’ve got a door and opposable thumbs—we’ll hold the fort while you towel off.

But no. There she sits. Or lays. Half-submerged like a Roman statue of sacrifice. Occasionally blinking. Occasionally twitching. Always guarding.

You know, I have half a mind to go out there and drag her in myself, but last time I tried that, I ended up face-first in the mud while she just rolled over and sighed like I was interrupting her dramatic monologue. I’d like to believe she’s committed to her job, but I’m starting to think she’s just holding a grudge because I gave the last bit of leftover meatloaf to the chickens.

So we’ll just let her be.

Out there. In the rain. Watching. Waiting. Possibly composing poetry.

Meanwhile, the goats will remain inside, dry and judgmental, with their superior barn privileges and their uncanny ability to act like they, not I, pay the mortgage.

Stay dry out there, friends. And if you see a large white blur lurking under a tree in a thunderstorm, don’t worry—it’s not a ghost. It’s just our LGD, doing her job with soggy pride and a damp sense of duty.

"Ewww, it's wet. We don't do wet."

And where, you might ask, are the goats that this faithful dog is guarding? Hiding in the barn of course!

Might I make a suggestion to the dog? Perhaps it would be better to sleep in the barn with the goats where it's dry. Just sayin'.

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Skunked

In the grand scheme of things, the two things I'm thankful for this morning may seem trivial to the general populace. But you fellow homesteaders, as well as dog owners, will totally relate, I'm sure. 

The first thing I'm thankful for is dogs who convinced the skunk that was heading toward the meat chickens, to change direction. They further convinced the skunk that a late night chicken dinner wasn't in its best interest. This is not an open-all-night KFC drive-thru, or in this case, walk-thru. After all, that's why we have dogs - 2 Great Pyrenees livestock guardians, and 2 English Shepherds who provide backup as needed.

I can picture the whole episode - poor skunk is out for a late night stroll, meandering across the lower pasture, and smells chickens. Oh, yummy chickens. Live chickens. Juicy chickens. Young, tender, 4 week old chickens. And in it's vast experience it realizes that these chickens are concentrated in one area - a chicken pen! What luck. To have all those live, juicy, tender, young chickens in a cage, on the ground no less, just waiting for a beautiful skunk, such as itself, to pop open a corner of the chicken wire, slip inside, and have a captive audience so to speak. Then, out of nowhere these huge white beasts come crashing up to the fence, barking and snarling, bent on eating said skunk for their late night snack. And what's even worse, there are 2 rust colored beasts right behind them, obviously with the same vicious intentions. Now really, what's a poor defenseless skunk to do? These snarling, viscous beasts can, without a doubt, run faster than the skunk, are much larger, and definitely have bigger teeth. The poor skunk has no choice, turn and spray in the direction of the beasts. 

Which brings me to the second thing on my thankful list. A fence that kept the dogs away from the skunk while it was making that very wise decision to seek dinner elsewhere. The dogs obviously intercepted the skunk while it was still a suitable distance from the fence and weren't close enough to get sprayed. While my yard was very stinky for a while, it was definitely preferable to having to bathe 4 dogs in tomato juice. You might say that the skunk got skunked!

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The White Ghost

This past weekend, my youngest daughter brought her fiancé, Marc, up to the farm. Now Marc is a big guy—college football star big. The kind of man who makes door frames feel inadequate and folding chairs sweat nervously.

Levite, our Great Pyrenees guardian, did not appreciate Marc’s linebacker energy one bit. I’m not sure Levite had ever seen a human that size before, and as far as he was concerned, that was a clear and present danger.

When Marc walked up to the fence, Levite launched into full protective mode—fur standing up like he stuck his paw in a light socket, barking like the wrath of God in fur. And he wasn’t just bluffing. He was making it crystal clear that this fence is the line, buddy, and you shall not pass.

Once he was convinced that Marc wasn’t going to breach the perimeter, Levite did a full barnyard patrol. He checked every sheep, every chicken, every corner of the yard—like he was taking attendance. One, two, three…yes, even the ridiculous-looking silkie with the bad haircut. All accounted for. Then he parked himself right between the animals and Marc and stayed there, quiet but watchful, until Marc had moved on.

At one point, one of the sheep started wandering up to the fence, probably out of nosy curiosity, and Levite gave her a sharp correction like, “No ma’am, back with the herd. Stranger danger.”

Later, when my daughter and Marc came inside the pasture with me to see the new fencing setup, Levite allowed it—grudgingly. He even let Marc pet him a few times, like he was willing to give him partial probation as long as I was present to supervise. But he never let his guard down. The whole time we were in there, Levite stayed about 15-20 feet away, drifting from bush to tree to tall grass, like some kind of white ghost haunting the fenceline. Watching. Waiting. Protecting.

I don’t even want to imagine what he would’ve done if Marc had raised his voice or made a sudden move. And I almost feel bad for the coyote that ever thinks this farm is a buffet.

Levite isn’t just a dog. He’s a sentinel. A spectral, silent guardian. And when he’s on duty—which is always—you can bet your boots that nothing bigger than a grasshopper crosses that field without being seen.

He may be fluffy, but he's nobody’s fool.

Let the Experts Run the Farm

OK, I'll admit it. The barking of a Great Pyrenees is nothing to be trifled with - or to sleep through. Add 2 more to the chorus and the 3 of them can wake the dead!

Usually they'll bark only for 15 minutes or so and give up. This morning about 4 a.m. they all went spastic and kept it up for way longer that the usual. The neighbors have quite a few apple trees and when the apples begin to ripen, which is about now, the deer come in to dine. Since I didn't hear anything else about I figured that's what was upsetting them. So.... I got up, hastily got dressed, put on my muck boots, and wearily traipsed out to bring everyone into the barnyard and close the paddock gate so they couldn't get out far enough into the pasture to be disturbed. Of course I was muttering the whole time about stupid dogs that couldn't tell the difference between a predator and a vegetarian deer.

As I was taking off my boots and entering the house I heard the distinct chorus of coyotes in the field down the road. Boy, did I feel stupid! Had to go back to the barn and apologize to the dogs.

This morning when I opened the gate to the pasture, Levite, our dominant male, led the procession out as is his usual way of making sure everyone is safe. He has everyone wait at the gate, goes out just far enough to make sure everything is safe, then turns back to his flock and using some secret code that only the sheep understand, tells them to follow keeping a distance of about 15 feet behind. They all orderly file out to begin their day's activities. I did notice that when Levite marked his territory and did his usual scratching of the dirt, he kicked it in my direction. I'm sure he was thinking "Stupid humans can't tell the difference between vegetarian deer and predators!"

Best to leave the managing of the farm to the experts!

Speaking Sheep

Or: Levite the Translator, Goat Edition Pending

I have a neighbor across the street who only comes up from Connecticut a few times a year. He’s perfectly pleasant, but since he's rarely around, the dogs consider him highly suspicious—like Bigfoot, only with a Range Rover and a weekend bag. So every time he shows up, our Pyrenees launch into their full nighttime alert system: DefCon Bark.

They position themselves at the edge of the pasture, facing his house like fluffy four-legged neighborhood watch, and bark in his direction all night long. It’s not aggressive barking—more like, “Hey! We see you! You better not be up to anything weird!” Which, honestly, is fair. You never know with part-timers.

To keep the peace (and get some sleep), we move the flock into the paddock near the barn when he's here. That keeps the Pyrs quieter and out of trouble.

Come morning, the gate opens, and this is where things get interesting. Levite, our dominant male, takes his job very seriously. He insists on being the first one out of the paddock, like a secret service agent clearing the scene. He struts out, scans the field for threats, real or imagined, and within seconds gives some invisible signal that only the sheep seem to understand.

I swear, the rest of the flock just knows. They stand quietly, like they’re waiting for the usher at a movie theater to wave them to their seats. No one pushes. No one complains. They just wait. Then, Levite gives some kind of “all clear” body language—a tilt of the head, a puff of air, who knows?—and they file out calmly behind him like it’s Sunday morning at the church buffet.

Now, I don’t speak sheep. But apparently he does, because they actually listen. They trust him. It’s bizarre and oddly touching, like church ladies following a potluck casserole—calm, committed, and not to be questioned.

The goats, however? Completely unmoved. They don’t wait. They don’t follow. They certainly don’t listen. They just squeeze through whatever opening they find and bolt out like it’s Black Friday at Tractor Supply. Levite tries to stop them—puts himself in front of them, does his “follow me” routine, but they blow right past him with the same energy as teenagers sneaking out after curfew.

It frustrates him to no end. You can practically see it on his face: “I’m speaking sheep. Why won’t these idiots get it?”

Sorry, buddy. Apparently, goat isn’t in your dialect. Yet. Maybe it’s time to invest in Rosetta Stone: Goat Edition.