Welcome to the Neighborhood - Clothing Optional

You never really know a place until you’ve met the people. Sometimes it’s a handshake, sometimes it’s a wave from across the fence. . . and sometimes it’s something you could never have prepared for, no matter how many small towns you’ve lived in. When we moved to our northern hideaway I thought I’d seen every kind of neighborly welcome. I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

I grew up in a small town in southern New Hampshire, back before the interstate was open. That’s right—before GPS, before computers and smartphones, when TV stations went off the air at midnight, and when people still knew the names of the cows in the neighbor’s pasture. Our little town had the essentials: a small store with worn wooden floors and gas pumps out front, old men on the porch “whittling” while they gossiped, a part-time post office, a part-time library, a Chevy dealership, and a seasonal hamburger stand that served up greasy magic in a paper box. If you didn’t know everyone’s business you were either new or unconscious.

These days, suburbia’s swallowed the place. The general store’s now just another gas station. The cows are gone, everyone has matching lawn furniture, and people give you side-eye for saying hello. The charm’s gone, along with the days you could borrow sugar and a lawnmower in the same breath.

So in 2001, with retirement on the horizon and traffic jams stretching longer than an Easter sermon, my husband and I headed north. Not “just outside town” north. Not “up by the lake” north. No, we went full-tilt, as-far-north-as-you-can-go-without-learning-French kind of north. The kind where GPS gets confused, cell service is just a suggestion, and if you see moose tracks in the yard, well, that's just Tuesday.

We landed in a tiny town where more dogs are registered than voters, roads are barely paved, and distance is measured in time, not miles. The nearest “big town” has 2,000 people, no traffic light, and a volunteer fire department.

People here are a particular kind of wonderful. They’re simple, hard working folk who might be loggers, mill workers, carpenters or mechanics. Many work at the nearby Ethan Allen plant or are health care workers at the local 16 bed hospital. Many are locals who grew up here, and some are retired folks who moved here to disappear into the woods. Their hands are calloused, their trucks are muddy, and they’d give you the shirt off their back—though sometimes you’ll wish they hadn’t. These are folks who'll pull you out of a ditch with their tractor and never mention it again.

Which brings me to meeting my across-the-road neighbor.

We’d just moved in—boxes still stacked in the mudroom. I’d made a supply run to the “big city,” which is “close by” only if you think an hour and a half qualifies. It has a Home Depot, a Walmart, and a Burger King that gets your order wrong in the exact same way every single time. It was a late Saturday afternoon. I was tired, cranky, and just wanted to get home and unpack the slow cooker I swore I’d actually use this time.

That’s when I saw him.

Standing in the middle of the road. Stark. Raving. Buck. Naked. And drunk—couldn’t-pass-a-sobriety-test-if-it-were-multiple-choice drunk.

Not “lost track of my shirt” drunk. No, this man had been communing with the liquor cabinet in a biblical sense. He swayed like a pine tree in a nor’easter. Whatever he’d been drinking hit like three fingers of moonshine and a hug from Dolly Parton.

As I slowed my car (because who wouldn’t slow down for a man whose only accessory was a farmer’s tan?), he shouted, “Howdy, neighbor! I’m the guy across the road! Welcome to the neighborhood!”

Now, there are many ways to meet a new neighbor:

• A wave from across the fence.

• A plate of cookies.

• A dog wandering into your yard followed by an apology and an introduction.

This was not on the list.

He pointed to his house, just in case I thought he was some feral mountain man fresh from the woods. “That’s my place—right across from you!”

Yes, sir. That sure cleared it up.

I’d love to say I had a clever response—something neighborly like, “Nice to meet you. I’ll bring over a casserole. . . with a lid.” I didn’t. I did what any respectable New Englander would: nodded politely, like meeting someone’s uncle at a funeral, and kept driving. What do you say to a man standing in his birthday suit like he’s auditioning for a Calvin Klein ad on a budget?

Here’s the kicker: once he sobered up and found his pants, he turned out to be a fantastic neighbor. The kind who digs your car out of a snowbank, snow-blows your mailbox after the plow buries it for the fourth time that day, and shows up with jumper cables in January. And never mentions the time he greeted you wearing nothing but a hangover and a smile.

That’s what I love about this place—it’s unpredictable, real, raw. One day you’re chatting at the feed store, wondering if farmer Joe will get his hay in on time. The next you’re waving back at a man who clearly skipped a step in getting dressed that morning.

Moral of the story:

• Don’t let first impressions be your last impression.

• Don’t judge a man by his clothes—or noticeable lack thereof.

    Because sometimes, the guy who greets you in the nude turns out to be the one who’d give you the shirt off his back. If, you know. . . he remembered to wear one.

Out here, life between the fenceposts isn’t always tidy, predictable, or fully clothed—but it’s never boring.

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Charlie"s Journal - Day 14 - Freedom Tastes Like Goats and Revenge

Dear Journal,

Today… it happened. The cone is gone.

THE. CONE. IS. GONE.

For two weeks I have lived in plastic purgatory, burdened by neck floaties and the weight of betrayal. I have suffered the indignities of gorilla tape repairs, sympathetic head pats, and more than one very public bathroom break involving a cone full of leaves. I have knocked over chairs, bruised shins, and been mistaken for a satellite dish at least twice.

But this morning… the humans said the magic words.

“Charlie, let’s take that cone off.”

At first, I didn’t believe them. I stood there, frozen. I’ve been burned before. I remember that first day when they said I could go outside to pee, but meant on a leash? Yeah. I wasn’t falling for that again.

But then—they unbuckled it. They removed the neck donut and the cone. I shook. I spun. I zoomed.

And then I saw THEM. My goats. My herd. My purpose. My slightly confused woolly friends who have spent the last two weeks being guarded by… another dog. Honestly, Journal, I think one of them tried to unionize in my absence. After all, that other dog wasn't ME!

I ran to them, free at last, with the wind in my fur and the overwhelming need to sniff every single one of them just to make sure no one got funny ideas while I was away.

The humans clapped and called it “adorable.” I called it justice.

They think I’m healed. They think I’ve moved on. But deep down, I’ll never forget. I’ve been through a lot. I’ve been snipped, stitched, stapled, and shackled in shame plastic. I’ve known the pain of betrayal. I’ve licked the edge of the cone and tasted despair.

But I survived. And now I am FREE.

If you need me, I’ll be out in the pasture—head held high, tail wagging strong, keeping my goats safe from every shadow, squirrel, and suspicious breeze.

And if anyone tries to come near me with a cone again? They’d better bring a LOT snacks.

Forever victorious,
Charlie, the Restored
Protector of Goats. Breaker of Collars. Survivor of The Snipening.

Editor’s Note:
“Charlie’s Journal” will return in the event of porcupine encounters, skunk diplomacy failures, mysterious barn snacks, or any future medical interventions requiring inflatable accessories. Stay tuned. It’s only a matter of time.

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Charlie's Journal - Inmate #728: Mugshots & Misery

Tricked, Snipped, and Framed

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Charlie's Journal - Day 7 of Cone Confinement

Dear Journal,

It has been one week since The Great Snipening.

They continue to insist this is “for my own good,” but I remain unconvinced. Nothing good has happened since. I’m still wearing the cone. Still wearing the neck pillow. Still being kept indoors like some kind of overgrown, emotionally fragile houseplant.

I used to have a job. A purpose. I used to bark at hawks. I used to chase shadows in the pasture and pretend they were threats. I had goats to guard. Now? My days consist of being told “No, don’t lick that” and knocking my cone into every wall, doorframe, and human shin in this house. I'm a once-fearless guardian now reduced to a hallway speed bump.

The humiliation is endless.

I tried to mount an escape attempt on Day 5. I pressed my cone against the door, pawed at the handle, and made my saddest howl. They thought it was “adorable” and filmed it for Instagram. Instagram, Journal. I was betrayed twice in one week.

I have not pooped in peace since this thing was attached to my head. I have lost peripheral vision. I have learned what a “baby wipe” is. No dog should know these things.

My humans have taken to calling me “Donut Dog.” Sometimes “Sir Licks-A-Lot” when they catch me trying to sneak around the cone. The shame is unbearable. I was once a noble guardian. Now I’m a cautionary tale for puppies.

The goats have probably forgotten me. Maybe they’ve hired a goose in my place. Or worse—a mini donkey. I shudder to think of it.

I shall continue my silent protest by dramatically sighing and flopping to the ground every time someone walks by. And if I get one more “boop” on the nose while I’m trying to sleep? I will file a formal complaint.

Please send snacks. And maybe bolt cutters.

Desperately yours,
Charlie, The Conehead Avenger
(formerly of the pasture, now of the couch)

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Charlie's Journal - Day 3 of Captivity

Dear Journal,

I write to you from the confines of this…prison. Once, I was a proud and noble livestock guardian, patrolling the fields, barking at rogue butterflies, and valiantly protecting my  from imaginary threats. But that life—that freedom—is gone now.

It all began last week on a sunny Tuesday. I was so excited. They said, “Wanna go for a ride?” and I said, “HECK YES I DO.” I jumped into the truck like the good boy I am. Oh, the wind in my ears! The smells! Adventure was calling.

Little did I know… I was being betrayed.

We arrived at the vet’s. A place I had once loved. Treats! Pets! Weird little dogs in sweaters I could sniff! But this time was different. They left me there.

They. Left. Me.

When I awoke, something was… missing. I won’t go into detail, Journal, but let’s just say the family jewels had been repossessed.

I returned home wearing what they call a “cone.” I call it a “satellite of doom.” I can’t lick anything, I can’t go anywhere without knocking over furniture, and I have not successfully navigated a doorway since. It’s like trying to live with a lampshade strapped to your soul.

I did manage to remove my stitches, which felt like a win at the time. But then came the vet trip at night. The emergency place. They stapled me shut like a used Amazon box and gave me an even bigger cone. I removed those too. (I refuse to be held together by your human office supplies.)

Now I wear a ridiculous inflatable neck donut. I look like I’m about to board a red-eye to Florida. And I still have the cone as well. It’s like they’re stacking shame on top of shame.

They keep me indoors now. Indoors.
No goats. No mud. No air thick with the scent of chicken poop. Just... the couch.

My only solace is passive-aggressively sighing and flopping dramatically in the middle of the hallway, where they’ll trip over me and feel the full weight of my suffering.

I don’t know how much longer I can survive like this.
Send help. Or beef jerky. Or both.

Yours in suffering and inflatable accessories,
Charlie, the Formerly Intact

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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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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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Still Got It!

Clare Boothe Luce once said, “No good deed goes unpunished.” And while I’m sure she meant it in some deep, philosophical way about the human condition, I’m convinced she was secretly talking about farm life. Because the last time I tried to “help” a friend, I ended up with what can only be described as a hoof-shaped exclamation point right between my eyes.

Yes. A goat kicked me. In the face.

Before you send flowers or start a GoFundMe for my reconstructive surgery, let me clarify—it wasn’t intentional. And it wasn’t a human foot, thank heavens, although honestly, I might have preferred that at this point.

It all began when my friend Elaine needed help trimming her goats’ feet. Naturally, I volunteered. Why? Because apparently, I have a subconscious death wish and an overinflated sense of my own goat-wrangling skills. This is the same kind of misplaced confidence that brought you my Sheep Wrangling saga. Basically, I am the Lucille Ball of livestock.

The problem was one particular yearling who could have been drafted for the NFL—specifically as a running back for the New England Patriots. This goat was faster than a caffeine-addicted squirrel, zigzagging around the barn like she was avoiding sniper fire. We chased her for several minutes, which was ridiculous because Elaine and I were both hovering around 70, and the only marathons we run are when the bathroom is on the far end of the hallway.

After five minutes of wheezing and mutual glaring, I decided to get clever. My plan—if you could call it that—was to grab her back leg the next time she zipped by, hold on tight, and stop her dead in her tracks. Logical, right? Safe? Reasonable? HA!

The goat flew by, I reached out, grabbed her leg—and instantly found myself in a goat-powered drag race. My boots were skidding, my free arm was flailing, and for a few seconds I was basically water-skiing across the barn floor without the benefit of water. Then she stumbled and fell, taking me down with her. Then WHAM—her other leg came around like a steel-toed missile and clocked me square between the eyes.

And not just a light tap. No, ma’am. This was a Looney Tunes knockout punch. Stars. Fireworks. Possibly the sound of distant church bells. If Thor’s hammer had a baby with a pogo stick, that’s what hit me.

Did I let go? Of course not. This is the Sandy way: hang on until you either win or have to be airlifted out.

While I was staggering and seeing visions of my ancestors, Elaine—God bless her—had gone full WWE and was pinning the goat to the floor in a move that would have impressed The Rock. If goats could submit, this one would have been tapping the mat and begging for mercy. And you know what? We won.

Two senior citizens. One goat. And a victory dance (ours) that was mostly just us leaning on the barn wall trying to catch our breath.

After my face re-inflated to its original shape, I started laughing so hard I nearly fell over. Because if you’ve never seen two out-of-breath, borderline decrepit old women wrestle a goat, you’re missing out on the greatest slapstick comedy ever performed. Someone needs to follow
me around with a camera—we’d have a reality show in no time: Goat Takedown: The Senior Edition.

In the end, the goats’ feet got trimmed (because we’re nothing if not professionals), and my face now has a great story attached to it. Will I help Elaine again? Absolutely. Because if I survived this, the next time will obviously be fine.

Probably.

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Chicken Jam: A Lesson in Drama

I open the chicken door every morning, and witness the usual feathery stampede toward freedom. Normally, it’s a scene right out of a Western movie—150 chickens all trying to funnel through an 16-inch-wide opening that’s maybe 8 inches high. You’d think that after years of this, they’d have figured out the physics of it all, but no. It’s a miracle of poultry determination, physics-defying chaos, and questionable decision-making on everyone’s part.

But this morning. . . oh, this morning was different.

The first brave souls headed for the door like it was the Oklahoma Land Rush—flapping, squawking, and aiming for open space. They were charging toward freedom, their little chicken hearts racing with the hope of a day full of dirt baths, scratching, and finding that one perfect worm. It was all going according to plan. . . until they saw it. Snow. A vast, unforgiving blanket of cold, white betrayal, covering their precious dirt.

Suddenly, it was like someone slammed on the brakes. Beaks down, wings flared, feet locked in mid-motion. And then came the collective realization: the ground that had once been so welcoming, so familiar, was now a different color and covered in snow. The chickens came to a complete and utter screeching halt. They stared at it with the kind of disdain usually reserved for soggy bread. And just like that, the land of opportunity—so close, yet so cold—became their greatest foe.

Unfortunately, the 145 chickens still packed behind them did not get the memo. Oh no. The ones at the back, who hadn’t even seen the snow yet, were still fully committed to their mission of freedom. So, what followed wasn’t a gentle retreat or a graceful understanding of the situation—it was more like a 150-car pileup on the feathered freeway. The ones at the front were stuck—wouldn’t go forward, couldn’t go back. The ones in the rear just kept pushing like, “Move it, lady! I’ve got scratching to do!” Total chaos. Squawking. Wing flapping. A whole lot of side-eye. It was like watching a badly choreographed flash mob where nobody knew the dance—or the reason they were dancing in the first place. I half expected someone to yell out, “I can’t breathe! Someone get me my agent!”

In the middle of all this, Henrietta the Bold, a hen known for being a bit of a daredevil, decided she would break the chicken traffic jam and try to confront the snow. She gingerly stepped out onto it (or maybe she was pushed), stretched a cautious foot forward, and then quickly retracted it like she had just stepped on hot coals. The disgust in her expression was palpable. She tiptoed a little further, realized she hated it even more, then did an about face and tried to head back into the coop. But of course, that just caused more problems. Now we had a full-blown two-way traffic jam at the door. The chickens that had been behind Henrietta were still pushing forward, but now, the ones trying to get back inside were going in the opposite direction. Rising levels of chicken indignation ensued.

At this point, I felt like I was trapped inside a farm-themed version of Jumanji. Between the squawking, the wing-flapping, and the head bobbing, the chickens were absolutely losing their minds. Every now and then, I’d catch the eye of one of them, and I swear I could hear the unspoken thought: “You made this happen, didn’t you?”

I was starting to wonder if this was just going to be the new normal—an endless loop of chicken-induced chaos every time I opened the door. What if they were all permanently frozen in some state of feathered panic? Could chickens get frostbite on their dignity?

But then, just as I was about to give up and go back inside, hoping the chickens would work it out on their own (or figure out how to form a chicken-sized union to address their grievances), the unthinkable happened. A brave rooster—one of the older, wiser birds—decided to take a calculated leap onto the snow. And what did he do? He landed, took one step, and immediately shook himself off like a wet dog, as if to say, “See? It’s fine! I’m still alive!”

He strutted about, his tail feathers swaying with the kind of confidence usually reserved for the lead role in a Broadway show. And somehow, that one brave bird turned the tide. Slowly but surely, the others followed suit, cautiously dipping one foot into the snow, then another, and finally scattering to their usual spots, scratching and clucking as if snow had never been their mortal enemy.

And that, folks, is how Black Monday dawned on the Davis farm.

Moral of the story? Snow is a conspiracy. Chickens are dramatic. And doors—no matter what size—are not meant for mass poultry evacuations. Oh, and chickens, as it turns out, will always find a way to turn even the most mundane farm task into a full-blown theatrical production. Welcome to the farm, where the drama never ends, and neither do the snowstorms.

And in case you were wondering... it was only an inch of snow. An inch. All that, for just one inch.

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This Call May Be Recorded for Maximum Annoyance

Phone rings. Because of course it does—right in the middle of something important, like watching the goats commit petty crimes from the kitchen window.

Me: Hello?
Caller: Hello, may I speak to Mr. or Mrs. Davis?
Me: This is Mrs. Davis.
Caller: Good morning, Mrs. Davis! I'm calling from Sears & Roebuck. How are you this morning?
Me: I'm fine. But I should tell you—I don’t accept unsolicited or telemarketing calls.
Caller: Oh no, this isn’t a telemarketing call. I'm just calling to let you know your freezer warranty is about to expire.
Me: Well, thank you for telling me that. Goodbye.
Caller: Wait—I'm calling to offer you an extended warranty!
Me: Ah, so let me get this straight—you weren't invited to call AND you're trying to sell me something. Congratulations! You’ve achieved the Unholy Telemarketing Trinity: unsolicited, unwanted, and uninteresting. Remove me from your list and don’t call again.
Caller: Wait, wait—
Me: (click)

Look, if my freezer has survived this long in a barn that sees -40°F and occasional goat interference, I think it's already proven itself. It doesn’t need a warranty—it needs a trophy and possibly a therapist.

Moral of the story: If you’re going to try and sell me an extended warranty on an appliance older than some of my grandchildren, you’d better at least open with flattery. Or, better yet, chocolate.

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As Much Fun As A Puppy!

What’s as much fun as a puppy, just as cute, twice as mischievous, and with more built-in bounce? That would be Vern, our brand-new house goat.

That’s right. House. Goat.

Vern came to us a little ahead of schedule in the “becoming part of the farm” department. His mama decided—after a brief trial run in motherhood—that she just wasn’t cut out for the whole nursing, cuddling, and loving-her-baby gig. You know how some women take one look at labor and say, “Nope, I'm out”? That’s Vern’s mama. So, as nature slammed that door, our living room opened a window.

At just two weeks old, Vern is too little, too chilly, and too unprotected to be out in the barn, so he’s bunking in with us for now. And let me tell you… he’s making himself very much at home.

He spends his days in the rooms with no rugs (because no one wants to shampoo goat poop out of an oriental carpet), bouncing off the walls—sometimes literally—exploring the mysteries of chair legs, table corners, and shoes. He’s convinced our slippers are just oddly shaped goats with no sense of humor, and he’s determined to befriend (or conquer) them.

The dogs? Oh, they weren’t quite sure what to make of this tiny, head-butting intruder at first. But he’s wormed his way into their good graces. Gabriel acts like he’s got a new recruit to train, Remi is pretending not to be interested but totally is, and Roxie… well, she’s still trying to figure out what species he is and if it’s edible.

Vern is a Boer goat, which means he’ll one day grow into a sturdy, muscle-bound fellow with a Roman nose and a serious job title: Baby Daddy. Hard to picture that right now when he’s doing zoomies across the hallway and getting his head stuck in a bucket for the third time today. But goats grow fast, and by next fall, Vern will be old enough to join the ranks of responsible breeding bucks. (Assuming, of course, he ever stops thinking that dust bunnies are friends and that my pant legs are edible.)

He’s got the curiosity of a toddler, the enthusiasm of a Labrador, and the bladder control of… well, a goat. But he's full of personality, big brown eyes, and a determination to follow me everywhere like a tiny shadow with hooves.

So if you're wondering what’s as much fun as a puppy but with more barnyard flair and significantly less regard for personal space?

It’s Vern. Absolutely, undeniably Vern.

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Talon

"Look everyone - it's the lunch wagon!"

This week’s mission: get a decent photo of Talon for his “for sale” ad. Easy enough, right? Just walk out there, snap a few flattering shots, post them online, and wait for the offers to roll in.

Ha.

He was standing by the fence, looking reasonably majestic… until I pulled out my phone. Then he became a statue with the personality of a cinder block. No matter what I did—clucking, chucking pebbles, kissing sounds, mooing like a cow, high-pitched whistling like some kind of demented bird caller—he wouldn’t lift his head. Not even a blink of interest. Just stood there, ears half-cocked, looking like a disinterested teenager at a family reunion.

I was one moo away from throwing in the towel when my husband rolled down the driveway with a trailer full of hay.

Suddenly, glutton gut sprang to life. Head up, ears forward, eyes bright—poof, perfect sale ad posture. Nothing like a trailer full of snacks to turn a sullen horse into a show pony.

So now Talon’s officially listed on several horse sale sites, complete with a flattering video. Fingers crossed the hay-bribed glamour shot does the trick.

Anyone want to buy a horse? He’s handsome, trained, and comes with a strong opinion about food. (Don’t we all?)

 Click here to see Talon's ad.

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Skunked... The Sequel

My Great Pyrenees are livestock guardians, which means a few things. First, they live full-time with the goats and chickens. Second, they have free run of the fenced pastures and woods where the goats graze. And third, they are never clean.

So when Remi got skunked last week, she did what any self-respecting working dog would do—rolled in the grass and dirt like her life depended on it, trying desperately to erase the stench. I followed up with a generous application of skunk deodorizer, which helped tone down the eau de roadkill. But her thick undercoat was still full of grime, leaves, twigs, and possibly a few forgotten snacks.

At that point, I did something I rarely do: I called in reinforcements. Namely, a professional groomer with better tools and more patience than me.

Sixty dollars later... and I swear, you need sunglasses to look at her. Remi positively gleams. You forget under all that muck and hard-working dog-ness there’s actually a stunning animal underneath. She looks like she was dry-cleaned by angels. A clean Great Pyrenees is something to behold—majestic, regal, and just waiting to ruin it.

Of course, she’s not happy about it. She smells like shampoo now. Artificial cleanliness is not the LGD way.

So I’m just waiting to see what she chooses to roll in next to restore her natural, earthy aroma. Fresh manure? Rotten log? Whatever it is, she’s probably eyeing it up right now with a plan. And it probably smells better than skunk. Then again, most anything smells better than skunk.

"Mom says I smell good but I've got to find a manure pile to roll in so I can get rid of the shampoo smell."

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Skunked

"I STINK!"

In the wee hours of this morning—because of course it’s never at a decent hour—I was jolted awake by the unmistakable scent of Pepe Le Pew wafting through the windows. Apparently, some striped opportunist decided our broiler chickens were worth braving two barking dogs and the wrath of a sleep-deprived farm lady.

The night’s tally: 2 dogs skunked (1 Great Pyrenees, 1 English Shepherd), 0 chickens harmed, and 1 entire yard now smelling like a biohazard zone

Judging by the odor level (somewhere between “burnt tires” and “toxic waste spill”), the standoff took place right outside my back door. Remi, the Pyr, got the worst of it—pretty sure she took a direct hit to the chest. The English Shepherd rolled in some of the aftermath like it was high-end cologne.

Naturally, I couldn’t find my giant bottle of Nature’s Miracle Skunk Deodorizer. You know, the one I’ve had for years just waiting for a moment like this. Gone. Vanished. Probably tossed during one of my “I should declutter” moods. Rookie mistake.

I had to wait for the feed store to open, and by then my morning clients had arrived. Nothing says “professional” like smelling faintly of skunk while trying to pretend everything is fine.

While I waited, I quarantined both dogs in a fenced area, hoping to contain the smell. “Hoping” being the operative word here. I managed to get the English Shepherd mostly de-skunked, though I still wouldn’t recommend cuddling him. But Remi? She may need an exorcism. I’m currently waiting for a call back from the dog groomer and praying she has a cancellation, a hazmat suit, and maybe a sense of humor.

Moral of the story? If you own livestock, always keep two things on hand: skunk shampoo and a sense of humor. And maybe a clothespin for your nose. Skunks are the only predator bold enough to pick a fight with a 100-lb livestock guardian and win by weaponized B.O.

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Goat Fashion

Look out, Vogue—there’s a new fashion icon in town, and she’s got four legs, a rumbling stomach, and a firm grasp on the phrase “I do what I want.”

Introducing: Babydoll, modeling this season’s must-have farm accessory—a dazzling, oversized plastic bucket around her neck.

Was it intentional? Of course not. Was it fabulous? Absolutely.

This particular piece is from the "Feed Room Casual" collection—simple, durable, and previously filled with alfalfa pellets. It features a wide opening (perfect for head insertion), molded handles (which conveniently slide over ears), and an aerodynamic design that thwaps gently against the chest with every step.

It’s practical and dramatic. Every movement echoes with a hollow plastic "bonk," ensuring that all eyes—and ears—are on her. She clunked around the barn aisle like a runway model wearing designer heels two sizes too big, and she owned it.

The herd watched in silent awe.

One goat fainted (might’ve just tripped on a shovel), another tried to chew the bucket off her neck. Myrtle attempted to wedge her own head into an old yogurt container, declaring, “It’s called upcycling, look it up!”

But Babydoll? She didn’t care. She was serving bucket realness.

I tried to intervene. I really did. Twice, actually. But Babydoll took one look at me, squared her goat shoulders, and clonked herself right past me, full bucket swagger, like, “Touch the bucket, and you better be ready to rumble.”

You know what? I respect that.

Not only was she setting trends, she was thinking ahead. By wearing her lunch pail, she’s always ready for dinner, no matter the time, no matter the place. Some goats chase the grain buckets. Babydoll is the grain bucket now.

She may not know who she is yet, but she knows she’s hungry. And if she’s going to wander the farm looking for her next snack, she’s going to do it in style.

---

NEW! From the makers of “Hay in Your Hair” and “Poop on Your Boot” comes…

The Babydoll Bucket!

Now available in:

• Classic White

• “Oops, I Stepped in It” Brown

• and Limited-Edition “Mystery Slime Green”!

✅ Lightweight plastic
✅ Fully neck-compatible
✅ Doubles as a sound effect machine and personal feed storage
✅ BPA-Free (Bucket Perpetually Attached)

Buy now and we’ll throw in a free headlamp for night grazing, a goat-sized mirror for preening, and a warning label for humans who try to help.

Call now! Operators are standing by. (They’re goats. Don’t expect much.)

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Well, Well, Well

The work crew showed up this week to start digging the new well for our fancy-pants geothermal heating system. Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled at the idea of not having to spend another winter hauling in enough firewood to heat a small village. But my lawn, folks. MY LAWN.

It was beautiful. It was lush. It was the result of years of careful neglect, the kind of natural beauty that only comes when you let the grass grow wild, mow it semi-regularly, and raise broiler chickens on it. And now? Now it looks like a herd of caffeinated hogs held a motocross tournament.

Seriously, if you dropped someone in my yard right now, blindfolded, they’d swear we were digging for Civil War artifacts. Or hiding a body. Or both.

My grandson, in his innocent voice—you know the one: soft, sweet, and usually followed by a comment that’ll make you reevaluate your parenting skills—looked out the window and said, “Gram, how long did it take you to grow the grass that nice?”

I just stared at him. “Longer than your last three Call of Duty marathons, your summer vacation, and that awkward family reunion where Aunt Linda wouldn't stop talking about her bunions.” That grass was a masterpiece. It had texture. It had soul. And now it’s just battlefield debris.

But you know what? If it means I don’t have to get up at 5 a.m. to thaw my eyelashes and split wood like a pioneer woman possessed, then so be it. Let the dirt fly. Geothermal is the future. And if I have to reseed the entire yard while muttering like an over-caffeinated groundskeeper, then that’s just part of the price of progress.

Now, of course, no construction project on this farm would be complete without the OGOC (Official Goat Oversight Committee.)

The moment the truck pulled up, the goats swarmed like a group of nosy neighbors who heard a rumor about free food and outrageous gossip. Heads high, ears twitching, and tails wagging with anticipation, they lined up to supervise like they were union foremen with performance quotas to meet.

If you’ve never been stared down by a team of goats while someone’s operating heavy machinery, let me tell you, it’s unsettling. There’s something about that wide-eyed, sideways glance they give you that says, “You didn’t measure that trench properly, Steve. And we both know it.”

One particularly bossy doe, Alice, took up a post next to the trench like she was waiting to give a TED Talk on soil composition. Another made a grab for the neon survey flag like it was a salad bar special. Twice. I caught a third attempting to climb onto the drilling rig, presumably to check the hydraulic fluid or give the operator a critique on his digging technique.

At one point, however, the work crew threatened to mutiny if I didn’t get the goats behind the fence. Apparently, it’s difficult to operate heavy machinery with a goat licking the control panel, another chewing on your tool belt, and a third trying to scale your leg like you’re a human jungle gym. One of the guys said it felt like working in a petting zoo run by anarchists. I told him, “Welcome to the farm. Now duck—she’s about to sneeze hay in your face.”

So we compromised. I bribed the herd with a bucket of grain and herded them into a pen, where they immediately began plotting their escape like it was the final act of The Great Escape: Ruminant Edition. They bleated their displeasure loud enough to make the drilling rig backfire.

But the hole got drilled, the piping is in, and someday soon that warm, toasty heat will be flowing into the house without me having to split another log or sweep up a metric ton of bark chips.

And as for my poor, mangled lawn? It’ll come back. Eventually. Hopefully. If not, I’ll turn it into a goat yoga studio and call it landscaping with purpose.

So if you’re ever feeling too confident about your home improvement project, just invite a few goats to supervise. They’ll humble you real quick, destroy your sense of order, and by the end, you’ll be grateful if all they ate were your blueprints.

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Best Laid Plans

The plan for Friday was simple: give Talon, the horse, a bath and a good grooming to get him looking sharp for the two-day riding clinic in Vermont over the weekend. Maybe squeeze in a little more trailer-loading practice, just to be extra prepared. The kind of calm, productive day that leaves you feeling accomplished.

The actual day? Well…

Instead of a bath, Talon opted for a full-on emergency field trip. He impaled himself on the horse trailer. That’s right. Slammed his face into it and gashed open the side of his jaw—right where the halter sits. Blood pouring out, panic ramping up, and any hope of a relaxing Friday evaporating in a fine red mist.

Here’s the kicker: he loaded beautifully earlier this week. Practically strutted in like he was born for it. I thought, “Hey, let's do a bit more practice. Keep that confidence up.” He had other ideas. Specifically, “Let’s launch my face into this metal edge and cause maximum damage.”

At first, I stayed calm. It was just a scratch, right? Until I saw the blood gushing. Then I lost my cool, my grip on reality, and almost my lunch. Enter my very good friend (we’re talking sainthood-level good here), who dropped whatever normal people do on a gorgeous Friday afternoon and rolled in with her massive stock trailer—a.k.a. barn on wheels. She assessed the situation, assured me he wasn't going to bleed out (which was news to me at the time), and got us to the vet.

Several hours, a whole lot of waiting, and $252.68 later, Talon came out of surgery with a stitched-up jaw and a face that looked like he lost a bar fight with a hitching post.

So let’s do the math, shall we?

• Original weekend plan:
  Clinic: $150
  Gas for two 4-hour round trips: Let’s call it $80
  Snacks and roadside lunches: $30 minimum
  Total: ~$260 and some horsey fun

• Actual Friday plan:
  Vet bill: $252.68
  3-hour round trip: Gas and mild heart attack
  No snacks, unless you count chewing your nails
  Total: ~$253 and a healthy dose of trauma

Honestly, it’s a wash financially—but the clinic would've been more fun, and less bloody.

Now Talon can’t wear a halter or bridle for at least a month while his face heals. So no riding, no clinic, and no more trailer adventures… yet. But once he’s healed? Oh, buddy. We’re getting back in that trailer. Preferably without impaling anything.

Get a horse, they said. It'll be fun. Because what else says "relaxing hobby" like surprise surgery, bleeding livestock, and spending your Friday night calculating the price of regret in gas mileage and gauze pads?

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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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