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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The Shooting Tree

You’ve heard of The Giving Tree. We had a special tree too, only ours didn’t hand out apples. It handed out target practice and the occasional splinter. We called it The Shooting Tree.

It stood alone in a little field out back, just past the garden and before the woods swallowed up the horizon. A quiet giant, perfectly placed, a lone sentinel with nothing but deep forest behind it. Over the years, it became our unofficial shooting range. Targets were stapled to its broad trunk, one after another, year after year. And that tree? It stood still and took every shot without flinching.

I couldn’t tell you how many rounds it absorbed—thousands, easily. By the end, there was probably more lead than wood in its core. But it wasn’t just a tree full of bullet holes—it was a classroom, a proving ground, and a kind of family altar. Kids learned how to aim there, standing shoulder to shoulder with a parent or grandparent. Big, steady hands covered small, nervous ones. Tiny fingers curled around triggers for the first time, ears muffed, hearts pounding, eyes shining with both fear and pride. And their grandfather’s voice—calm, patient, steady—wrapped around them like the safest place in the world: “Easy now. Line it up. Breathe. Squeeze.”

It was where grown-ups went too, after long days of work, to find rhythm in the simple cadence of recoil and release. Where laughter echoed when a target flapped in the breeze and someone missed wide. Where silence settled in when life got heavy, and the sharp crack of a shot carried farther than words ever could.

That tree bore witness to all of it—quiet lessons, loud frustrations, the joy of a perfect bullseye, the disappointment of a wild miss, and the triumph of a child’s grin when they finally hit the paper. Layer by layer, year after year, it held our family history in its bark. It wasn’t fancy. But it was ours.

Then, one day, a windstorm came through. Nothing serious—just a blustery reminder that nature still calls the shots. And when it passed, the field wasn’t the same. That tree, the one that had stood through more winters than some of our cars, was down. Just one tree toppled. That one. The Shooting Tree.

And here’s the part that stopped me cold: it didn’t just fall. It snapped clean through, right where the target had always been pinned. The same spot we all aimed for, the place that carried every lesson, every laugh, every careful shot—it finally broke right there. Like it had been holding that weight for decades, and in the end, it let go exactly where we had asked the most of it.

I guess even the strongest among us wear down eventually—years of weather, wear, and lead quietly eating away at the core. Maybe it didn’t fall from the wind so much as from a deep exhale after a job well done. Like it knew it had given us everything it had to give.

Now it lies in the field, stripped of duty but not of meaning. I stood there longer than I’d like to admit, just looking at it. Remembering the echoes of shots long past that still seemed to hang in the air somehow—the laughter of children, the calm guidance of their grandfather, the sound of three generations woven together in powder and bark. That tree wasn’t just wood. It was part of our story.

We’ll find another place to shoot, sure. Maybe even plant a new tree nearby someday. But there won’t ever be another like it. That old pine gave us more than a place to aim—it gave us memories worth holding onto.

Rest easy, old friend. You stood your ground. You did us proud.

And though the tree is gone, the echoes still carry—laughter, lessons, and the steady rhythm of generations finding their mark.

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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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The Never Ending.....

We’ve all had that song stuck in our heads. You know the one—“This is the song that never ends, yes, it goes on and on, my friend. . .”? Yep. That little earworm that loops itself into your brain until you start twitching involuntarily and muttering lyrics under your breath in the produce aisle. Or maybe you remember The NeverEnding Story movie—complete with the giant flying dog-dragon thing that looks like it belongs in a Lisa Frank binder.

Well, today I didn’t have a song or a story stuck on repeat. Today, I had The Never Ending Kitchen.

It began, as these things always do, with good intentions and a pile of dirty dishes. Now, I could have done them last night, but let’s be honest—Sunday is the Lord’s day, and I firmly believe He wouldn’t want me elbow-deep in dishwater when I could be on the couch under a blanket pretending not to hear the chaos in the kitchen.

So Monday morning greets me with a mountain of crusty reminders that last night’s supper was, in fact, a thing. First chore: clean kitchen. That includes unloading the dishwasher, refilling it with every dish in a 20-mile radius, scrubbing the pots and pans that didn’t make the cut, and wiping down the counters and stove so it looks like I have my act together.

Next? Out to do the goat milking, collect eggs, and take care of barn chores. Then into the milk room—or as I like to call it, “The Barn Kitchen”—because why limit the madness to one building?

Back in the house, time for breakfast. Which— you guessed it—creates more dirty dishes. Clean kitchen.

Toss in a load of laundry. Then decide to make a batch of cajeta because I like to overachieve on Mondays. (If you don’t know what cajeta is, consider yourself lucky—you don’t know what you’re missing. If you do know, grab a napkin. You’re drooling.)

Cajeta on the stove. Clean kitchen.

Switch laundry to dryer. Get a snack. Dirty plate. Clean kitchen.

Check email. Go for a walk with the goats and dogs because, at this point, I need to be outdoors or I will fuse to my kitchen floor.

Return home. Lunchtime! More dirty dishes. Clean kitchen. Fold laundry. Cajeta’s done. Strain it, jar it, refrigerate it. Clean kitchen.

Make a batch of ricotta because apparently I’ve given up on sitting down today. Clean kitchen.

By the time Jim rolls in from work, I’m back at it again—cooking supper and mentally preparing myself for the next round of. . . yep. . . you guessed it: Clean. Kitchen.

Are you picking up on a pattern here? Because The Never Ending Kitchen is real, folks. I think it’s been cursed. Or enchanted. Or possessed by the ghost of June Cleaver with a bad attitude and a sink fetish.

Now, I know some folks would say, “Why not just do it all at once? Let the mess build up and clean it once at the end of the day.” And to those people I say: “How do you live like that?!” I can’t function in chaos. I start twitching when the spatula’s in the sink instead of the drawer. It’s not a choice—it’s survival.

So I clean as I go. And go. And go. Some days, it feels like I’m trapped in an endless loop of suds and crumbs, like I’ve been sentenced to some sort of culinary purgatory. But at least I’m not barefoot and pregnant. Just barefoot and mildly unhinged.

Stay strong, my fellow dish warriors. We may not win the battle, but we will wipe down that counter one more time.

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Berry Good Morning

There’s a certain kind of smug satisfaction that comes from strolling out to your own garden and harvesting breakfast like some sort of off-grid woodland sprite who also knows how to use a pressure canner. This morning, I kicked off the day by wandering into the blueberry patch in my pajama pants, barn boots, and yesterday’s hair—because nothing says “living the dream” like bedhead and bug bites before 7 a.m.

The blueberry bushes are putting on a show this year, absolutely dripping with fruit. And not just ripe fruit—no, these overachievers are flaunting every possible stage of berry development. It’s like a Pinterest board of blueberries: sassy green ones just starting out, blushing pink teenagers, moody purple middle children, and the fully ripe, indigo jewels bursting with juice and attitude. If you’ve ever wondered what abundance looks like, it’s a bush so heavy with berries it looks like it’s about to call it quits and file for berry-related workers comp.

This year has been a banner year for growing stuff. Apparently, Mother Nature is in a good mood or owed us one after last summer’s monsoon/heatwave/volcano combo. We’ve had the perfect mix of hot sun and well-timed rain, and now everything’s growing like it’s in a competition. With each other. And possibly with us.

We grow most of our own food here on the farm, which sounds romantic until you realize it means someone (me) has to figure out what to do with 40 pounds of zucchini every third day. Our garden is bursting at the seams with the usual suspects—carrots, beans, potatoes, tomatoes, squash, and the pride of the patch: a well-established asparagus bed that we treat like royalty. (Seriously, if those stalks ever rise up and declare themselves in charge, I won’t argue.)

Fruit-wise, we’ve got apple, pear, and plum trees. We had a peach tree. It met an untimely end last year when the goats staged a coordinated prison break and decided the peach tree was both delicious and in their way. RIP, sweet fuzzy fruit.

Berry-wise? Oh honey, we could open a roadside stand with a side hustle in experimental jam flavors. Raspberries, blackberries, blueberries, gooseberries, elderberries, red currants, strawberries—basically, if it ends in “berry,” it’s somewhere on this farm. We also have rhubarb, which I fully count as a fruit because it’s red and sour and goes great with sugar. Also, because I say so.

We get milk and meat from our goats, eggs and meat from the chickens and ducks, and pork from the pigs. The only thing we don’t raise ourselves is beef, but we buy that from a friend down the road who pasture-raises Herefords and is always good for a solid handshake and a long conversation about weather and fence repairs. It's like farmers’ market meets front porch gossip hour.

The animals do double duty as our land management crew. The goats are top-tier brush clearers. Their philosophy is “if it’s leafy, eat it; if it’s in the way, headbutt it.” The pigs are excellent at stump removal, mostly because they don’t understand boundaries or respect the sanctity of tree roots. They just dig like their life depends on it—and honestly, it kind of does. The chickens and ducks handle the bugs, the composting, and the morale. We used to have sheep, but... well, we don't really like lamb, I don’t spin wool, and they’re just not what you’d call “smart.” Let’s just say their main contribution was slapstick comedy, mostly involving fences and regret.

So here we are—hip-deep in food and farm chaos, heading into the season of “now what do I do with all of it?” The kitchen has transformed into a battlefield of canning jars, dehydrator trays, and sticky surfaces. There’s a constant bubbling noise from something fermenting, and I’m not entirely sure it’s intentional. At any given moment, I may be freezing green beans, making elderberry syrup, and yelling at someone to stir the applesauce all at the same time.

It’s messy. It’s exhausting. It’s also more satisfying than a whole cart of overpriced “organic” produce from the grocery store.

And it all started with a handful of blueberries this morning, still warm from the sun, eaten while I stood barefoot in the garden and pretended the mosquito bites were just nature’s love taps.

Come winter, when the snow’s up to the eaves and we’re eating stew made from our own pantry shelves, I’ll remember mornings like this and smile. Or maybe I’ll just remember the goat that killed the peach tree. Either way—it’s all part of the adventure.

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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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Naming Your Supper

I grew up around my Aunt May’s farm, where nobody bothered with “life lessons.” You just figured them out. Nobody ever explained that the ani
mals were food—you just noticed one day that the cow you’d been scratching behind the ears last week was now on a sesame bun between two slices of cheddar. Simple math: animals go in, dinner comes out.

Aunt May had one hard rule: don’t name the animals. Naturally, being the obedient child I was, I named every single one of them. What’s the difference between calling a cow #8305 from its ear tag or Delores? Either way, she was bound for the grill. Personally, I think Delores tastes better than #8305. Adds character.

I grew up eating Cuddles stew and Betsy sandwiches like it was the most normal thing in the world. If you’ve never slathered mayo on a piece of Wonder Bread and topped it with slices of your “best friend” Betsy, then clearly, you weren’t raised right.

So of course, I raised my kids the same way. My son wanted meat rabbits. Fine. We picked some does and a fine buck for breeding. They named him “Flopsy.” Cute, right? I didn’t see a problem. He wasn’t meant for the pot—he had a romantic career ahead of him. Flopsy was supposed to be the Don Juan of rabbits, the Hugh Hefner of hutches, the Barry White of bunnies.

But Mother Nature has no respect for career paths. One night something tried to break into the cage, busted the door, and in the morning I found Flopsy under the hutch with a broken back. So much for romance. He went from Playboy Bunny Mogul to Campbell’s Special of the Day.

The kids were inconsolable. Snot, tears, the whole ugly cry. When I served Flopsy stew, they refused at first. “We can’t eat our pet!” they wailed. I told them firmly, “This is what rabbits are for.” Eventually, they each took one tiny bite—faces scrunched up like they were being forced to swallow poison. Then, like clockwork, the magic happened:

“Can we (sob) have (sob, sob) more Flopsy stew?!”

Folks, nothing prepares you for the sight of a child weeping uncontrollably while simultaneously shoveling meat into their mouth like they’re at a Vegas buffet. It was tragic. It was hilarious. It was farm life in one scene.

Fast forward a few years, and the grandkids were continuing the tradition. They named everything. Jimmy the pig. Ron the cow. And they’d ask for Jimmy sausage or Ron burgers with all the casual cheer of kids ordering Happy Meals.

But then came Wilbur.

We bought six piglets—one for the freezer, one for a pig roast, and four to sell. Naturally, they named the runt Wilbur, because of course they did. Charlotte’s Web had ruined an entire generation.

When pig roast day came, Wilbur was the perfect size. Goldilocks herself couldn’t have picked better. So we roasted him whole, as you do. What I neglected to do was warn the grandkids that Wilbur was going to come out of that roaster looking. . . well. . . like Wilbur, only extra crispy. It just never occurred to me.

When Jim opened the roaster lid, it was like we had just unveiled Satan himself. The children screamed—screamed—like we’d set Disneyland on fire. These weren’t normal screams. These were movie-quality horror screams. Exorcist screams. Neighbors probably peeked out their windows and wondered if we were filming a low-budget slasher flick called Night of the Pork.

I swear I saw one of my grandkids’ souls leave their body when Wilbur’s little snout poked through the steam. You know you’ve messed up when a seven-year-old looks at you like you just personally murdered Santa Claus.

They refused to eat. Refused! Wouldn’t even touch a roll from the table, like it might have “Wilbur essence” on it. Jim had to drive to the store for hot dogs—which, let’s be honest, are basically mystery pig parts ground together with hope and lies—and somehow those were fine. “Oh, this? A mashed-up collection of Wilburs from around the world? Sure, we’ll eat twelve.”

To this day, I think they’re still traumatized. They are all full-grown adults now, most with kids of their own, but you so much as mention “pig roast,” and their eyes twitch like they’re having a flashback.

And poor Flopsy? My daughter still tells people, “When I was a kid, my mom packed me sandwiches for school lunch made from my pet rabbit.” She says it with the same tone other people reserve for recounting childhood trauma involving creepy clowns or a house fire.

I don’t even try to deny it. Because she’s right.

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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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Goat Kids: Powered by Chaos, Fueled by Happiness

Every morning, before I even make it to the kitchen, I glance out the window and get an instant dose of joy. There they are—zooming back and forth, ears flapping, legs flying, occasionally misjudging a landing and crashing like a gymnast who launched with confidence but landed on their face instead. It makes me laugh every single time. They don’t know why they’re running. They’re just thrilled to be alive and determined to spread that energy around like glitter at a toddler birthday party.

There’s probably some deep life lesson in that somewhere—about joy, resilience, and seizing the moment—but I’m usually too busy laughing at a 10-pound goat trying to body-slam a water bucket to be philosophical about it.

And yes, the chaos does come with its share of extras:

• Hay in my bra.

• Hoof prints on my jacket.

• A barn that now sounds like a kazoo concert in a bounce house.

If you're ever feeling grumpy, burned out, or just a little blah, I highly recommend a few minutes of goat therapy. No fancy appointments. No soothing music. Just stand near a goat pen and let the nonsense commence. It’s better than yoga. And unlike people, baby goats won’t try to sell you essential oils or argue about politics.

We’re only halfway through kidding season, and I suspect the June arrivals will bring even more wild-eyed bouncing joy. Until then, I’ll be out in the barn, laughing at the little ones as they practice their high-speed nonsense, blissfully unaware that the world is anything but a playground.

This is proof that joy comes in small, fuzzy, bouncing packages.

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