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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Returning to the Earth

I once lived that “other” life—the one with clocks and commutes, where tomatoes came from the produce aisle and meetings came with donuts that somehow didn’t make up for the soul drain. It had its moments, sure, but none that compare to these slower, dirt-under-the-fingernails years back on the farm. That other world had its perks—central air, drive-thru convenience, and nobody asking if I’d seen their missing chicken—but it never fed my soul. Honestly, it barely even fed my lunch break.

Now, in my so-called retirement (code for “I work twice as hard for zero pay”), I’ve come home—not just to a place, but to a feeling. A rhythm. A peace I didn’t know I was missing until I found it with dirt under my nails, goat hair on my shirt, and the faint smell of hay clinging to me like a stubborn houseguest. I’ve returned to the land, the quiet, and the chaos that only makes sense in the language of farming.

Nothing in that polished-up past comes close to picking a sun-warmed tomato right off the vine—so ripe it practically bursts with the pride of being homegrown. Or pouring a tall glass of fresh goat milk—slightly sweet and only as old as the time it took to strain and cool it. It’s food that doesn’t need a sell-by date. It has a soul—and a sense of humor, if you met the goat it came from.

Every morning feels like Christmas as I head out with my basket to the chicken coop—my version of Santa’s sack. What treasures have the girls left today? A half-dozen eggs? One hidden behind the feeder just to keep me humble? Or a sassy hen giving me the stink-eye while fiercely guarding the fake plastic training egg I put there to encourage proper laying habits—not in the hayloft, not under the wheelbarrow, and definitely not behind the feed bin where I’ll find it three weeks too late. Around here, it’s always a surprise. . . and always a gift.

I get my weather forecast from the goats and my emergency alerts from the dogs. If the herd starts acting like caffeinated toddlers and the big white guardians line up at the fence like they’re preparing for battle, I know something’s up—and I trust them more than any meteorologist in a $500 suit pointing at a green screen.

Come winter, when the fields sleep under a heavy quilt of snow, I enjoy the rewards of summer’s labor: shelves lined with jars of sweet corn, green beans, and asparagus—each one a love letter to July. The root cellar holds potatoes, squash, carrots, and beets like a treasure chest packed by Mother Nature herself. And when the wind howls and the driveway turns into a skating rink, one bite of those vegetables will have you swearing they were just picked.

They say the trick to happiness is building a life you don’t need to escape from. I’ve done just that—trading deadlines for dirt roads, boardrooms for barn boots, and memos for manure piles.

Retirement looks suspiciously like hard labor. . . but at least now I enjoy it.

Sun-warmed tomatoes and goat kisses—who needs a beach resort?

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They're Not Mine, I Swear

Let me just clarify something right off the bat: these ponies? Not mine. Nope. I have not taken leave of my senses and started collecting pasture pets. I didn’t impulse-buy miniature horses like someone panic-buys throw pillows. These two are strictly here on a summer internship. Their job? Mow down the overgrown pasture that the goats have taken one look at and said, “Hard pass.”

Contrary to popular belief—and every cartoon and children’s book ever written—goats do not eat everything. That’s a myth perpetuated by people who have clearly never tried to feed a goat swamp grass. Goats are browsers, not grazers. That means they want trees, shrubs, brambles, poison ivy, and your brand-new orchard saplings. Grass is for peasants. Especially this particular pasture, which is filled with something we call “swamp grass”—it’s tall, coarse, and by midsummer it gets sharp enough to double as paper-cut delivery devices. Goats? Offended. Absolutely not. They won’t touch it unless they’re staging a hunger strike for dramatic effect.

Enter the ponies.

These two little equine weed-whackers showed up like a lawncare crew with built-in charm. To horses, swamp grass is apparently the equivalent of a five-star buffet. Their motto seems to be “If it’s green, it’s keen.” They dove right in like they were late for brunch, munching through the thickets with the kind of enthusiasm you usually only see at county fair pie-eating contests.

They've settled in like they own the place—standing under the half-dead tree like it's a tiki bar, swishing their tails with casual confidence. From a distance, they could pass for decorative lawn statues. Pastoral. Picturesque. Pooping lawn ornaments.

Meanwhile, the goats are loitering by the barn, clearly offended by the whole arrangement. They’ve been giving me side-eye for days. I’m fully expecting to find “TRAITOR” spelled out in hay bales or scratched into the dirt with a hoof. Goats are nothing if not passive-aggressive.

But once again—for anyone keeping track—they're not mine. Just seasonal help. Temporary pasture contractors. Freelance grazers. But yes, okay, I’ll admit it: they’re kind of adorable.

Don’t get any ideas. I’m not keeping them.

Probably.

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Spring – You Two-Timing, Backstabbing Trollop

Ah, spring is in the air.

The grass has started to blush green again here in the north country, the trees are putting on their little bud bonnets, and the birds are out there singing like Disney just handed them a recording contract. Robins have been back for weeks now, smugly yanking worms out of the ground like this is an all-you-can-eat buffet. Ducks and geese have returned to the ponds, paddling around like they never left, holding little reunions and probably judging my muddy boots.

Everything was going according to the Welcome to Spring script.

The goats have kidded and the babies are bouncing around the barn like caffeinated toddlers in a bounce house. New chicks are growing so fast, I swear one of them looked me dead in the eye yesterday and asked for the Wi-Fi password.

Yes, spring is in the air.

So WHY did I wake up this morning to a scene straight out of a snow globe?!

Not a charming, poetic “last hurrah” either. No. I’m talking full-blown, cover-the-yard, hide-the-daffodils, slap-you-in-the-face SNOW. AGAIN. Honestly, it looked like Frosty the Snowman threw a tantrum and exploded in my front yard.

One of the robins was standing on the porch rail with his feathers puffed up and his beak open like he was mid-complaint with corporate. The goats came out, took one look, and slowly backed into the barn. The chickens are madder than wet hens—because they are wet hens—and the ducks? Oh, they’re thrilled. Jerks.

I’m over it, Mother Nature. You hear me? OVER. IT.

We’ve shoveled. We’ve snow-blowed. We’ve made snowmen and pretended to enjoy hot cocoa while frostbite gnawed at our toes. I’ve run out of adjectives for “pretty” snow and started describing it as “aggressively white sky-dandruff.” We are DONE here.

You had your chance. Spring arrived. We were ready to forgive and forget. And you go and do this?

Listen, I don’t want to sound ungrateful—but if I see one more snowflake, I’m going to start mailing you passive-aggressive weather reports written entirely in goat hoofprints.

So unless this snow is part of some cosmic April Fool’s joke that got lost in the mail, please do us all a favor and CUT. IT. OUT.

Spring in the north country: where hope sprouts, slips on ice, and gets body-checked into a snowbank by winter—then winter takes your lunch money.

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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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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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