Happy Halloween: It's a Cold One on the Homestead

Well, so much for pumpkins on the porch and trick-or-treaters at the door. Here on the homestead, Halloween decided to show up wearing a coat of snow instead of a costume. While everyone else is carving pumpkins and sipping cider, I’m over here pulling on insulated boots and wondering if the candy bowl should include packets of hand warmers.

This photo pretty much sums it up—Mother Nature showing off her icy sense of humor. A thin blanket of snow covers the garden beds, the fences, and the stubborn kale that still thinks it’s summer. The trees, stripped of most of their leaves, stand frosted in white, and the mountains in the distance are blushing under the soft pink light of dawn. It’s beautiful, no question—but let’s just say it’s not exactly the kind of Halloween that calls for short sleeves or plastic vampire teeth.

The thermometer hovered just below freezing when I stepped outside to snap this picture. The air had that sharp, metallic bite that makes your nose run and your hot chocolate taste even better. The crunch of snow underfoot mixed with the distant call of a crow, the only creature out and about at that hour besides me. The barn roof shimmered in the early light, and the smoke from the chimney curled straight up into a pale blue sky—our unofficial flag of surrender to winter.

Every year around this time, I hope for one last warm spell, a final hurrah before the long freeze sets in. But this year, winter clearly got a head start. Even the pumpkins look surprised—frozen mid-smile, wearing a dusting of snow like a bad toupee.

So I’ll light the wood stove, pour another mug of cocoa, and settle in. Happy Halloween from the frozen north—where even the ghosts are wearing mittens and the scarecrows are demanding scarves.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?

Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe here or follow on Facebook.

🐑 If this story made you smile, please click one of the gray share buttons below instead of copy-paste—it helps folks find their way back here for more tales from the farm.🐓

©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

It's Raining: Great Pyrenees Don't Seem to Care

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

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

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

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

And what about the goats she’s protecting, you ask? Where are they during this courageous display of damp dedication?

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

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

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

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

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

So we’ll just let her be.

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

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

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

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

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?

Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe here or follow on Facebook.

🐑 If this story made you smile, please click one of the gray share buttons below instead of copy-paste—it helps folks find their way back here for more tales from the farm.🐓

©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Autumn Splendor on the Farm

I took this photo one golden afternoon when the world looked like it had been dipped in sunlight. The air was crisp, the leaves were ablaze in every shade of gold, amber, and crimson, and there stood Talon — my full-blooded Gypsy Vanner — perfectly still, framed by the glowing trees as if he knew he was the centerpiece of the entire season.

If you’ve never seen a Gypsy Vanner in person, they’re something to behold. Strong, stocky, and elegant all at once, with feathered legs, a soft, flowing mane and tail, shiny coat, and an expression that somehow combines wisdom, mischief, and “I know I’m gorgeous.” Talon fits the description to a tee. His coat, jet black with bright white patches, gleamed like polished onyx in the late-day sun. The light caught the silvery strands in his mane, and for a moment, I swear he looked straight out of a fairytale — the kind where knights go missing because the horse steals the show.

What makes this photo special isn’t just the colors or the composition — it’s that calm moment that sums up everything I love about farm life. The world slows down for a second. You forget about chores and fences and feed buckets and just see it — the beauty of a horse at peace, surrounded by nature doing her best work.

Talon’s not posing for me; he’s simply being. Confident. Content. Magnificent. He doesn’t need a saddle, a rider, or a reason to be majestic. The trees, the light, and that proud Gypsy spirit did all the work for him.

Sometimes, the most breathtaking moments happen when you least expect them. This was one of those — a perfect horse on a perfect fall day, and me lucky enough to have my camera ready.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?

Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe here or follow on Facebook.

🐑 If this story made you smile, please click one of the gray share buttons below instead of copy-paste—it helps folks find their way back here for more tales from the farm.🐓

©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

New Pasture Mates: A Story of Homestead Friendships

We originally got Kirby—the mini donkey, aka Barack Kirby, aka BK, aka The Goat God—as a pasture mate for Talon, the horse. It was a good plan. Logical. Sensible. Which should’ve been my first red flag.

Because the goats took one look at Kirby and decided he was theirs. Their idol. Their four-legged messiah. Their fuzzy-eared prophet of grazing. Wherever he went, they followed. It was like watching a very hairy Beatles reunion tour, with Kirby as all four Beatles rolled into one, complete with groupies.

So then that plan had to change. The new plan was to try and make everyone—horse, donkey, goats—into one big happy, non-stomping, non-chasing family. Except Talon had opinions. Specifically, that goats did not belong in his pasture, and every time one wandered in, he’d make it his personal mission to chase them back to the barn like a cranky old man yelling at kids to get off his lawn.

Enter fate, stage left.

We went away for one night. One. Came back today to find Talon not in his pasture, but somehow on the goats’ side of the fence. Just standing there. Grazing. Surrounded by his former enemies like they were old poker buddies on a coffee break. Everyone was chill. No screaming, no trampling, no donkey-led cult worship rituals. Just… peace.

I have no idea how he got in there. The gate was latched. The fence was intact. Unless Talon suddenly discovered how to teleport—or dug a tunnel like a very motivated POW—we may never know.

Maybe I should’ve just left them alone to figure it out from the start. I was always afraid he’d run them over in a fit of “horse superiority,” but maybe I underestimated his emotional intelligence. Or maybe the goats just wore him down with their persistent adoration. (Goat worship is exhausting.)

Either way, cheers to new friendships, unexpected , and the magic that happens when I stop trying to micromanage barnyard politics.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?

Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe here or follow on Facebook.

🐑 If this story made you smile, please click one of the gray share buttons below instead of copy-paste—it helps folks find their way back here for more tales from the farm.🐓

©2011 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm