Talon: The Gypsy Cob

"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.

Talon had other plans. When I first walked out to the pasture, he was standing by the fence, looking reasonably majestic—the kind of proud, head-high stance that makes people think, “Wow, that’s a fine-looking horse.” But the second I pulled out my phone, he froze. Instant statue mode. It was like photographing a cinder block with legs. No matter what I did—clucking, waving my arms, tossing pebbles, kissing noises, even mooing like a deranged cow—nothing. He just stood there, ears half-cocked, eyes glazed over, channeling the energy of a teenage boy being forced to take family pictures.

I was about one bad selfie away from giving up when my husband rolled down the driveway with a trailer full of hay. Suddenly, poof!—Talon came to life. Ears up, eyes bright, neck arched, tail flicking just so. The transformation was instantaneous. Turns out all it takes to turn my stubborn horse into a runway model is the promise of snacks.

So, naturally, I took full advantage of the moment. Snap, snap, snap—photo shoot complete. The hay-baited glamour shot turned out perfect, and now Talon’s officially listed on a few horse sale sites, complete with a flattering video. If only job interviews worked that way—show up with a buffet and everyone suddenly looks enthusiastic.

Of course, the funny thing is, now that he’s officially listed, he’s acting sweeter than ever. Almost like he knows. He’s been extra affectionate, standing by the fence when I walk by, giving me that “Are you sure you want to sell me?” look. Smart horse—or maybe just manipulative. Either way, if charm were a marketable skill, he’d have sold himself already.

 Click here to see Talon's ad.

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©2012 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Weird Egg: You Just Never Know What You'll See on a Farm

Every once in a while, the hens surprise me with something new. Most of the time, it’s just an odd shape or a soft-shelled egg — nothing too dramatic. But this one? This one looked like something straight out of a science fiction movie.

Occasionally, a chicken will lay an egg without a shell — just the thin membrane holding it all together. It feels strange to the touch, sort of like old Jell-O that’s been sitting out too long and developed that dry, rubbery skin on top. Usually, you pick it up carefully, marvel at it for a second, and toss it. But the other day, I found this thing — two shell-less eggs connected by what looked like a tiny, hollow cord.

At first glance, I thought one hen had tried to lay an egg and changed her mind halfway through. But curiosity got the better of me, so I gave it a gentle squeeze. To my surprise, the liquid inside actually moved back and forth between the two eggs through that little connecting tube. It was equal parts fascinating and disgusting — like biology class come to life in my nest box.

I’ve seen plenty of egg oddities over the years — double yolks, tiny “fairy eggs,” even an egg laid inside another egg once. But two connected, shell-less eggs? That’s a first. It’s like the chicken version of Siamese twins.

So now I’m wondering — has anyone else ever seen anything like this? I’d love to know if my hen is a rare overachiever or if I’ve just discovered the poultry equivalent of a factory malfunction. Either way, it’s a good reminder that when you keep chickens, you never quite know what you’ll find waiting in the nest box.

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©2012 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

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… Again - We Should Be Pros At This By Now!

"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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Happy Birthday Toes

In celebration of our birthdays—hers last month, mine this week—my 17-year-old granddaughter and I did something wildly indulgent. Something radical. Something that made us feel like queens for a whole hour.

We got pedicures.

Now, this might not seem like a big deal to the average person, but when you spend your days knee-deep in hay, chasing goats who think fences are a suggestion, and wondering why the chickens are giving you the side-eye, a pedicure is basically a spa day on par with a five-star resort.

We soaked. We were scrubbed. We picked out polish colors like we were choosing wallpaper for a royal castle. I went with a bright ruby. She went with a beautiful soft coral. I think mine says “refined elegance.” Hers says “I will absolutely win this argument, thank you.”

For sixty glorious minutes, we were pampered like ladies who have afternoon tea. The massage chair kneaded muscles I forgot I had. And when it was all said and done, we walked out with soft heels, shiny toes, and a renewed appreciation for people who willingly touch other people’s feet for a living. Saints, every last one of them.

Then I came home and did what any sensible farm woman would do with her freshly buffed and polished piggies. I shoved them directly into a pair of muck boots. Because nothing says “Happy Birthday, tootsies!” like stepping into a questionable puddle of something warm, hoping it’s water. Boots protect the glorious feet.

The goats didn’t see. The chickens wouldn't have cared. The horse might’ve glanced, but only because I was late with his hay. But I knew. I knew there were fabulous feet under those boots.

And that, my friends, is the duality of womanhood: glitter toes and goat poop.

Happy Birthday, Toes. You deserved this.

Maybe next year we’ll get manicures too. Then I can muck stalls in style with matching nails.”

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Goat Fashion: It's All The Rage in Goat Glam

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 Supervisory Crew on the Funny Farm

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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©2012 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Friday's Plans, But the Horse Had a Different Agenda

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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©2012 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Are You My Mother? A Heartwarming Great Pyrenees Story

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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Chicken's Choice: A Funny Story of Barnyard Friendships

Here’s something I’ve noticed: no one else around here ever has a chicken on them.

Not me. Not Jim. Not the dog (though he might want one if it came with snacks). Not any of the other goats. But Brandy? Brandy the goat? She pretty much always has a chicken on her.

This isn’t a one-time thing. This isn’t a fluke. This is a full-blown lifestyle choice. While the rest of the hens are busy scratching, pecking, and plotting world domination, one of them always decides that Brandy’s back is the place to be. And Brandy? She doesn’t care one bit.

Maybe she likes the company. Maybe she enjoys the view from under the feathers. Maybe she’s figured out that chicken feet make a pretty decent back scratcher. Or maybe, while all the other goats are out in the field, Brandy just prefers to hang around the barn—cooler shade, fewer bugs, and complimentary back scratchers.

There she stands, half-asleep and totally unbothered, with a hen balanced on her back like it’s a perfectly normal thing for a goat to wear a bird. Which, I guess, it is now.

The other animals? They're baffled. The others stare like Brandy’s broken some unspoken farm rule. The dog tilts his head like he’s trying to solve an algebra problem. And me? I just try to get a photo before the chicken hops down and acts like she wasn’t just using a goat as a sunbathing deck.

The thing is, the chickens always choose Brandy. Not one of the younger goats, not the fence post, not even that weird decorative garden gnome I keep forgetting to move. Just Brandy.

And Brandy, bless her stubborn, noble little soul, has never once tried to shake them off. She’s the goat version of a porch swing—steady, reliable, and apparently great for chicken naps.

So if you stop by and see a goat strolling casually through the barnyard with a hen on her back like some sort of poultry Uber, don’t worry. That’s just Brandy. She's got a chicken on her. As usual.

"Anyone else want a ride? I've got another itchy spot on my shoulders."

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When You're Too Chunky for Funky... Can a Pig Really Be Too Fat?

Let me paint you a picture. A few weeks ago, we brought home three pigs. Not just any pigs—Guinea Hogs. A heritage breed. Smaller. Friendlier. Easier to manage. Supposedly.

I wasn’t thrilled. I have history with pigs. And by history, I mean a deep-rooted fear based on one 800-pound sow who once decided to knock me over to see if I bounced. (Spoiler: I didn’t.) My English Shepherds came to my rescue, and the sow later went to the freezer. We have a rule here: Be nice or be tasty.

So, naturally, I wasn’t exactly champing at the bit to bring pigs back into the picture. But Jim loves them. Thinks they’re the best farm animal there is. (He’s wrong, but marriage is about compromise. . . and sometimes letting someone else make a mistake where you can later say “I told you so”.)

To ease my anxiety, he chose a smaller breed this time. “They only get to about 300 pounds max,” he said, as if that’s a comfort. While he was shopping around, an online friend offered us a trio—one boar, two sows—for a very reasonable price. Bonus: she suspected the sows might be pregnant.

What we picked up were three pigs who had clearly eaten all the leftovers from everyone else’s dinners in addition to their own.

Now, I’m not one to fat-shame. But when your pigs are more bowling ball than bacon, you start asking questions. Like: Can they walk without rolling? Is that a back leg or a love handle? Can they actually get pregnant?

Turns out, the answer is no.

Not because it’s the wrong time of year. Not because the boar isn’t trying. No, no. He’s definitely trying. The poor guy is all in. Every time we look out into the pasture, it looks like the opening act of a barnyard soap opera.

But here’s the kicker (or the lack of it): they can’t do the deed.

He tried mounting one of the sows, only to find that his stomach hit the runway long before his landing gear could deploy. The boar, like the sows, is carrying a few too many. . . well, everything. His belly hangs so low it sways like a hammock strung between two short trees. When he tries to mount, his stomach makes first contact—and also last. The required parts never even get close to the action.

And even if he was able to get his male parts anywhere near her female parts, her rump is so ample he still couldn’t get close enough to seal the deal. The man is out there playing Twister with no hope of winning.

We witnessed one attempt that involved grunting, balancing, some half-hearted repositioning, and finally him just standing there, frozen, like he was t

rying to remember what step two was supposed to be. If it had a soundtrack, it would’ve been a slow, tragic harmonica solo.

It wasn’t for lack of trying. It was simply a failure of geometry. So, no piglets. Just three extremely well-fed pigs living their best roly-poly lives.

We have officially reached the point where our pigs are too chunky for funky.

So, on to Plan B: Operation Slim Down. Less feed, more movement. Grazing on pasture only, no extra feed, more moving—which involves one of us being out there and making them walk. Maybe we should get them a pig-sized Fitbit. Maybe we should sign them up for Zumba.

Because as it stands now, the only thing these pigs are breeding is sympathy.

If we can trim a few inches off the boar’s belly and fire up the romance again, we might finally get that litter of piglets my husband was hoping for.

And if not?

Well, they know the rule: Be nice (and get pregnant). . . or be tasty.

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©2012 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Fat Pigs! A Very Funny, But True, Barnyard Tale

Actually… Three Fat Pigs

Let me just start by saying: I’m not insulting anyone. I’m not being rude. And no, this isn’t a twisted retelling of The Three Little Pigs. I am speaking in the most literal, unmistakable sense of the phrase.

We have pigs.

Three.

Very. Fat. Pigs.

Now, for those of you who know me, this may come as a surprise. You see, my husband—bless his animal-loving soul—loves pigs. Thinks they’re fantastic. His favorite farm animal, hands down. Me? I hate pigs. I’m actually afraid of pigs. And before anyone calls me dramatic, let me explain.

I can handle a buck in full rut. No big deal. After all, he’s a vegetarian and just trying to keep the ladies to himself. He puffs up, pees on his own face, stomps around—typical guy stuff. But he's manageable. Give him a scoop of grain and he’ll forget he even had a girlfriend.

But pigs? Pigs are omnivores. That means meat is not off the menu—including, theoretically, me. I once had an 800-pound sow knock me over from behind. I wasn't injured—unless you count my dignity—but she could’ve had me as a snack if not for my two English Shepherds springing into action like furry avengers. They barked, snapped, snarled, and chased her off with the kind of energy that said, “Not today, bacon.”

And no, they didn’t leave a mark. We checked very thoroughly after she was slaughtered and hanging from the tractor bucket a few days later.

(Here on the farm we live by one simple rule: Be nice or be tasty.)

So, we've been blissfully pig-free for a few years. But DH has been making noises about wanting pigs again. Knowing full well that I have PTSD—Pig-Traumatic Stress Disorder—he promised we’d go with a smaller, more docile breed: the Guinea Hog. Supposedly calm, friendly, and maxing out at around 300 pounds for males, with the ladies topping out somewhere in the 200–250 range. Practically lap pigs, right?

While he was shopping around, an online friend offered to sell us her adult Guinea Hog trio—a boar and two sows—for a very reasonable price. She mentioned the sows might be pregnant. Based on “timing.”

(Translation: she’s 85% sure they’re pregnant and 100% sure they eat like they are.)

So we loaded them up and brought them home last Saturday.

And friends, let me tell you… these are not dainty pigs.

These are rotund, well-fed, morbidly obese pigs.

These pigs could roll down a hill and flatten your flower bed like a steamroller with a snout. If these pigs are pregnant, I fear for the structural integrity of the barn.

Which brings me to the bottom line—pun fully intended—there are at least three someones on this farm who are about to go on a diet. (And no, it’s not me. I’m still recovering from the trauma of chasing pigs out of the barn with a snow shovel.)

I’ll keep you posted on their progress. If they slim down and behave, they might earn a place here. If not… well… you already know the motto.

Be nice. Or be tasty.

Here's what a Guinea Hog is SUPPOSED to look like:

Kind of a smallish, chubby bear. Low to the ground. Fluffy-ish. Friendly. The kind of pig you wouldn’t mind sharing a sandwich with—if pigs ate sandwiches. (Spoiler: they would.) Short legs. Squishy face. Built like a very determined meatloaf. Basically, something you’d expect to find snoozing under a shade tree, oinking gently in its dreams, not plotting world domination.

Now here's what we actually got:

HOLY COW. Or, more accurately, HOLY FAT PIGS.

My husband had learned—after the fact, naturally—that Guinea Hogs are “easy keepers.” What that actually means is: if you so much as look at them while holding food, they gain five pounds. Feed them “a little extra just in case” and suddenly you’re raising potbellied freight trains.

These hogs aren’t just overweight—they’ve taken gluttony and turned it into a competitive sport. They aren’t waddling, they’re rolling. I half expected one of them to request a chaise lounge and a personal feeding assistant.

I stood there staring at them, speechless. Which doesn’t happen often, I assure you. The only thing that came to mind was, “We’re going to need a bigger trough. And maybe a forklift.”

Now, don’t get me wrong—they’re sweet. They grunt happily, they wag their tails like dogs, and they appear to be very pleased with themselves and their current… girth. But they were supposed to be small, manageable, gentle creatures. Instead, I’ve got three porcine Jabba the Hutts who look like they could crush a wheelbarrow just by looking at it funny.

And if the sows are pregnant (which they very well might be, based on how little we can see of their actual shape under all that… shape)… then this is about to get real interesting.

So, new plan: diet time. Pasture only. No snacks, no matter how cute they look at me.

And if anyone asks what kind of pigs we’re raising over here? The answer is simple: Big. Fat. Happy. Possibly pregnant. Pigs.

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©2012 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

How To Spoil A Goat In 4 Weeks or Less...

..a cautionary tale I’m now qualified to teach

Step 1: Start with a baby goat. Bonus points if she’s ridiculously cute, has ears the size of salad plates, and stares at you like you broke her leg personally.

Step 2: Allow said goat to dramatically injure herself within 24 hours of arriving at your farm. Ideally, this should involve a staircase, a poor sense of self-preservation, and a moment where time slows down and all you can think is, “No. Nope. Nope. That’s not how legs work.”

Step 3: Respond with panic and farmyard ingenuity. Build a soft cast out of whatever’s on hand—vet wrap, gauze, a large flat stick, sheer willpower—and pray the vet doesn’t laugh when you walk in. (Spoiler: he won’t. He’ll be impressed. And now you’ll start to believe you can do orthopedic work in your kitchen with a flashlight and duct tape.)

Step 4: Bring the goat inside. Just for one night, you tell yourself. One night in the dog crate next to your bed so she doesn’t feel alone. One night of ba-ba-baaing and the faint smell of alfalfa in your living room.

One night becomes two. Then three. Before long, the crate has bedding that’s fluffed just so, and you’re offering her bits of apple while you fold laundry and discuss your day like you’re roommates.

Step 5: Start carrying her everywhere. Because she can’t walk much. But also because she looks so cozy tucked under your arm like a squirmy little handbag. Bonus points if you start talking to her in baby voice. Double bonus if she answers back.

Step 6: Make “keep the cast dry” your entire personality. Strategically place towels, furniture, and plastic barriers like you’re prepping for a flood. Begin sentence with, “I can’t let her out yet, her cast might get wet…” even if the sun is shining and it hasn’t rained in a week.

Step 7: Hand-feed her treats “just to cheer her up.” Buy special goat snacks. Cut grapes into halves. Let her lick peanut butter off your finger while your other animals look on in stunned betrayal.

Step 8: Find yourself swaddling her in a blanket “so she doesn’t get chilled.” Take a photo. Share it with friends. Convince yourself this is normal. It’s not. But by now you’re too far gone.

Step 9: Realize that when the cast finally comes off… she’s not going to be less spoiled. She’s going to expect couch time. And treats. And indoor privileges. And for you to carry her like royalty every time she looks mildly inconvenienced.

Step 10: Give in. Because by this point, you’ve created a tiny, four-legged diva with the emotional pull of a Disney princess and the confidence of a goat who once lived in your house. 

And you know what? You wouldn’t have it any other way.

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©2012 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Poor Baby! Adventure of a "Flying" Goat Kid

We brought home a new goat on Saturday—a five-week-old Snubian we’ve affectionately named Baby Doll. For the uninitiated, a Snubian is a cross between a Saanen and a Nubian. Saanens have neat, pointy, upright ears. Nubians have those glorious, droopy, curtain-like ears. But when you combine the two? You get the goat registry’s official term: airplane ears.

That’s right—straight out from the head, then flopping down just a little at the ends like she’s about to taxi for takeoff. Some folks say it looks a little silly. I say it looks like The Flying Nun in goat form. Combine that with her big baby eyes and wobbly legs, and she’s basically irresistible.

Unfortunately, she’s also accident-prone. Within 24 hours of her grand arrival, she managed to break a leg.

Yep. Less than one day in, and she’s already filing for disability.

On Sunday, Baby Doll decided to take flight off our porch stairs. Not walk down them—no, that’d be too logical. She launched herself off the middle step like she was gunning for Olympic gold. Her ears flared out like wings on final approach, her legs tucked like a tiny skydiver, and then—crunch. Her front leg got caught, the rest of her body kept going, and physics chalked up another win.

Cue one goat shrieking, two humans panicking, and me yelling, “Grab the duct tape!” while simultaneously trying to figure out how to explain to a vet that our new goat tried to fly.

Now, keep in mind this poor kid had already had a rough few days. She’d left her mama, her herd, and her goat friends, only to wind up in a new home with a single goat buddy. She was just settling in, wagging those airplane ears around like radar dishes, when—BAM!—broken leg.

Naturally, she got the royal treatment. Baby Doll was wrapped in blankets, perched on the couch like a wounded princess, and spoiled with pets and cooing. “Daddy” hand-fed her hay while she gazed up at him lovingly with her big eyes, her “Flying Nun” ears tilted just so, milking it like a pro. That night she even slept inside the house, tucked into a dog crate next to my bed. Nothing says “normal” like goat snores in surround sound at 3 a.m.

Monday morning, we packed her up for the vet. I’d already performed a farmyard version of an orthopedic procedure—sock, splint, vet wrap, and motherly panic—and was braced for a lecture.

Instead, the vet looked at my handiwork and said, “Well, that’s actually a pretty good job.”

Pretty good?! That’s basically a standing ovation. Who needs eight years of vet school when you’ve got duct tape, adrenaline, and a goat whose ears double as flight stabilizers?

Baby Doll now has a proper cast that she’ll wear for four weeks. The catch? It absolutely can NOT get wet.

Which is hilarious. Because this is a goat.

A baby goat.

On a farm.

Where water comes from the sky, buckets, hoses, puddles—and possibly the tears of her owner.

So we’re officially in Operation Keep It Dry. This includes plastic grocery bags duct taped over her cast, tarps at the ready, and me sprinting through the yard screaming, “No puddles!” while her airplane ears flap like she’s about to take off. If this keeps up, the FAA is going to want her registered.

And here’s the real kicker: Baby Doll knows she’s got us wrapped around her little broken leg. She limps dramatically when we’re watching, collapses into our laps like a fainting Victorian lady, and flicks those Flying Nun ears for maximum sympathy. She’s gotten hand-fed snacks, extra nap privileges, and more couch time than most house pets. Honestly, I half expect her to demand home baked cookies and her own Netflix profile.

Still, she’s healing. She’s spoiled. And she’s working those airplane ears like they’re her superpower.

Hang in there, Baby Doll. We’ve got you. And apparently, you’ve got us too.

After all—who really needs four good legs when you’ve already got wings?

AAAHH, the life of a "house goat"!

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Gabe, The Mother Hen! When a Great Pyrenees Gets Confused

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

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

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

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

Gabe? Not so much.

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

But what we found yesterday topped everything.

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

And that’s when we saw it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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