A Page Turns, A Chapter Ends, But The Book Isn't Finished: Life Lessons From the Farm

The quiet goodbye I didn’t want to write

Some chapters in life don’t end with fireworks. They end in silence—in the quiet thud of a barn door closing for the last time, in the soft crunch of hay under boots that won’t make this walk again, in the weight of a phone conversation that says, “Yes. . . she’s for sale.” This is one of those chapters.

After long, sleepless nights and a heart heavy with decision, I’ve chosen something I never thought I would: to let go of my homestead—my dream, my living, breathing creation—built with my own hands, Jim’s steady help, and a few determined dogs. And it breaks me.

You don’t just do this life; you become it. It wraps itself around your soul, changes your rhythm, and gives you a heartbeat that matches the bleating of goats, the sigh of a sow settling into straw, the flap of chicken wings in the morning mist. It teaches you commitment—not the Hallmark kind, but the cold-hands, sore-back, no-days-off, mud-on-your-face kind. For years, I carried it—happily, proudly, fiercely. But somewhere, without warning, something shifted.

Not overnight—oh no. It was a slow unraveling, so slow I didn’t see it until the day I stopped, looked around, and realized my dream had drifted just out of reach. Joy had slipped into exhaustion, and freedom—something I had never allowed myself to want—was whispering my name. The truth is, small farming doesn’t give much back. Not in money, not in rest, not in time. You don’t go on vacation, you don’t take long weekends, you don’t even get to be sick. Animals need you—every day, in every weather, no matter how empty you feel. And sometimes, the person who could carry that weight just isn’t the person you are anymore.

I had plans. God, I had plans. A little commercial kitchen in the barn. Cheese-making. Spring milkings turning into jars of chevre. Fall festivals with wheels of aged goat cheese wrapped in wax and pride. Community. Creation. Purpose. But life is not obligated to honor our blueprints. Sometimes it knocks the cheese right off the cracker and leaves you staring at the mess.

Jim and I have been hearing the open road call our names. We want to travel. Visit family. See this beautiful country. Maybe just escape the northern winters. We want to wake up and decide what to do that day—not have the day already decided for us.

So, I say goodbye. Goodbye to the goats who made me laugh when I didn’t think I could. To the chickens who shadowed my steps. To the pigs who rooted their way through both the pasture and my heart—and, somehow, made me like them. Goodbye to the guardian dogs who walked the fence lines in every season, whose eyes missed nothing and whose hearts missed no one; who stood between us and every shadow, keeping us safe when we slept. They’ll find new farms to guard, new flocks to love, and new hearts to call their own—but they will always be mine in spirit.

It hurts—deep, raw hurt that sits behind my ribs and climbs my throat when I speak. These animals were not just livestock. They were chapters. Companions. Witnesses. I cry over every phone call. I write ads through a blur. I whisper promises as each one leaves—swearing they’ll be loved, that I’m not abandoning them, that this is kindness, even if it feels like loss. I need them to hear it, and I need you to hear it too.

This isn’t failure. It’s transition. A pause. A breath between the chapters. Farming runs in my blood. I was made for it—I know this. And maybe someday, I’ll return. Maybe with fewer animals, less pressure, more balance. Maybe to this quiet little homestead at the forest’s edge. Or a greenhouse. Or a farmstand. Or one ridiculous goat who thinks she runs the place. But not today.

Today, I grieve. I let go. I walk away—not because it wasn’t good, but because I have changed. Because life has changed. Because even the strongest dreams sometimes need to rest. To those who have walked with me—thank you. For the kindness, the laughter, the help with muck buckets and runaway hens. For reading these stories and loving this farm alongside me. And to my animals—my sweet, chaotic, miraculous animals—thank you for letting me love you.

The farm may be quiet now, but the book is still open, and I am still here. When the time is right, I’ll turn the next page. Until then. . . God bless. Perhaps I’ll see you on the road.

Some dreams rest, but they do not die—they wait, like seeds beneath the snow, for the season to come again.

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©2019 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

The Great Herbal Tea Break-up: A Farmer's Conversion Story

    Once upon a time—back when I still believed lavender might cure existential dread—I tried to be an herbal tea person. You know the type. Calm. Graceful. Smells faintly of sage and wisdom. I had visions of myself curled up in a hand-knit shawl, sipping something called Moon Garden Serenity while listening to flute music and feeling deeply connected to the earth.

Yeah, that didn’t happen.

What did happen was me, standing in my kitchen, brewing yet another mug of Relax & Unwind while mentally calculating whether it was worth unloading the dishwasher or just declaring it a “soak day” for the third time in a row.

Let me tell you something: herbal tea does not relax me. It just makes me sad. There’s something deeply disappointing about lifting a steaming mug to your lips and realizing you’re about to drink something that tastes like someone dunked a pine cone in warm bathwater. I kept trying different blends—chamomile, hibiscus, rosehip, something that claimed to be honeybush (whatever the heck that is)—hoping one of them would finally hit the mark. None of them did.

But I kept at it. Because everyone said it was good for you. Supposedly full of antioxidants, soothing, hydrating, healing. . . yada yada. It had become the kale of beverages—socially acceptable, morally superior, and just as hard to choke down.

And then came the turning point.

I was having one of those days, you know the kind, where everything goes sideways. The dog was barking at shadows, the goats were plotting a full-scale mutiny, the rooster decided 3 a.m. was the new sunrise, and I realized I’d been carrying the same laundry basket from room to room for three days without ever folding it. I poured myself a mug of something called Tranquil Sunset that smelled vaguely like musty potpourri and sadness. I took a sip. I made a face. And I swear to you, even my goats looked at me like, Girl, no.

I dumped the rest down the sink and opened the snack drawer.

And there it was.

The chocolate bar.

The wrapper crinkled like angel wings. A sunbeam from the kitchen window hit it just right, like the cocoa gods themselves were saying, Finally, she gets it.

It was basic. It was reliable. It didn’t make promises it couldn’t keep. It didn’t try to realign my aura or fix my digestion. It just sat there, dark and glossy, whispering sweet nothings about cocoa tranquility, waiting to be loved. And in that moment, I knew: this is what I needed all along.

That first bite was a revelation. Creamy, smooth, unapologetically delicious. Not a trace of lemongrass in sight. I closed my eyes and let the serotonin wash over me like a Hallmark movie ending.

From that day forward, I stopped pretending. No more meadow-flavored tea bags with inspirational quotes on the tags. No more guilt trips from wellness influencers in yoga pants telling me to steep nettle leaves and “manifest balance.” Meanwhile, I’m over here with chicken poop on my boots, wondering if “detox” means scrubbing goat water buckets.

I chose chocolate. And I’ve never looked back.

Sometimes it’s a bite in the afternoon. Other times? A rich, warm mug of hot chocolate, loaded with comfort and just enough creaminess to make you forget your to-do list (and the laundry mountain behind the door).

Hot chocolate doesn’t ask questions. It doesn’t judge. It just hugs your insides and reminds you that winter might be long, but it’s nothing a good wool blanket and a cocoa mustache can’t fix.

Herbal tea tried. It really did. But it’s out there smelling like forest floor and broken dreams while I’m in here sipping actual joy in a mug.

Sure, I still own a dusty box of herbal tea somewhere in the back of the pantry—probably sitting next to a jar of quinoa I also gave up on—but I don’t reach for it. Because when life gets bumpy, when the dog eats a sock or the goats start acting like union reps demanding better snacks, I don’t need dandelion root. I need chocolate. Because herbal tea whispers, “Shhh, everything’s fine…” And chocolate kicks the door open and says, “Grab your boots—we’ve got goats on the loose.”

You don’t have to like what everyone else swears by. You don’t have to steep your emotions in hibiscus or suffer through bitter “detox” blends to feel grounded. You can grab the chocolate, roll your eyes at the chaos, and know in your soul that you made the right choice. Herbal tea might help you pretend everything’s fine. But chocolate helps you survive it.

Moral of the Mug:

Herbal tea might be all the rage, but chocolate—especially when it’s warm and in a cozy mug—is the real MVP. Whether it’s a chilly morning on the homestead or a goats’s decided to redecorate the barn, hot chocolate has your back.

So no, I don’t want your wild berry detox infusion. I want chocolate. Sometimes hot chocolate. I want goats that behave. And maybe a clean pair of socks.

But mostly? I want chocolate.

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©2019 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

God's Artistry: The Beauty of Fall Colors in the Great North Woods of NH

Up here in the north country, summer always feels like it’s trying to sneak out the back door before the party’s really over. No dramatic goodbyes—just a quiet Irish exit, leaving behind a few sticky popsicle sticks, wilted zinnias, and a vague sense that the days are somehow shorter than they should be.

Already, there’s a nip in the night air. A whisper of what’s coming. The kind of crisp that makes you pull your sweatshirt a little tighter and breathe a little deeper.

Change is on the wind. And whether we’re ready or not, autumn is stepping onto the stage.

And oh, what a show she puts on.

The bright greens of summer are starting to fade—not from embarrassment, but from good old-fashioned exhaustion. The fields are going golden. The ragweed is doing its best impression of fall confetti.

And the trees?
They’re already in the dressing room, spinning in front of the mirror like, “Does this crimson make my limbs look bold?”

This isn’t just any seasonal transition—it’s New England’s most iconic moment.

It arrives like a long-awaited letter from an old friend—familiar, comforting, and full of memories you didn’t realize you’d missed. The days are sun-drenched and golden. The nights are just cool enough to crack the windows and listen to the whisper of dry leaves tumbling down the road like little paper boats.

And in the middle of it all, the rituals return—pumpkins lined up on porches, apple cider steaming in mugs, kitchens filled with the smell of cinnamon, nutmeg, and pies cooling on the counter. There’s the annual attempt at bobbing for apples, which mostly ends in soggy hair and regret. And let’s not forget pumpkin carving: a sticky, stringy operation that leaves your kitchen looking like a crime scene and your jack-o’-lantern sagging into a wrinkled old man face within three days.

Summer’s grip has loosened. The humidity that clung like a damp sweater has finally slipped off. The mosquitoes have called it quits.

The whole world exhales.

But this year? This year feels different.

It’s as if God Himself stepped into the role of artist-in-residence and said, “You know what? Let’s make this one unforgettable.” The foliage isn’t just colorful—it’s radiant. Some leaves shimmer like they’ve been gilded by King Midas. Others blaze with reds and oranges so intense you’d swear they were borrowed from another world. And when the sun hits them just right, it’s like the whole forest caught fire in the beautiful yellows.

Soon, the tamaracks will take their final golden bow before joining the others in bare-branched stillness. The snow will come, soft and steady, tucking the world in for its long winter nap. The wood stove will resume its noble post, warming not just fingers and toes, but hearts, too, with old stories and well-earned silences.

But not yet.

Right now, in this golden, crunchy, apple-scented moment, we stand in the fleeting window between green and gray.

And what a window it is.

A season of letting go wrapped in glory. A final exhale before the hush.

Some folks say they can’t enjoy autumn because winter’s next. That’s like refusing to eat pie because the plate will be empty afterward. I mean—really? Eat the pie. And if it’s apple, warm it up, add a thick slice of sharp cheddar on the side, and live a little.

Enjoy the day, no matter what season.

Everywhere I look, I see not just beauty, but intention. A world that turns without asking our permission. One that reminds us—gently, then boldly—that nothing is forever. And maybe the best things never are. They’re meant to be savored while they’re here, and remembered long after they’re gone.

So I scuff through leaves like a kid who doesn't know, or care, how grown-ups are supposed to behave. I soak in the smell of ripe apples and damp earth. I let the season work its quiet magic.

Each day is a gift, wrapped in gold and rust and the kind of sunlight that makes you pause mid-step, mid-sentence, and just look.

And I plan to unwrap every last one with both hands.

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©2019 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Sprouting Sprouts: A Farm Experiment

I recently read an article on feeding sprouted grains to livestock. The theory is that whole grains contain an enzyme inhibitor and it takes a lot of the animal's energy to digest them. However, sprouted grains no longer have the inhibitors but now contain the proper digestive enzymes so the animal can utilize the nutrition. Sprouting also increases the nutritional content of each grain. 

I used to raise sprouts years ago when I had rabbits. The goats and chickens ate what the rabbits didn't finish but I really didn't pay attention to any benefits realized from the sprouts, mostly because I wasn't looking for any.

This time I wanted to see just what difference sprouts would make in milk production. All but one of my does are nursing kids so it's impossible to tell if their milk production has increased, but the one gal who isn't nursing has almost doubled in production. I didn't test the milk before the addition of the sprouts but it now has a yellowish color and my customers have commented that the milk is a lot creamier. An added benefit is that the picky eaters in the group are no longer picky eaters. They all devour the sprouts, which I have replaced about 1/2 their grain ration with, and the picky ones have increased appetite for even their dairy goat sweet feed.

Here's my experience with different types of sprouted gains so far:

Corn seemed like the easiest to try but I found it takes a long time to sprout and the goats didn't really like it. So I fed it to the chickens and they took a long time to eat it as well.

Oats sprout easily. I soak them covered in water for several hours, rinse out the dirt and put them in a tray, rinsing them several times a day. They are ready in about 3 days. I don't wait for green shoots because by that time the roots would be a jumbled mass. The protein content of oats goes from about 13% for the raw berries to between 15 to 28% sprouted. I'm not sure why the big range in %. Perhaps someone reading this will know and share their knowledge with me. (Edit: I found an article that states sprouts are at about 18% protein when the white shoots are about 1/8" long. The highest protein would be from oat grass but you would only harvest the green fodder, not the roots. That's way too much trouble for my setup.)

Rye seeds sprout very quickly, ready in a day or 2. The goats absolutely love them when they just break through the seed hull but not so much when they get beyond that to the point where their roots get tangled. While the 15% protein is not as high as oats, the benefit is that they are ready quicker if you should be delayed in the oat sprout production.

I haven't tried any other sprouts as here in the north country that's about all that's economically available.

Here's the sprouting process I used. First I filled a 3 qt grain scoop with the berries. 

Then I soaked those for about 12 hours in a bucket of water. I added a few handfuls of sunflower seeds as those sprout at about the same rate as the oat berries.

After rinsing, I put them in a tray that I had drilled small drain holes in the bottom and larger drain holes in the cover so they drained from one through the next when stacked. (Edit: You can also put them in a bucket with holes. That might save some space but I found the tray is easier to scoop a measured portion from. Whatever you use you'll have to periodically disinfect it, and the ones below it, because the tray begins to grow mold after several uses.)

I rinsed them with water several times a day. The top tray drains down through the 2nd, through the 3rd or 4th and into the bottom tray which doesn't have drain holes in the bottom so it acts as a catch basin for the water draining down through. I put a small piece of 2x4 under one end so the water drained better. Each day I start a new tray after I use one so the trays were started on consecutive days. (Edit: I gave the drain water to the chickens as I imagine it has a lot of nutrients in it. Being chickens, they love it!)

I used these trays from amazon.com

https://smile.amazon.com/gp/product/B06ZZDC235/ref=ppx_yo_dt_b_asin_title_o03_s00?ie=UTF8&psc=1 and they are just the right size for a full scoop of berries.

So far I'm thrilled with the sprouting project. The goats love them, milk production has increased, milk seems to have higher butterfat, and I'm feeding 1/2 the amount of grain. If you try this process please comment to let me know how you're doing with it.

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

Dear Journal,

Today… it happened. The cone is gone.

THE. CONE. IS. GONE.

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

But this morning… the humans said the magic words.

“Charlie, let’s take that cone off.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I survived. And now I am FREE.

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

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

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

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

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

They told him it was just a “car ride.” The kind with the window cracked open and the breeze in his fur. Maybe a stop for a puppuccino. Maybe a trip to the feed store where everyone says he’s such a good boy.

But oh no. Not this time. This was The Betrayal.

Poor Charlie—alias “Donut Dog,” also known in certain circles as “Sir Licks-a-Lot”—was led into the vet’s office all wag and wiggle. He came out looking like a lampshade from a discount furniture store. You could see the disbelief in his eyes. The Great Pyrenees of the North Woods, protector of sheep, conqueror of coyotes, reduced to a walking satellite dish.

The official charges read:

• Resisting staples

• Multiple cone destructions

• Unauthorized removal of surgical closure

Translation: he popped his stitches, ate the replacement cone, and staged an escape that would’ve made Houdini proud.

His sentence? Cone confinement. Indefinite.
Parole eligibility: Pending good behavior (unlikely).

We tried the soft collar. He shredded it. We tried the inflatable one. He used it as a pillow. Finally, we resorted to the industrial-strength plastic model—the “satellite of shame.” He bumps into walls, takes out furniture, and clears a coffee table with a single head turn. You haven’t lived until you’ve been woken up at 2 a.m. by a dog’s cone scraping your bedpost like a haunted violin.

Still, justice—or at least veterinary law—must be served. For now, the inmate shows no remorse. He’s plotting his next breakout, likely involving duct tape, raw determination, and poor judgment. But deep down, I know he’ll make parole eventually. After all, no matter how ridiculous he looks, I can’t help but love that goofy face staring out from behind the plastic.

Cone or not, he’s still my hero… just slightly more aerodynamic.

Tricked, Snipped, and Framed

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Charlie's Journal - Day 7 of Cone Confinement

Dear Journal,

It has been one week since The Great Snipening.

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

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

The humiliation is endless.

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

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

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

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

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

Please send snacks. And maybe bolt cutters.

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

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Charlie's Journal - Day 3 of Captivity

Dear Journal,

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

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

Little did I know… I was being betrayed.

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

They. Left. Me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Stitches? I Don't Need No Stinkin' Stitches! A Livestock Guardian's Neutering Ordeal

Charlie went to the vet’s last Tuesday to be neutered. He’s a little over a year old now, which is the canine equivalent of being a rowdy teenager with a learner’s permit—old enough to get into trouble, and just young enough to think it’s a good idea.

He jumped into the truck like we were headed on the greatest adventure ever, tail wagging, tongue flapping, not a care in the world. He strutted into the vet’s office like he owned the place, sniffing every corner and introducing himself to everyone. “Hi, I’m Charlie. You smell like a snack. Wanna be friends?”

And then it hit him.

“Wait. You’re leaving me here?” he asked, ears back, eyes wide with betrayal.

“Yes,” I said, channeling my calmest mom voice. “You’ll be fine. I’ll pick you up later.”

Well, the dog we got back that evening was not the same confident explorer who’d leapt into the truck that morning. This one looked like he’d sat on a wasp nest and was absolutely certain it was our fault.

Then came the infamous Cone of Shame.

Even with that, by Wednesday Charlie had pulled all his stitches out, broken the cone, and ripped it off his head like it was on fire and full of bees.

“Charlie, what did you DO?” I gasped.

He looked me dead in the eye. “Stitches? I don’t need no stinkin’ stitches!” (Yes, that’s paraphrased from Blazing Saddles, but it was definitely the vibe.)

To top it off, his regular vet was on vacation. Of course he was. It’s a universal law: if something can go sideways, it will, and the vet will be sipping margaritas somewhere out of cell range. So off we went to the emergency clinic, where they gave him a bigger collar, a generous helping of staples, and a round of antibiotics. Surely that would do the trick. They also gave me a bill that could have bought a used car and a headache big enough to have its own zip code.

By Thursday, he’d broken the collar again and yanked out the staples for good measure. When I confronted him, he made it clear he had no intention of being held together with office supplies. This dog is part livestock guardian, part Houdini, and part chainsaw—and I’m single-handedly keeping Gorilla Tape in business just trying to keep the cone from total collapse.

I called his regular vet’s office again, and they gave me the ol’ shrug. Since he was clearly on a mission to remove anything foreign from his body—no matter how many times we reinstalled it—they said putting more staples in would be “pointless.” The wound would eventually granulate and heal on its own. (Granulate: fancy vet word for “It’ll scab up if he stops acting like a maniac.”)

Their one helpful tip? A blow-up pillow collar that looks like one of those neck pillows people wear in airports. It’s supposed to keep the cone from collapsing and maybe keep him from turning himself into a DIY project again.

So now poor Charlie is wearing a neck floatie and the Cone of Shame. We’re keeping him inside to avoid fly strike, and he's miserable. What should have been a few days of recovery before he was back out with his goats has turned into weeks of indoor incarceration, complete with wardrobe. He has lost not only his dignity, but also his masculinity and his freedom—all at the hands of the humans he once trusted.

He’s taken to sighing dramatically and lying by the door, like a disgraced action hero waiting for one last mission that will never come. Every exhale is heavy with betrayal, every glance at the doorknob a silent plea for freedom.

So here’s to Charlie—formerly intact, veteran of suffering, fashion icon of inflatable accessories, protector of goats, breaker of collars, and sole survivor of The Snipening. His resume grows by the day.

Please send Charlie your thoughts, prayers, and maybe a cone forged from steel-reinforced titanium with NASA-grade duct tape. He’s going to need it.

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©2019 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Best Laid Plans: When Country Life Laughs at Your To-Do List

We had quite the day here on the farm.

A friend brought her two goat kids over for disbudding. Along for the ride were their mama goat (lounging in the back seat like a hairy queen), and her adult son, who has Down syndrome, riding shotgun. She had thoughtfully lined the back seat with a tarp and some big towels to catch any stray poops. They’re Nigerian Dwarf goats, so they didn’t take up much room—physically. Chaos-wise, they’re full-sized. The seat coverings would have been a great idea. . . if the thing that happened next hadn’t happened.

You know what they say about best laid plans.

She pulled into our parking area, turned off the car, got out, shut the door, and walked over to let me know she’d arrived. You see where this is going, right? You can probably already hear the ominous dun-dun-DUN in the background. She left the keys in the car. Her son, who is deathly afraid of dogs (and honestly not wild about the goats in the back seat either), heard our dogs bark and did what made perfect sense to him—he locked the doors. All of them.

She tried everything to get him to unlock them. Nope. Not happening. I think he was pretty sure that if he let her in, she’d try to drag him out into the Land of Barking Dogs. He’s nonverbal, but he understands some sign. She signed for him to unlock his door. He pointed at her door like, “Nah, you go open yours.” She signed back that her door was broken and she needed him to open his. He stared her down, then slowly turned his head like, “Nice try, Mom. Not falling for it.”

So we called the police. They don’t cover our town. They gave us the state police number. Called them—they don’t unlock vehicles anymore but would be happy to send a wrecker. I called my neighbor with a tow truck—he’s in South Carolina visiting family. Of course he is.

This, friends, is why God invented AAA.

The first thing they did was thank me for my 21 years of membership. Touching. Really. But what I wanted was someone to come unlock a goat-filled, poop-sprinkled vehicle before it turned into a rolling barn. They agreed to send someone—about 45 minutes away. Not ideal, but it’s not like we were in a position to negotiate. I should also mention that the weather was freezing rain and roads were getting slicker than a greased pig. Our AAA guy was not going to be happy.

So we waited.

She kept trying to coax her son into unlocking a door—any door. The goats, meanwhile, were staging a slow-motion barnyard uprising. They stomped the tarp, shuffled the towel, and began sprinkling goat berries into every single crevice of the back seat. I’ve seen better containment in glitter explosions.

We ordered pizza and passed the time by watching the steady spread of poop distribution.

When the AAA guy arrived, he looked confused. He saw someone in the passenger seat and assumed we’d gotten back in and forgot to cancel. She sprinted over to explain that no, the man in the passenger seat was not a willing participant. Nor were the three goats in the back.

He got to work. Less than 10 seconds later, pop—door open. And suddenly he’s face-to-face with three goats. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I’d bet money it was something along the lines of, “This isn’t in the employee handbook,” follo
wed closely by, “Please never send me here again.”

And here’s the kicker: one of the back windows was cracked open an inch. My husband had tried earlier to wedge a pole through it to reach the lock in the front—but couldn’t quite get to it. Turns out, the AAA guy just slid his tool straight down and popped the back door lock in one try.

Hubby admitted he hadn’t considered that. In his defense, maybe it was because goat heads were pressed to the glass, and trying to eat the pole like it was an hors d'oeuvre on a stick.

We tipped the AAA guy for braving freezing rain, my friend hugged him, we finished our pizza, and then finally got around to the original reason for all this: disbudding the goat kids. She made it home safe, though the roads had gotten worse by then.

The rest of the day was calm. Actually, a little boring by comparison.

But I guarantee she’ll be finding goat berries in that car for the rest of its life. And that next time, she’ll take her keys. . . and maybe a shop vac.

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©2019 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

No Kidding? Yes, Kidding! That Magical Time of Year for New Life on the Farm

Well, folks, it’s that time of year again—kidding season is officially underway! The barn is buzzing, the milk room smells like new life and adrenaline, and I’m running mostly on hot chocolate and goat snuggles. The first arrivals came on Monday, April 1, and no, that’s not an April Fool’s joke. Meet our brand-new triplets—two girls and one boy—mini-Nubians born to a beautiful Nubian mom and a very proud Nigerian Dwarf dad. I swear, these little ones are so adorable they could melt a snowbank.

These pictures were taken just hours after their grand entrance into the world, still wobbly on their legs and trying to figure out what all the fuss is about. They might not be the most cooperative models (posing isn’t exactly a newborn goat’s strong suit), but you’ll get the idea—pure sweetness, wrapped in soft fur and topped with floppy ears. More photos to come, as soon as I can catch them standing still for more than half a second!

Now, before anyone wonders why on earth I’ve got goats giving birth in my milk room, let me explain. After years—years—of freezing my tail off in the barn at all hours, waiting on goat babies to make their debut, I finally had an epiphany. One cold March day, I grabbed a tarp, spread it across the milk room floor, tossed down some old towels, and said, “That’s it. No more frostbite at 2 a.m.” The milk room’s heated, well-lit, and far more comfortable than crouching in a drafty barn with snow blowing sideways through the cracks. The goats don’t seem to mind the upgrade either.

Mama goat is doing fantastic, even if she looks a little like I feel—tired, proud, and slightly overwhelmed. She’s taken to motherhood like a pro, and the babies are thriving—nursing, bouncing, and curling up in cozy piles under the heat lamp.

As for me? I’ve been crawling around on that milk room floor enough to qualify for combat pay. Between drying babies, getting everyone nursing, and running on adrenaline, I’m pretty sure I’ve hit “farmhand zombie” status. And here’s the kicker—there are still five more does left to kid.

So stay tuned for more updates and more adorable chaos. By the end of this season, I’ll either have a barn full of bouncing baby goats—or the perfect title for my next blog post: Sleep Is for People Without Livestock.

Stanley - male

Mona - female

Melody - female

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It's Been A While: Farm Life Is Never Boring!

It’s been a minute! If you're reading this, I’m sure you’ve noticed the long silence on my blog. But I’m back in the saddle (figuratively, not literally—I’m still avoiding the horse for now)! A lot has changed around here, and I thought it was high time I dust off this old blog and bring you up to speed.

So, let’s start with the big changes. First off, more goats. Yep, I went full-on goat lady. No more sheep, though—they’re off to greener pastures, literally.

But the big loss around here? Our old Pyr, who we had to send over the rainbow bridge. He lived a good life, but it was his time. Our older girl, bless her heart, is now enjoying retirement, and we’ve got two little Pyr pups to fill her paw prints. They’ve got a lot to live up to, but so far, they’re doing well.

But wait, there’s more! I finally did it: I created a farm website. I know, I know—it's been long overdue. I’m not exactly the tech-savvy type, and let’s just say that the internet and I have an understanding: I try not to break it, and it tries not to break me. But with a lot of help from an awesome friend (who, by the way, spent three years learning how to design websites), I managed to get it up and running. It's still a work in progress, but it’s live! So, if you’ve been wondering where I’ve been hiding, check out americanwayfarm.com and see what’s new.

One thing that’ll be a constant on the site is sales of mini-Saanens and mini-Nubians come late spring and summer. So, if you’re into goats (or want to be), keep an eye on the “For Sale” page.

And if purchasing goats isn’t your thing, maybe you should consider getting a few. Trust me, you need them in your life. Have you ever wondered why the phrase “That really got my goat” exists? It's because goats are the true masters of mischief. They’ll eat things they shouldn’t, escape from places they shouldn’t, and basically bring new meaning to the word “aggravation.” But that’s part of the charm. They’re funny, personable, intelligent, and yes—adorable, especially when they’re kids.

I hope to reconnect with some of you who I’ve lost touch with (I know, I’ve been a terrible blogger!). If you’ve unsubscribed, please consider re-subscribing. And if you thought I fell off the face of the earth, leave a comment and say “Howdy!” I’ll do my best to be more consistent, I promise.

And remember—life’s more fun with a few goats around. Or maybe, just more frustrating... either way, it’s never boring.

Happy farm days.

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©2019 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm