Welcome to American Way Farm
Way "up nawth" in northern NH, where the snowdrifts are big enough to have their own zip codes, life on the farm comes with equal parts work, wonder, and comic relief. I’m Sandy Davis—farmer, storyteller, and frequent victim of livestock with too much personality. Here’s where I share the true (and mostly true) tales of everyday life on American Way Farm—the moments that inspired my book Between the Fenceposts.

Wednesday, July 3, 2019

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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©2019 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

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