Super Bowl Sunday: Live From the Chicken Yard

I said “Super Bowl Sunday” out loud, and instantly the chicken yard went silent—that eerie pre-snap quiet where everyone’s waiting for the count.

Mike Crowe puffed up and took a few confident steps like he’d just won the coin toss. Hennifer Lopez lifted her head slowly, eyes locked on my hand, then the ground, then back to my hand again—that same dog-beg look that says, You’re going to want to put the food right here. I’ll wait.

Andrea shifted position, reading the field. Goldie Hen pretended she wasn’t interested, which fooled no one. Dixie Chick edged closer to the feed bin. Meryl Cheep and Reese Featherspoon hung back like veteran defenders, watching for mistakes. Reba McHentire stood her ground like she’d been doing this her whole career. Sheryl Crowe sidled in (last name purely coincidental, no relation to Mike Crowe) already prepared to steal something and deny it later.

I hadn’t even opened the bag, and I was already under pressure.

When the bowl finally hit the ground, the first mealy worm dropped like a kickoff, and the yard exploded. Andrea charged straight up the middle, driving her beak down for yardage. Goldie Hen slid in from the side and threw a solid block, cutting off Dixie Chick and opening a lane wide enough to drive a tractor through.

Hennifer Lopez saw it instantly and cut left, scooping the worm and heading for daylight—but Andrea wrapped her up mid-stride, wings flaring, feathers flying, a clean, no-nonsense tackle that stopped the play cold.

The worm didn’t move.
Everyone else did.

Mike Crowe ran the sideline crowing, a play-by-play announcer who had very strong opinions and absolutely no influence over the game.

In the chaos, Sheryl Crowe darted in, snagged the worm, and took off on a return so fast nobody saw the interception happen. Reese Featherspoon gave chase. Meryl Cheep followed. Dixie Chick joined in late, because that’s her style. Reba McHentire held her ground, unimpressed. She’d seen better plays in earlier seasons.

By the time the dust settled, possession was unclear, tempers were high, and at least one hen felt she’d been robbed by bad officiating.

Then the pace slowed. The hens flopped into the dirt like linemen between drives, dust bathing and pretending this was all very controlled. Mike Crowe strutted past them, chest out, crowing victory for reasons known only to him.

I thought the quarter was over.

Hennifer Lopez stood up, shook off the dust, and stared at the empty patch of ground where the bowl had been. Then she looked at me. Then the ground again.

Same signal.
Same expectation.

That look said, Nice drive. Now bring out the real play.

And that’s when I realized my mistake. I had said “Super Bowl” without clarifying terms. I’d hyped the crowd, crossed midfield on nothing but optimism, and left myself wide open.

Inside homes everywhere, humans argued about refs and commercials.

Out in my yard, the chickens ran their own game—blocking, tackling, intercepting, calling audibles, and demanding a replay in the form of a refill.

And eventually, worn down by relentless pressure and one rooster who would not stop crowing about it…

I refilled the bowl.

Final score:
Chickens—undefeated.
Human—still learning the rules.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

A Perfectly Reasonable Plan

Last summer we drove four hours each way to pick up four sheep—three ewe lambs, about five months old, and one wether, which is a neutered male. The wether’s job was simple: keep the ram company until breeding season, then politely excuse himself so spring lambs would arrive at a sensible time of year. Because January lambs are not lambs. They are lambsicles. I refuse to participate in that program.

Everything was planned. Everything was thought through. We had gates. We had panels. We had a system. I felt organized, which should have alerted me immediately that something was about to go terribly wrong.

Before unloading, I blocked a barn door to keep Gus—our livestock guardian dog—out of the area. Gus is very good at his job. Unfortunately, his job description includes personally inspecting all new arrivals immediately, regardless of human, or sheep, opinion.

We unloaded the first two sheep without incident: a very pretty brown ewe and the wether. Calm. Cooperative. Civilized. I remember thinking, Well look at us, hauling livestock like people who know what we're doing.

That’s when Gus hulked his way through the barricade like the barn door had personally insulted his mother. The two sheep already on the ground saw a large white dog appear out of thin air and did what sheep do best when startled: they achieved teleportation.

Under the truck.
Down the driveway.
Into the woods.

Gone.

I slammed the tailgate shut before the remaining two could join the jailbreak, escorted Gus back behind the now-reinforced door, and secured the pen like I was sealing off a federal prison. The last two sheep unloaded beautifully. Of course they did. The chaos quota had already been filled.

Then came the search.

We walked the woods. We called. We contacted neighbors. We posted on the town Facebook page, which is where lost items go to be mourned publicly. We even notified a lost dog rescue group. Everyone with game cameras checked them frequently, because nothing excites people quite like the possibility of spotting someone else’s escaped livestock.

Calling for the sheep was useless. They didn’t know me yet. I wasn’t their human, and I wasn’t a sheep, so my opinion on the matter carried very little weight.

At one point, I stood in the driveway and loudly played a YouTube video of sheep baaing from my cellphone, hoping flocking instinct, curiosity, or peer pressure might convince them to come home. If any neighbors were watching, this is when they would have decided I should not be left alone.

I also secretly hoped that when breeding season arrived, nature would prevail and the ewe would somehow follow her biological GPS back to my ram, because surely sheep had better internal navigation than I did.

They did not. Days passed. Then weeks. No sightings. No sheep. Eventually, “missing” became “probably.” They were almost certainly a very tasty—albeit very expensive—coyote snack.

So yes, we drove eight hours round-trip to bring home four sheep. And ended up with two. A friend gave me a wether to keep my ram company, because while sheep may wander off into the woods, farmers tend to circle back and help each other patch the holes.

That was last summer. Here we are in January with two ewes expecting lambs in April—ewes who now know me very well as the bringer of food. My voice carries authority these days, especially when accompanied by a grain bucket.

The barn is quiet again. Order has been restored. Gus still believes he did nothing wrong. And spring, as always, is coming.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Well, Look What Just Landed on My Doorstep

Today the FedX truck pulled in, the driver wrestled a couple of heavy boxes onto the porch, and just like that… Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure became real.

Not an idea.

Not a manuscript.
Not a file living on my computer.

A book.
One hundred of them, to be exact.

I stood there holding a copy and thought about all the years behind it—the animals, the mud, the mayhem, the moments that made me laugh out loud, and the ones that made me stop and think. Farming has a way of producing more than food. Sometimes it produces stories, and sometimes those stories refuse to stay put.

This book is a collection of those stories. Some are humorous, some are heartfelt, all of them 100% homegrown. If you’ve ever lived in the country, worked with animals, raised kids, or simply wondered if you’re the only one having these ridiculous, tender, unforgettable moments—this book is for you.

Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure is now available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, or at my doorstep.

I’m incredibly grateful to everyone who has read my blog, shared a laugh with me, or said, “Oh good—so it’s not just me.” You’re the reason these stories found their way onto paper.

And yes… I may have opened one just to smell it.
Some things never change.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Now Available for Pre-Order!

📯 Hear ye, hear ye! Attention all fence-leaners, barn-walkers, and lovers of real stories:

Let it be known that Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure is now officially available for pre-order on Amazon and Barnes & Noble, with a release date of January 27. 

What began as stories shared from the farm—written between chores, weather changes, and multiple animal uprisings—has now been gathered, bound, and sent out into the world as a book.

This milestone didn’t happen in a vacuum. It happened because of readers who showed up, laughed along, shared posts, and said, “You should put this in a book.” Well… here it is.

The bell has been rung.

The fenceposts are set.
The rest, as they say, is history.

📖 Pre-order here:
Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem and Manure

After you’ve enjoyed Between the Fenceposts, I’d be grateful if you’d consider leaving a brief review on Amazon. Reviews help readers find the book—and they matter more than you might think. Even a sentence or two makes a difference.

Thank you for taking the time to read and for supporting this little farm book as it heads out into the big world.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe by sending an email to sandydavis@aol.com or follow on Facebook.

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

The Only Gynecology Appointment I’ve Ever Enjoyed

If you read my earlier story about going to the ER because I noticed blood in my urine, then you already have the background for this continuing saga. (If not, you can check it out here.) As it turns out, the blood wasn’t coming from my urine at all, but from other parts of my nether-regions—namely, my lady bits.

Without going into gory detail, spotting at my age is not a “let’s keep an eye on it” situation. It’s a “call the doctor and do NOT Google anything” situation. So I made an appointment with a gynecologist.

Now, women understand the position. Men can only imagine it, and frankly, that’s for the best.

There I was on the table—feet in the stirrups, legs spread wide, scooted so far down my backside was practically threatening to exit the room, with a sheet draped over me. And I would really like to know what modesty that sheet is supposed to protect, because whatever dignity I once had was already gone, possibly hitchhiking south to a warmer climate.

The doctor had the speculum inserted and was peering into all that is holy when his assistant decided this was the perfect time to make small talk. I assume this was meant to distract me and make me feel less exposed, which I appreciated, though at that moment I was about as exposed as a person can legally be in a doctor's office.

She asked what I do in my retirement. I told her that while I no longer have 400 chickens, 15 milk goats, and various other critters, I do still have a few sheep and about a dozen chickens. Then I mentioned that I’d written a book.

They both snapped to attention.

Both she and the doctor wanted to know what it was about, so I explained that it was a collection of funny you-can’t-make-this-stuff-up moments from farm and country life. That’s when the doctor said he used to have a small hobby homestead himself.

And then—without missing a beat, and without removing the speculum—he launched into a story about his quadriplegic chicken, laughing like it was the highlight of his medical career.

He had a two-story barn, with the chickens housed upstairs and a long ramp leading down to a fenced outdoor area. One day, his kids were tossing chickens out the upper door and watching them flap their way down like feathery little parachutists. One chicken did not flap. She plummeted straight down, hitting like a sack of feed tossed from a pickup truck.

When they ran down to retrieve her, they discovered she couldn’t walk. Or flap. Or do anything remotely chicken-related. So, naturally—because this is what farm people do—they brought her into the house and put her in a dog crate to “see how she did.”

She did great. She ate normally. She drank normally. She stared at them with what I can only assume was profound curiosity.

Days passed. Then weeks. No improvement. No movement. Just a fully functioning chicken operating entirely from the neck up. Eventually, they accepted that she wasn’t going to recover and did the humane thing.

By this point, the doctor was laughing so hard he had to pause the exam, his assistant had tears running down her face, and I was lying there thinking that this was NOT how I expected my gynecology appointment to go—but I’d had worse conversations in the grocery store. No matter where you go—even the gynecologist—farm life follows you. 

And I can't even begin to imagine what people passing by the exam room door were thinking. Hysterical laughter is not what one usually hears from an exam room in a busy gynecologist's office.

I’ll get the results of my tests in a few weeks. But I can honestly say this was the only gynecology appointment I’ve ever enjoyed.

If you’re going to assume the position, the least the universe can do is provide a doctor with a sense of humor and a severely broken chicken.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

It’s Official. Mark Your Calendars. Circle It in Red

Between the Fenceposts hits Amazon on January 27th.

Well… here we are.

After years of living it, writing it, rewriting it, laughing at it, deleting parts that were too honest (and then putting them back in), Between the Fenceposts officially goes live on Amazon January 27th.

That’s not a “soft launch.”
That’s not a “kind of available if you know where to look.”
That’s the real deal. Hit-the-button, show-up-on-Amazon, there-it-is release day.

This book was born the old-fashioned way—one story at a time, usually while wearing barn clothes, usually interrupted by something needing to be fed, fixed, or caught. It’s a collection of life as it actually happens between the fenceposts: the animals, the mishaps, the moments that make no sense unless you’ve lived them… and the quiet truths that sneak up on you when you’re not looking.

Some of these stories made me laugh out loud while writing them.
Some made me stop and sit for a minute.
All of them are true—no embellishment needed. Real life on a farm already has better timing than fiction.

If you’ve ever:

• Talked to an animal like it understood you (and suspected it did)

• Tried to have a “normal” day and failed spectacularly

• Found meaning in the middle of manure, mud, and mayhem

…this book is for you.

I’ll share the Amazon link as we get closer, but for now, consider this your official heads-up:

📅 January 27th
📖 Between the Fenceposts
☕ Coffee, or a mug of hot chocolate, optional but recommended
😂 Snort-laughing entirely possible

Thank you to everyone who’s read the blog, shared a story, laughed along, and said, “You should put this in a book.”
Well… I did.

Share and spread the word. See you on release day.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe by sending an email to sandydavis@aol.com or follow on Facebook.

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm