Another Unapologetic Brag!

What do goats, sheep, livestock guardian dogs, and a naked neighbor all have in common?

Believe it or not, they all found their way into my recent author interview with OpenShelf.online, an online book discovery site that introduces readers to new authors through book reviews, interviews, and featured books.

We talked about the inspiration behind "Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure," what people often get wrong about farm life, why I believe stories don't just preserve events—they preserve people—and, of course, a few of the unforgettable characters (both two-legged and four-legged) who have made life on the farm such an adventure.

If you've ever wondered how a simple life in rural New Hampshire can produce enough stories to fill a book—and still have plenty left over—I hope you'll enjoy the interview here.

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©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Unapologetic Brag!

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?

Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — to get new stories by email, just send a note to sandydavis@aol.com or follow on Facebook.

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

©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

A Pasture of Memories

People occasionally ask me where I get my story ideas. This is usually asked with the expectation that there is some sort of method involved, perhaps a notebook, a filing system, or a secret room where story ideas are carefully organized and labeled.

I hate to disappoint them, but if such a room exists, nobody has given me the key.

My mind works less like a filing cabinet and more like the little brook that wanders through a pasture behind our house. The brook doesn't seem to have much sense of direction. Instead of flowing directly from Point A to Point B, it loops around rocks, wanders through clumps of grass, disappears into the trees, and occasionally appears to stop and admire a particularly interesting mud puddle. If you looked at it from above, you might conclude that the brook had forgotten where it was going. Yet somehow it always arrives where it's supposed to.

Apparently, so do I.

That realization came during a recent conversation that started with a news story and eventually wandered through personal safety, childhood memories, farm animals, dog training, Tony's pizza, my mother's philosophy on consequences, and somehow ended up with a story. If you're wondering what any of that had to do with the original topic, you're not alone. The funny thing is that none of it felt random while it was happening. The brook simply followed the landscape. Most people would probably call this getting sidetracked. A writer calls it research.

Somewhere along the way, I realized this may be why I've never suffered much from writer's block. Many writers sit down and imagine what the story will be about, how to develop the characters and the plot. That sounds exhausting.

People assume I sit down intending to write about something specific. I don't. The story appears somewhere along the way. I start with whatever happens to be rattling around in my head at the moment. One thought reminds me of another. That thought bumps into a memory. The memory opens a door to something that happened thirty years ago. Before long I'm wandering around inside my own brain looking at things I haven't thought about since I was a teenager. Eventually I stumble over a story.

Now, occasionally a story presents itself immediately. Walking outside and finding Gus standing over what appeared to be a dead rooster required very little excavation. The story practically introduced itself. The same thing happened with the chicks that spent several days touring New England through the postal system before finally arriving at my post office. Some stories show up on your doorstep carrying a suitcase and announcing they've come to stay.

Most stories aren't that cooperative.

Most arrive through the scenic route. A conversation reminds me of something. That memory reminds me of something else. Eventually a long-forgotten incident sticks its head out from behind a mental hay bale and says, "Remember me?" That's usually where the story is hiding.

Maybe that's one of the differences between writing fiction and writing memoir. A fiction writer often begins with a question: What if? What if a dragon lived in New Hampshire? What if a detective discovered a clue? What if a spaceship landed in a pasture?

I begin with something entirely different. Remember when? Remember when I met my neighbor drunk and naked in the road? (Him, not me!) Remember when Jack kept getting bonked in the head by the tennis ball launcher? Remember when Dad refused to eat coleslaw because he didn't like mayonnaise, but somehow considered potato salad perfectly acceptable?

The raw material is already there. I'm not making stories up. I'm digging them out. For years I was convinced this wandering train of thought was simply evidence that I was easily distracted. Then it occurred to me that perhaps the wandering wasn't the problem. Perhaps it was the process.

After all, a creek doesn't travel in a straight line, but nobody accuses it of being lost. It follows the shape of the land. Along the way it discovers things. A rock. A fallen branch. A frog. A mud puddle. Eventually it arrives somewhere interesting. My mind seems to do the same thing.

The truly surprising part is that people actually pay money to read the results. I'm as astonished as anyone.

So the next time someone asks where I get my ideas, I suppose I should tell them the truth. I don't really get ideas at all. I simply follow a wandering brook through a pasture of memories until it eventually leads me to a story. And if the brook happens to stop and have a conversation with a mud puddle along the way, who am I to argue?

After all, that's usually where the good stories are.

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — to get new stories by email, just send a note to sandydavis@aol.com or follow on Facebook.

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

©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm

Mike Crowe Declares War

I have a question—if a rooster attacks a livestock guardian dog, who's at fault?

I wasn't entirely sure myself when I walked into the chicken yard yesterday morning and discovered what looked suspiciously like a crime scene. Standing in the middle of the yard was Gus Gus, my 130-pound livestock guardian dog. At his feet lay Mike Crowe, my Light Brahma rooster, looking like he'd just lost an argument with a freight train. Gus was standing over him while Mike remained perfectly motionless. Since Gus has lived peacefully with the flock for years, I couldn't imagine what had happened.

I immediately scolded Gus. He lowered his head and retreated toward the tent shelter with all the confidence of a teenager who has just been caught sneaking in after curfew. I picked up Mike and carried him to the coop, where he remained limp and unresponsive for several minutes. Then one eye opened. A few minutes later he staggered to his feet, rearranged his ruffled feathers with an indignant shake, and looked around to make sure none of the hens were watching. Then he disappeared into the chick pen to recover what little dignity remained. Meanwhile, Gus watched the entire performance from the shelter.

When I scolded him a second time, Gus apparently decided the shelter wasn't far enough away. He headed for the far side of the pasture and disappeared into the trees. That struck me as odd. A dog that intentionally decides to attack chickens usually doesn't look guilty afterward. Gus looked guilty enough to plead for a reduced sentence.

Mike Crowe

As he slunk away, I called after him.

"Gus! What did you do?"

He turned and gave me a look that said,

"But Mom, he started it!"

As I stood there trying to make sense of the situation, I noticed Gus's breakfast still lying untouched inside the shelter. Earlier that morning I had given him a large frozen meaty bone. Since he hadn't eaten it, I decided to pick it up and put it back in the freezer for another day. As I bent down to retrieve it, I discovered something I hadn't noticed before.

A dead hen lay beneath a nearby table.

That was when the mystery began to unravel.

My best guess is that Gus had been lying beside his prized bone trying to decide whether to eat it immediately or bury it for later. Dogs seem convinced that food improves with age. One of the hens apparently noticed the unattended treasure and decided to investigate. Chickens are not burdened by concepts such as ownership, personal space, or common sense. If a chicken sees food, she assumes it belongs to her. If another chicken sees it first, she assumes it belongs to her anyway.

I suspect the hen wandered over and pecked at the bone. Gus probably responded with the canine equivalent of, "Excuse me, but that's mine." Unfortunately, chickens are surprisingly fragile creatures. What would have been a harmless warning to another dog would have had much more serious consequences for a hen. I don't believe Gus intended to kill her. In all the years he has lived with the flock, he has never shown aggression toward any of the chickens. I suspect it was simply an unfortunate accident.

The hen almost certainly voiced her opinion about the situation at maximum volume. Anyone who keeps chickens knows there is a difference between ordinary chicken chatter and a full-scale emergency broadcast. A hen in distress can produce a sound capable of bringing every chicken within hearing distance running to see what's going on. More importantly, it can bring a rooster.

Somewhere in the yard, Mike Crowe undoubtedly heard the commotion and came charging toward the scene. Now, I've been on the receiving end of Mike's temper before. Mike does not believe in backing down. Nor does he believe in carefully evaluating the odds. Mike believes that if one of his hens is in trouble, it is his responsibility to charge directly into the situation and sort out the details later.

When he arrived and found a hen down with Gus standing nearby, Mike didn't bother collecting evidence or interviewing witnesses. He took one look at the scene, appointed himself judge and jury, and transformed into Inigo Montoya.

"You killed my hen. Prepare to die."

What followed was likely less of a fight and more of a sustained military campaign. Mike attacked. Gus backed away. Mike attacked again. Gus backed away farther. Mike attacked again because the previous attacks had not adequately expressed his opinion.

Roosters are not known for diplomacy. They tend to approach conflict with the subtlety of a chainsaw.

At some point Gus probably stopped viewing Mike as one of his chickens and started viewing him as a hostile feathered predator that refused to leave him alone. Livestock guardian instincts eventually took over, bringing us to the scene I discovered: one guilty dog, one battered rooster, and a mystery waiting to be solved.

What still makes me laugh is that when I found them, Mike wasn't fighting anymore. He was lying perfectly still beneath Gus. Apparently, after discovering that attacking a 130-pound livestock guardian dog was not producing the desired results, he had switched to Plan B and decided to play dead. To his credit, the strategy worked. By the time I arrived, Gus was simply standing over him looking confused while Mike was putting on an Academy Award-worthy performance.

The more I thought about it, the more I began to suspect that Gus's defense may have contained at least a grain of truth. From his perspective, he had been minding his own business, guarding his breakfast, when a hen interfered, a rooster declared war, and somehow he ended up being the one in trouble.

Of course, the dead hen under the table weakened his argument considerably.

In the end, the scorecard was mixed. The hen was beyond caring about the outcome. Mike lost several feathers and a considerable amount of dignity. Gus lost his good standing with management and received a stern lecture about proper workplace conduct. I, however, gained valuable information.

From now on, Gus gets to finish breakfast before the chickens are released from the coop.

The funny thing is that I doubt either of the boys learned anything. Gus will still guard his food. Mike will still defend his hens. The only creature involved with enough sense to change future behavior was me.

Still, you have to admire Mike. A ten-pound rooster willingly attacked a 130-pound livestock guardian dog in defense of one of his hens. That's either courage or insanity. With Mike, it's usually both.

So back to the original question—whose fault was it? Gus? Mike? Or the idiot who handed out the bone?  

Enjoyed this tale from the barnyard?
Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — to get new stories by email, just send a note to sandydavis@aol.com or follow on Facebook.

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

©2026 Sandy Davis | American Way Farm