The Midnight Kibble Bandit

Every evening, just before I lock up the chickens, Gus makes a beeline for the coop. He slips inside, circles a couple of times, and settles himself in the far corner beneath the poop board for the night. I leave through the door into the main barn and lock it behind me.

Now, before anyone starts questioning his credentials as a livestock guardian dog, let me assure you that Gus weighs about 130 pounds and takes his job very seriously. Coyotes? Bring 'em on. Foxes? No problem. Bears? He'll stand at the fence barking until either the bear leaves or the sun comes up... whichever happens first.

But let the faintest rumble of thunder drift over the mountain and this fearless guardian of chickens, this knight in fluffy white armor, suddenly decides the safest place on earth is under a flock of laying hens. He has a perfectly good dog house outside, yet every evening he heads straight for the coop. I'm beginning to suspect the chickens aren't his flock—he's their dog. Or perhaps they're simply his emotional support chickens.

For the past week I've been hearing Gus barking frantically in the middle of the night. Every morning there was fresh evidence that something had been visiting my barn. The large barrel where I keep the dog food was open, its screw-on lid lying on the floor. One morning I found the entire barrel had been dragged nearly four feet from where I'd left it. Clearly, something was helping itself to the kibble. Whatever it was, it clearly hadn't read the "No Free Samples" policy.

I never actually caught the culprit in the act, but I had a pretty good suspect. Not many animals are clever enough to unscrew a lid, and raccoons have those little hands that seem capable of earning an engineering degree. So I moved the dog food into my farm store, set a live trap, and baited it with a handful of kibble.

The next morning, I headed out to let Gus out of the coop. As soon as I stepped into the main barn, I found one thoroughly irritated midnight burglar waiting for me in the trap, looking less than pleased with his complimentary accommodations.

No wonder Gus had been raising such a fuss every night. The poor guy had been locked safely inside with his emotional support chickens while some masked burglar was enjoying an all-you-can-eat kibble buffet.

It's probably a good thing Mr. Coon never figured out how to open the coop door. Thunder may send Gus running for cover, but I suspect even the bravest raccoon would lose an argument with a 130-pound livestock guardian dog if it laid a paw on one of his hens.

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Long Live Mike Crowe II

Mike Crowe had very strong opinions.

Chief among them was that every hen belonged to him, every human needed supervising, and every dog, regardless of size, should mind its own business. If I so much as picked up one of his hens, Mike took it as a personal insult and charged in to defend her honor. I admired his dedication, even if I didn't appreciate the bruises.

With Gus Gus, Mike discovered something he'd apparently never encountered before—a creature considerably larger than himself that wasn't particularly impressed by his resume.

Gus, our livestock guardian dog, weighs somewhere around 130 pounds. Mike weighed... well... enough to make a decent pot of soup. Those are not favorable odds by anyone's calculations.

The first time Mike decided to challenge Gus, things didn't go especially well. Gus won the disagreement rather decisively, and Mike spent the next couple of weeks looking a bit humbled. He still strutted around the barnyard, but the swagger had lost a little spring. I thought perhaps he'd learned a valuable lesson about choosing his battles.

I should have known better.

A rooster doesn't spend much time studying military strategy, nor does he believe in strategic retreat. He simply assumes that next time things will work out differently. Sure enough, a few weeks later Mike started coming after me again whenever I got too close to his hens. His confidence had returned. His chest was puffed out. He was strutting again. Apparently, in Mike's version of history, he and Gus had fought to a draw.

A few mornings later, I walked into the coop and found Mike lying there, quite unmistakably dead. I didn't witness what happened, so I can't say for certain. My best guess is that Mike decided to reopen negotiations with Gus. If that's what happened, the second meeting ended much like the first—only with a more permanent conclusion. Gus, after all, does have the right to defend himself.

What surprised me wasn't finding Mike. I assumed it was only a matter of time before his bravado proved to be a fatal flaw. It was the hens. There they were, pecking away at him. They'd already moved on with astonishing efficiency. There wasn't a memorial service or a moment of respectful silence. There wasn't even a tiny chicken-sized expression of, "Well, this is terribly sad." Nope. They'd apparently looked at their former protector and collectively concluded, "He always insisted on providing for us."

If you've never owned chickens, that probably sounds horrifying. If you have owned chickens, you're simply nodding your head. Chickens are practical creatures. Sentimentality is not one of their stronger qualities.

As I stood there looking at Mike, I realized he had lived exactly the way a rooster ought to live. He protected his hens. He patrolled his territory. He feared absolutely nothing, including things that could squash him like a bug. He was bold, opinionated, occasionally exasperating, and completely convinced he could win any argument. You almost have to admire that kind of confidence.

Fortunately, the flock wasn't left leaderless. Russell Crowe, my 4-month-old Light Brahma rooster, had already been waiting in the wings. Since he looks so much like his predecessor, I've decided that Russell has earned a promotion.

His name is now Mike Crowe II. Around here, it isn't really a name anymore. It's a job description. As Mike Crowe's namesake, Mike Rowe, might say, "It's a dirty job, but somebody's gotta do it."

Mike Crowe is dead. Long live Mike Crowe II.

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

The Guitar I Never Intended to Buy

I need a name for my funny-looking little travel guitar. Any ideas? Here's how it ended up at my house...

I was absolutely certain I knew what I needed. Now, whenever I find myself absolutely certain about anything, I get a little nervous. Experience has taught me that life has an annoying habit of smiling politely while saying, Oh really? Just watch this.

Several years ago, I bought an Ibanez guitar with every intention of learning to play. It was a beautiful instrument. It also spent most of the next several years leaning quietly in the corner, silently judging me.

It wasn't the guitar's fault. I faithfully watched YouTube lessons, practiced until my fingertips felt like I'd been petting porcupines, and waited for those magical calluses every guitar player promises will eventually arrive. Mine must have been shipped UPS and ended up on the wrong porch.

On top of that, the guitar itself was simply too big for me. Reaching around the body wasn't comfortable, and after a while my shoulder started complaining louder than my fingertips. Eventually I admitted defeat. The Ibanez stayed in the corner while I avoided making eye contact every time I walked past it.

After careful research, I diagnosed the problem. I didn't need another guitar. I needed a baritone ukulele. Smaller instrument. Nylon strings. Problem solved.

Or so I thought.

Living in northern New Hampshire changes the way you think about shopping. Around here, a trip to just about any specialty store is about an hour and a half each way. By the time you get home, you've burned enough gasoline to make Amazon Prime look like one of the greatest inventions since indoor plumbing. That's why we rarely head south unless we can combine several errands into one trip.

The nearest music store was in Littleton, about an hour and a half away, so one morning Jim and I headed south. Fortunately, Jim likes driving. I like sleeping. We've each found our niche.

When we arrived, I walked up to the front door only to find a neatly printed sign announcing they would be closed for the entire week. I stood there staring at it for several seconds, hoping maybe it only applied to everyone else. It didn't.

Out came my phone. The next nearest music store was in Plymouth. Another hour and a half away.

I walked back to the truck. "I found another music store."

Jim looked over. "How far?"

"Another hour and a half. You up for that?"

"Fine with me."

That was all I needed to hear. By the time I woke up from my nap, we'd arrived in Plymouth. Jim stayed in the truck while I went inside.

It wasn't a very big store. There couldn't have been more than a dozen guitars hanging on the walls. They looked like a jury, silently watching to see if I'd choose the wrong one, again.

A very young salesman greeted me, and I explained the two problems I'd been having with my Ibanez. He laid the guitar case on the floor, opened it, looked it over, then popped back to his feet in one smooth motion. No groaning. No grabbing one knee. No putting both hands on the floor while deciding whether getting up was really worth the effort. And no crawling over to something else to climb up assisted by his arms. He simply stood up. I remember being able to do that. I don't remember exactly when. But I remember.

He handed the guitar to me and I held it in proper guitar position.

"Yeah," he said. "This guitar's too big for you."

Finally, somebody besides me thought so. I explained that I'd come looking for a baritone ukulele because it was smaller and had nylon strings. He smiled. Then he completely ruined my plan.

He explained that because I liked the lower bass notes of a guitar, I'd probably be disappointed with a baritone ukulele. Yes, it's tuned lower than a regular ukulele, but it still has only four strings—the same notes as the highest four strings on a guitar. The two deep bass strings that give a guitar its rich, full sound are missing.

Well, that was information I could have used before we spent three hours on the road.

Instead, he began handing me one smaller guitar after another. Every one felt a little better than my Ibanez, but none of them felt quite right.

Then he mentioned they even made guitars designed specifically for women. Well, now he had my attention. I immediately pictured a regular guitar with a molded indentation in the back where one of my boobs would fit. Sort of like the little pocket in some men's underwear designed to accommodate the male anatomy. I thought that was a remarkably thoughtful design.

It turns out a ladies' guitar is simply thinner and smaller. Frankly, I liked my idea better. If anyone ever invents one, I'm sure it'll be a best seller.

By about the sixth guitar my shoulder loudly informed me that our audition was over. I didn't even know I had elderly shoulders. Apparently they'd decided not to mention it until that very moment. By then my shoulder felt like I'd spent the afternoon wrestling goats.

The salesman stood there for a minute looking around the room. Then he pointed toward an odd-looking instrument hanging off to one side. "Let's try the funny-looking one."

Funny-looking was an understatement. That's a bit like calling an aardvark "slightly unusual." I'd never seen anything quite like it. It looked like somebody had crossed a guitar with a mandolin, then wandered off before finishing the project.

"It's a travel guitar," he said.

That was fine with me. The only traveling I had planned was from the corner of my bedroom to my recliner.

He handed it to me, and the moment I sat down everything changed. My shoulder relaxed. My arm wasn't stretched halfway to Canada. The neck fit comfortably in my hand. After trying guitar after guitar, I'd almost forgotten what comfortable was supposed to feel like. It just fit. The guitar happened to be there on consignment, so it cost less than buying a new one. Before I left, he replaced the steel strings with nylon strings while I waited.

I walked into that store intending to buy a baritone ukulele. I walked out carrying something I didn't even know existed when I woke up that morning.

Looking back, what impressed me most wasn't the funny-looking little guitar. It was the young salesman. He never tried to sell me what I'd come in to buy. Instead, he listened while I explained the problems I was having and then worked on solving those problems instead of simply handing me what I'd asked for.

Had the music store in Littleton been open, I'd probably own a perfectly nice baritone ukulele today. Instead, I came home with a funny-looking little travel guitar that fits me perfectly. Turns out the funny-looking one was exactly the right one. I suppose there's a lesson in that somewhere... hopefully it won't involve another day on the road to learn it. 

(P.S. I'm serious about the name. If I pick yours, you'll forever have bragging rights that you named the guitar in my next stories.)

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