The Fine Dining Preferences of Chickens

Every morning I carry out a carefully measured, nutritionally balanced ration of premium layer feed. It’s formulated by people with degrees, tested for optimal egg production, and designed to meet every dietary need a chicken could possibly have, and I pour it into their feeder like a responsible farmer who is clearly doing everything right. The chickens do eat it, but with all the enthusiasm of someone facing a bowl of plain oatmeal, pecking at it only because it’s the only thing there is for breakfast, not because they’re particularly impressed. And let’s face it, it’s still better than starving, which is about the highest compliment that feed is ever going to get.

They’ll stand there, half interested, half distracted, taking a bite or two, wandering off, coming back again, as if they’re trying to convince themselves this really is as good as it gets. It keeps them going and it does its job, but you wouldn’t exactly call it a highlight of their day. It’s more like the kind of meal you eat while staring out the window, wondering where things went wrong, particularly if you ignored the chocolate-filled croissant that practically begged you to reconsider your priorities.

Now let me walk out there with a bowl of kitchen scraps—leftover spaghetti, a questionable piece of lettuce, maybe something that spent just a little too long in the back of the refrigerator—and suddenly I am no longer just the person who fills the feeder. I become the bringer of joy, the keeper of treasures, the one who clearly understands fine dining. They come running, wings half out, voices raised, with at least one hen acting like she hasn’t eaten since the Carter administration, and if I hesitate even slightly, I’m fairly certain they would climb me like a tree and knock the bowl out of my hands. A chicken has no dignity when pasta is involved.

Which raises the question: do chickens actually taste what they’re eating, or are they just enthusiastic about anything that isn’t nailed down? So I went looking for answers and, as usual, ended up asking Professor Google, who seems to have an opinion on everything. 

As it turns out, chickens do have taste buds—not many, and certainly not enough to qualify as food critics, but enough to know the difference between “this will keep me alive” and “this is worth knocking Mildred over for.” Their regular feed is the sensible meal, the one they eat because it’s there and they're hungry, while kitchen scraps are more like an open buffet where everything is interesting and nothing lasts long, including your personal space.

They seem to recognize textures and smells, and whatever mysterious chicken logic is involved works quickly to determine that a limp noodle is worth a full-contact sporting event. One hen grabs it, another chases her, a third joins in just because something is happening, and pretty soon the whole thing looks less like feeding time and more like a barnyard version of the running of the bulls. I’ve seen perfectly reasonable, law-abiding hens turn into feathered hooligans over a piece of bread without a moment’s hesitation, as if they’ve all agreed that civilization is optional under certain circumstances.

The thing is, their excitement isn’t really about hunger, because they’ve got a feeder full of perfectly good food sitting right there. It’s about variety and opportunity, and maybe a little bit about the thrill of getting something different—something better, or at least something they’re convinced is better. Honestly, they’re not that different from the rest of us. We all have our version of layer feed—the sensible, balanced, responsible choices we make because we know we should. And then every so often something else comes along that isn’t necessary but is different and interesting, and we find ourselves reaching for it anyway, even when we know better. 

Either way, I’ll keep bringing out the scraps because it’s the only time I’m treated like a five-star chef instead of the hired help. If they ever develop enough taste buds to start leaving reviews I have a feeling the spaghetti will get five stars while the carefully formulated layer feed will be described as adequate, but nothing to get excited about. And if there’s a lesson in all of this, it might be that sometimes the sensible choice will keep you going, but it’s not always the one you remember… which is probably why I’m still thinking about that chocolate-filled croissant.

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

Big News!

After months of research—and more time than I care to admit talking to people who use words like “integration” and “smart systems”—I’ve finally upgraded the chickens. We now have an AI-powered nesting setup that tracks each hen’s laying schedule, productivity, and overall attitude. It connects right to my phone and sends alerts when a hen is thinking about laying an egg, in the process of laying one, or just sitting there pretending to be productive.

There’s even a feature that plays soft classical music in the nesting boxes to improve shell quality and reduce stress. Apparently Mozart is good for yolks. Who knew? So far, production is up… although one hen keeps pecking the sensor and another refuses to participate unless the music is changed. At the moment, I’ve got what I can only describe as a full-blown labor dispute going on in the coop.

Farming has come a long way.

For those that think I'm serious (aka, those that don't know me), yes, this is an April Fool’s joke. My chickens won’t even cooperate with an automatic door. There is absolutely no chance they’re syncing with an app.

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

The Book That Took the Scenic Route!

Every now and then, something happens that you couldn’t plan if you tried—and you sure couldn’t make it up any better.

A fellow author and friend, Sheridan Rowe Langford, author of Farm Fresh Forensics and Wet Noses and World Domination, recently ordered my book. What happened next… well… let’s just say the book decided to live a little before settling down.

Here's her account of what happened:

"This book was on an adventure!

Yes, you read that correctly. The book was ON an adventure. Not ABOUT an adventure. It was on an adventure.

I’d been eagerly looking forward to this book on farm living written by a friend of mine, Sandy Davis. I ordered it from Amazon and waited and waited. And got what I thought was covid so I forgot about anything I’d ordered. But when I came out of my NyQuil fog, I checked on my book. Amazon said it had been delivered over a week ago. Hmm nooooooo…. Haven’t seen it.

Thus began the hunt. My mailbox is a mile from my front gate. Nobody in my family picked it up. Neighbor didn’t pick it up. Nobody else lives down here. No one.

So I contacted Amazon and the computer chat bot informed me that it was so sorry this happened and would I like another copy? Yes, I would. Amazon would be happy to send me another copy, but please also check with the shipper. UPS.

You cannot get a person at UPS. I know because my husband spends a lot of time on the phone bitching about that. Therefore I was less than thrilled about tracking down a package that UPS already said was delivered two weeks ago.

So I put it off.

Because I do that.

I am the Queen of Procrastination. Most of the time that does not work in my favor. Today it did.

Because today I was returning home down our lonely single lane dirt road. Behind an automatic gate and two cattle guards. And I met an unknown truck coming from the direction of my house. Wasn’t my neighbor. (Because my husband was driving the neighbor’s truck behind me. But that’s another story. )

So I met this truck on my single lane road. His driver window was rolling down. This is the Texas invitational sign for both parties to stop in the road and have conversation. (Being the antisocial hermit that I am, I’m not often eager to entertain conversation on the route home, but this is Texas, and that is the law. You cannot drive by a rolled down window. You just can’t. The Law.

So I stopped. And a man that I do not know informed me that he had dropped a package at my gate. He was a hunter from the hunter’s camp and the package had been dropped near his camper. He found it while mowing today. Alrightie then. Howdy New Neighbor.

So UPS chose to not drop the book at my mailbox, not drop the book at the main gate off the main road, and not drop the book at my actual gate which is the last sign of civilization before a literal cow path dirt road. Instead, that driver (who must be a substitute) went a mile and a half out of his way to drop a package at an uninhabited hunter’s camp that probably has not seen traffic since the close of deer season.

And here’s the best part - the book was in a heavy cardboard envelope. We had two heavy rains during the time this lonely book waited near a vacant camper. And the book didn’t get wet! Envelope got wet. Book is fine. (Because God loves books. I’m sure of it! )

I notified Amazon and their happy chat bot replied with absolutely frightening speed. I’m a bit afraid of AI when computers think that quickly. Like fast. I hit send and the reply was instant. That’s scary. (But not important to the story.)

So there you have it! This book on farm adventures went on its own adventure before it landed in my hands. I’m gonna love it! If you love adventurous little books on farm adventures, go grab your copy!"

I write about farm life and the unexpected moments that come with it… but apparently, this time, the book decided to create one of its own. I’m just glad it finally made it home—safe, dry, and with a story to tell. And I'm adding this to my you-can't-make-this-stuff-up list!

Here's the link to get your own copy. Delivery adventures not guaranteed… but apparently not impossible either.

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

The Myth of Free Food

Back when I had 400 laying hens, 15 milk goats, broiler chickens in the summer, and pigs growing out back in what I liked to call the outdoor freezer department, people would look around the farm and say something that always made me smile.

“You’re so lucky to have all that free food.”

“Free food.” Whenever someone says that, I know immediately they’ve never set foot inside a feed store. Because if they had, they’d understand that nothing on a farm eats for free except maybe the barn cats—and they expect benefits, a retirement plan, and canned tuna on holidays.

People picture a hen strolling peacefully around the yard, pecking at a few bugs, laying an egg, and calling it a day. Crack that egg into the frying pan and voilà—free breakfast. But that “free egg” actually started life as a day-old chick costing somewhere around $7.

And that chick then spent about 5 months eating like a teenage boy who just discovered the refrigerator before she ever laid her first egg. For those 5 months she consumed a steady stream of chick starter, grower feed, and eventually layer ration. Feed that came in bags. Bags that came from the feed store. Bags that I paid for. Many bags. Enough bags that the feed store owner greeted me by name and probably sent his kids to college on my account.

By the time that hen finally laid her first egg, she had already eaten enough grain to qualify as a small agricultural subsidy. And that’s just the feed. There was also the brooder with heat lamps, the electricity to run it, the pine shavings for bedding, feeders, waterers, nest boxes, fencing, and a coop sturdy enough to discourage every raccoon, fox, mink, and weasel within three counties.

But sure. Free egg.

The goats were no different. People would see the milk and say how wonderful it must be to have free dairy products. Well yes… if you ignore the hay bill, the grain bill, the mineral supplements, the fence repairs, and the fact that goats consider fences to be more of a philosophical concept than an actual boundary. And we won't even begin to add up the vet bills.

Then there were the pigs. Pigs that politely converted large quantities of expensive grain into bacon. Very tasty bacon, I might add, but bacon that had been preceded by a feed bill that could make a grown farmer sit down and question his sanity.

And all of that is just the cost of the animals themselves. That’s before we even talk about the labor. Hauling water. Stacking hay bales. Carrying fifty-pound bags of grain like they were sacks of concrete. Then there’s trimming goat hooves, which involves bending over long enough to wonder if your spine is still under warranty.

Sheep add their own special contribution to the process. Trimming their feet involves wrestling a two-hundred-pound animal onto its butt while it loudly protests the entire procedure and questions your parentage. Once you finally get the job done, the sheep will often just sit there for a minute looking puzzled, as if it’s trying to figure out how the world suddenly ended up sideways.

And of course there’s vaccinating the sheep, the goats, and all of their offspring, as well as disbudding the goat kids, which means chasing animals around the pen while they demonstrate that they are far more agile than the human supposedly in charge of them.

And then, of course, there are the guardian dogs. Three of them. Because if you don’t have guardian dogs, all you’ve really done is set up an all-you-can-eat buffet for every coyote and wandering neighborhood dog within a five-mile radius. Those guardian dogs don’t work for free either. They eat. A lot. Apparently protecting livestock builds up quite an appetite.

After a while your back begins to make noises that sound like someone stepping on a bag of potato chips. That’s usually the point where you realize the chiropractor is now part of the farm budget, which is why we should probably add another expense to that “free food”—the chiropractor who kindly put my spine back where the Good Lord originally installed it.

Now don’t get me wrong. Raising your own food is worth every bit of it. You know where it came from. You know how the animals were raised. You know exactly what went into that egg, that milk, that pork chop or leg of lamb. That kind of knowledge has real value in a world where many people think food begins its life under fluorescent lighting at the grocery store.

But free? Not exactly.

That egg in the frying pan cost about seven dollars, a pile of feed, a chiropractor visit, and a walk to the barn in January when the wind is trying to blow you clear into Canada.

Still, when I crack that egg into the skillet, I know one thing for certain. It may not be free. But it’s honest food. And besides, after paying all those feed and other bills, the least that chicken could do was contribute to breakfast.

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

Teenagers Prepared Me for Internet Scammers

I don’t fall for internet scams, pyramid schemes, or strangers promising fame, fortune, or overnight success. Not because I’m especially savvy—but because I raised teenagers. Once you’ve survived a household where logic is optional, guilt is weaponized, and responsibility is endlessly reassigned, an online scammer is just background noise.

Ever since my book Between the Fenceposts: Tales of Mud, Mayhem, and Manure was released, I’ve become a magnet for spammers and scammers. Some want to help with marketing. Some want to make a book trailer. A few are legitimate businesses, just trying to make a living. Those don’t bother me. The scammers, however, are another breed entirely—and the publishing world seems to have plenty of them.

I’ve been contacted by fake Facebook accounts claiming to be Robert Pattinson, Oprah Winfrey, J.K. Rowling, Elon Musk (three different ones—apparently cloning is the real business), Haru Urara—who is a dead Japanese racehorse, famous for never winning a race—and even Edgar Allan Poe. I admire the dedication it takes for a man dead since 1849 to message me on Facebook.

The most recent was someone claiming to be New York Times bestselling author Meghan Quinn, using what she said was her personal Facebook account. She had only 121 followers. That alone raised an eyebrow. The second eyebrow went up when I wondered why a wildly successful, NYT bestselling author would be spending her time chatting with little ol’ me—a first-time author of unknown fame. I pictured deadlines, editors, book tours, and somehow penciling in casual Facebook conversations with strangers. It didn’t add up.

Even knowing she wasn’t who she claimed to be, I decided to play along. Call it curiosity. We chatted like two normal people. She asked questions. I answered. Then late one evening, the messages began drifting into spelling errors and questionable grammar, as though English wasn’t her first language. Either that, or she was drunk. Possibly both. A few messages later came the soft sales pitch: she could help get my book noticed. That’s when I got bored and blocked her.

None of this rattled me—not the flattery, not the guilt, not the vague urgency—and it finally dawned on me why.

I raised teenagers.

When my son was a teenager, we had a firm rule in our house: no dating until he was sixteen. A few weeks before his birthday, he explained that if he’d been born on time instead of arriving late, he would already be sixteen and therefore should be allowed to go on a date. I appreciated the creativity. I denied the request.

Years later, my grandson attempted a similar strategy. He totaled Jim’s car, then explained that the accident was actually not his fault—because the headlights weren’t bright enough. Not the speed, not the road, not the driver behind the wheel. The headlights.

If you’ve ever raised teenagers, you develop an internal alarm that goes off the moment logic starts doing gymnastics. You’ve heard “Everyone else’s parents let them.” You’ve witnessed the heavy sigh followed by “It’s fine. I didn’t really want to go anyway.” You’ve endured the long, wounded silence designed to make you feel like a terrible human being without a single word being spoken. You’ve been warned of vague catastrophes “Something bad could happen”, informed of social consequences that will surely last forever, and had responsibility reassigned in advance just in case.

You’ve also seen sudden mysterious illnesses appear five minutes before chores, unexpected hugs paired with “You’re the best mom ever,” compliments carefully wrapped around requests, and the classic courtroom defense: “You didn’t say I couldn’t.” Teenagers don’t just bend the truth—they put it in a yoga pose and expect you to admire the flexibility.

So when an internet stranger with a fake profile and a borrowed name tries to guilt me, pressure me, flatter me, or rush me into sending money, I don’t feel intimidated. I feel nostalgic. Compared to teenagers, internet scammers are rank amateurs. They don’t stand a chance.

So now I’m curious. What’s the most ridiculous argument a teenager has ever used on you—and did you almost admire the effort?

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

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?

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 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?

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

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?

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

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.

🐑 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

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?
Don’t miss the next round of critter chaos — subscribe by sending an email 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