Experience. Right. He’s worked with rescue animals and seen births before. “First-time mothers can be unpredictable with timing,” I say, though he probably knows this, “but I should monitor her more closely today.”
I move toward the living room to check on her. Duchess looks up when I approach, green eyes alert but calm. She has definitely rearranged her blanket nest, and there’s a subtle restlessness to her movements that confirms Ryder’s assessment.
“Soon, Mama?” I ask softly, running a gentle hand along her side. She purrs and bumps her head against my palm, but I can feel the tension building in her body.
“Need me to set up anything?” Ryder asks from behind me.
“Clean towels, heating pad on low in case kittens need extra warmth. Other than that, we wait and let her handle what she’s designed to do.”
Before we can discuss it further, a sharp crow echoes from outside, followed by what sounds like triumphant clucking.
“That’s definitely new,” I say, moving to the window. Napoleon is strutting around the yard like he’s just successfully negotiated a peace treaty.
“He’s announcing his victory to the hens,” Ryder explains, joining me at the window. “Letting them know he’s handled the territorial situation.”
We stand here watching the chickens’ morning routine, and I notice how Ryder’s careful to maintain a distance between us. Professional space. It should be reassuring, but I focus on how easy it would be to step closer.
“What about Bonnie and Clyde?” I ask, refocusing on practical matters.
“Clever goats! Yesterday, they figured out how to work together to lift the pen latch. This morning I reinforced it with a carabiner.”
I spot them in their pen, both staring intently at the new addition to their gate. “Think that’ll hold them?”
“For today. Tomorrow they’ll probably have a new strategy.” There’s amusement in his voice. “They’re smarter than most people give goats credit for.”
“I underestimated a lot of things about this situation.” That’s the understatement of the century. I don’t mention that if he weren’t here, I might have already thrown in the towel and called the pet parents back from their vacations.
Something passes across his face—understanding, maybe. Like he gets what it’s like to be in over his head but too stubborn to admit it.
A demanding snort from the kitchen doorway announces Hamlet’s arrival. The pig positions himself strategically between Ryder and me, then looks back and forth expectantly.
“Good morning, Your Majesty,” I say, crouching to scratch behind his ears. “Feeling neglected?”
Hamlet grunts his approval but doesn’t move from his post between us. His message is clear: attention must be distributed equally, and personal space must be maintained.
“He’s very dedicated to his supervisory duties,” Ryder observes, kneeling to attend to important belly rub duties.
“Mrs. Foster warned me he has no concept of boundaries and likes to be involved in everything.” I watch Ryder’s hands move, gentle and sure, and quickly look away before my thoughts wander. “He’s appointed himself house manager.”
“Smart pig.”
We spend a few minutes giving Hamlet the attention he demands, and I’m struck by how natural this feels. The easy coordination of two people who both understand animal behavior.
“I should get dressed properly,” I say, standing up and brushing invisible dust off my pajamas. “Real clothes.”
“Take your time. I’ll keep an eye on everyone.”
I escape to my bedroom, needing a moment to collect my thoughts. Two days, and we’ve found a rhythm that works. He respects my space and expertise, and I appreciate his experience and work ethic. It’s professional, efficient, and absolutely not worth overthinking.
By the time I’ve showered and dressed, I can hear Ryder moving around in the kitchen. I find him at the stove, scrambling eggs.
“You don’t have to cook,” I say as I join him.
“Don’t mind it. Figured I should pull my weight beyond just animal care.”
The consideration in that statement strikes me. He’s not taking over my kitchen or assuming I need to be fed—he’s contributing to the household in a way that makes sense.
“The eggs look perfect, thanks.”
