I shuffle toward the coffee maker while Moose sits beside the counter staring at me like a disappointed supervisor.
“I know,” I tell him. “Breakfast. You’re very brave for reminding me.”
The dogs get their food first because they are loud and dramatic if I don’t feed them immediately. Three bowls hit the floor and the room fills with the sound of enthusiastic crunching.
Then I grab my boots by the door and step outside.
Morning air rolls over the pasture in cool waves, and the sky is streaked pink and gold above the tree line. It’s quiet out here in a way that makes the whole world feel slower.
Then the goats see me.
Three of them rush the fence like I’m a celebrity.
“Calm down,” I tell them, walking toward the barn. “You guys act like I don’t feed you every single day.”
One of the goats headbutts the gate impatiently.
“Hey,” I say, pointing at him. “Watch the attitude, Kevin.”
Kevin does not watch the attitude.
The second I open the gate they swarm me like fuzzy little freeloaders while I haul a bag of feed toward the trough. Grain rattles against the metal and the goats immediately forget I exist in favor of breakfast.
“Typical,” I mutter.
I move to the next stall where the cats are waiting on the fence rail. Menace drops down first, weaving around my legs while Psycho watches from above like he’s judging all my life decisions.
“You two are the reason I can’t have nice things,” I inform them while I scoop food into their bowl.
Menace headbutts my knee affectionately.
Psycho blinks slowly like he agrees with me but doesn’t feel responsible.
Then I hear it.
The loud, dramatic bray of a donkey who believes he has been personally wronged.
“Pickle,” I call.
The barn door creaks open and the world’s most pathetic looking donkey stares at me with his one good eye.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I say. “You ate an entire watermelon yesterday.”
Pickle brays again.
“I’m not apologizing.”
I grab a bucket of feed and carry it toward him anyway because he’s impossible to resist and he knows it.
“Here,” I say, setting it down. “But if you get fat I’m blaming you.”
Pickle immediately sticks his face in the bucket.
Sheriff the rooster struts across the yard like he owns the entire county, flapping his wings once just to remind everyone he’s still in charge.
“Oh relax,” I tell him. “You’ve been yelling for an hour.”
He crows again.
