Henrietta flapped after me with the determination of a chicken who hadnotforgiven me for last month’s apron costume incident. I may or may not have dressed her up in a mini Honey Leaf Lodge apron and taken some photos for our social media.
To be fair, the little red gingham numberwasadorable, but clearly not appreciated.
I veered toward the goat pen, gasping, “Archie! Backup! Take her down!”
Archie, our laziest goat at the rescue farm, lifted his head, blinked once, and went right back to chewing on the lilac bush outside the pen.
“You are useless,” I squealed as Henrietta gained on me.
I could feel the swish of her wings, the indignant wrath radiating off her tiny, rage-filled body.
I darted around the compost bin, grabbed a plastic watering can, and turned to face her like a very determined gladiator in a reboot of300.
“This ends now.”
Henrietta stopped.
Stared at me.
Pecked at the ground.
Then, with great disdain, fluffed her feathers andwalked away.
Just like that.
LikeIwasn’t worth the chase.
I stood there panting, holding the watering can like a weapon of war and questioning every life choice that had led me to this moment.
“Okay,” I wheezed. “That’s fine. That’s totally fine. I didn’t want to feel respected today anyway.”
Maza, the male llama, sauntered over, nosed my hair gently, and sighed into my shoulder.
“Thank you,” I muttered. “At least someone here gets me.”
I patted his muzzle and surveyed the paddock, noting that the other animals had gone about their morning as if their leader hadn’t just reenacted a scene fromThe Bourne Identity: Coop Edition.
The goats were chewing something they definitely weren’t supposed to. The ducks were floating in their kiddie pool like aristocrats. And the pigs…well, they were currently digging a hole that looked suspiciously like a planned escape tunnel.
Honestly, it was impressive.
I set the watering can down and made the rounds with fresh feed, triple-checking that every latch was secure, especially the chicken gate. Henrietta gave me a side-eye from the shadows, one talon slowly scratching the ground like a threat.
“Don’t test me,” I warned. “I’m wearing waterproof mascara and I’m emotionally unstable.”
Macy, our escape artist zebra, eyed me as I filled her trough. Usually, Liam or Beck did the outside stuff, but both of them were in town for a city meeting.
After the chores were done, I sat on the edge of the raised garden bed, wiping my hands on my jeans and letting the earlysun warm my back. The breeze was light, and birds’ chirps trickled through the trees. But despite the brief trauma, I felt better.
Grounded.
Happy.
This was my version of a morning routine. No spin classes. No meditation apps. Just me and my tiny farm of opinionated animals who loved me when they weren’t plotting mutiny.
Even more guests would arrive soon, but the thought of Ben Jensen flickered across my brain like a stubborn spark.
I immediately shoved it aside.
