Well, everyone, I am pleased to announce that after what felt like an entire agricultural era…

THE GRASS HAS BEEN CUT.

Not partially cut.
Not “we’ll finish it tomorrow” cut.
Not “the mower broke again” cut.

CUT.

AND the farm has been weed-whacked.

I had honestly forgotten we owned this much land. For several weeks, I assumed the property ended wherever the grass became taller than me, which, to be fair, doesn’t take much.

But Grandma Donna has apparently made peace with the lawn mower, Krystin has recovered from last week’s stomach rebellion, and order has finally been restored to the kingdom.

Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the dogs.

Sadie’s Hot Girl Summer

As I mentioned last week, Sadie is in heat.

And the boy dogs have officially begun losing their ever-loving minds.

Bentley at least seems to understand what’s happening.

Arthur?

Arthur has absolutely no idea.

His body has apparently received some sort of urgent hormonal memo that his brain was NOT copied on.

So now we have approximately 175–180 pounds of confused dog wandering around thinking:

“WHY DO I HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS?!?”

And apparently those feelings need to be expressed physically.

Picture, if you will, a nearly 180-pound dog suddenly launching himself straight into the air like a kangaroo.

Not gracefully.

Just…

BOING.

Then he lands, looks at you with wild eyes, takes off running, circles back at approximately Mach 3 and BODY SLAMS YOU.

And if that doesn’t properly communicate his emotions, he moves on to his signature maneuver:

The Arthur Hug.

Arthur has always been a hugger. He runs up beside you, hooks one giant front leg around you and pulls you toward him.

Normally, it’s adorable.

Right now, it’s more like being mugged by someone who desperately loves you.

He hooks you with that enormous leg, pulls you in and stares at you like:

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S HAPPENING TO ME, BUT I NEED YOU TO BE PART OF IT.”

Then—BOING—he’s a kangaroo again.

Honestly, watching a dog the size of a small pony experience puberty-level confusion is some of the best entertainment we’ve had around here in weeks.

Personally, I don’t see what all the fuss is about.

But I’m a pig.

We are naturally more emotionally sophisticated.

Meanwhile, Sophie Had a Very Big Day

While the boys were busy having their collective hormonal breakdown, little Sophie the kitten had an important appointment.

She went to the vet to be spayed.

And apparently Sophie is considerably braver about the veterinarian than certain other residents of this farm who shall remain nameless.

Me. I’m talking about me.

Sophie didn’t even cry during the car ride to the vet.

She spent about four hours there before Krystin went back to pick her up, and she handled the whole thing like a champ.

She’s home now, doing great, and has become extra cuddly, which means she has apparently discovered the most important rule of recovering from surgery:

Milk it.

If you’ve been to the doctor, you are entitled to extra blankets, extra snuggles, extra attention and probably snacks.

At least that’s how I understand the healthcare system.

So this week at Grounded With Nature, the grass is finally under control, Sophie is recovering beautifully, and the male dogs are being held hostage by hormones they do not understand.

Especially Arthur.

Someone please explain to him that becoming a kangaroo is not part of the reproductive process.

Until next time,

Snoutfully yours,
Squealexander Hamilton 🐽
Lord of Mud Hill Manor
Keeper of the Solar Lights
Farm Correspondent & Lawn Height Inspector
Survivor of Veterinary Persecution
And Apparently the Only Male on This Farm Currently Capable of Rational Thought

There are certain sentences you never want to hear on a farm.

“The fence should hold.”

“I think the rain is finally done.”

“Grandma Donna said she can fix the mower.”

And apparently...

“Maybe we should have another litter of puppies.”

Excuse me?

I thought we survived this already.

I distinctly remember an entire period of my life when this farm was overrun by giant, floppy, sharp-toothed creatures who ate everything, peed everywhere, and somehow convinced the humans that they were adorable while doing it.

And now we’re considering doing it again?

Humans are fascinating.

First, Apparently We Have to Say Happy Birthday

Before we get into Sadie’s current... situation... I have been informed that today is her birthday.

Sadie is officially three years old!

So, Happy Birthday, Sadie.

Three years old, mother of ten giant children, protector of the farm, professional snuggler, and apparently still determined to keep the humans on their toes.

Krystin says Sadie is one of the best dogs she has ever owned.

Personally, I think that’s laying it on a little thick, but it IS her birthday, so I’ll allow it.

She really is a good girl.

There.

That’s Sadie’s birthday present from me.

A compliment.

Don’t expect another one until next year.

It All Started With Sadie

Sadie is in heat again.

Which, according to Krystin, wasn’t supposed to happen quite this often.

Apparently, large-breed dogs are generally expected to go into heat somewhere around once a year.

Sadie did not receive that memo.

Sadie prefers approximately every five months.

Because why make life easy?

This is probably going to be the heat cycle that finally makes Krystin schedule Sadie’s spay surgery.

Probably.

Maybe.

We’ll see.

The problem is that people have continued asking whether Krystin would ever breed Sadie and Bentley again.

And every time someone asks, I can practically see the wheels turning in her head.

Because deep down, Krystin would love to have another puppy about two or three years younger than Arthur.

Which sounds adorable until you remember what producing said puppy actually involves.

Most importantly...

Keeping Bentley away from Sadie.

For days.

Possibly weeks.

On a farm.

With fences.

Doors.

Gates.

And one extremely motivated Great Dane.

This should go well.

But Look at the Puppies...

Of course, then Krystin starts talking about how wonderful the puppies turned out.

And unfortunately, she has a point.

She says these dogs have some of the best temperaments she has ever had.

They’re incredibly loyal and want to be with their people, but they don’t necessarily need to be attached to you every second of the day.

They’ll happily cuddle with you...

then get up, walk outside, and patrol the property like they have a mortgage to protect.

They have just enough of that goofy Great Dane personality to keep everyone laughing, but when it comes to guarding their home and their people, they take the job seriously.

They will also absolutely attempt to convince you that they are lapdogs.

Arthur is living proof.

Apparently nobody has explained to him that a lapdog shouldn’t weigh approximately the same as a small refrigerator.

They do require daily snuggles.

This is non-negotiable.

But unlike some Great Danes, they don’t completely fall apart emotionally because you went to the bathroom without them.

So yes...

They’re pretty great dogs.

There.

I said it.

Don’t make me repeat myself.

But This Isn’t a Decision She’s Taking Lightly

Now, before anyone thinks Krystin is sitting upstairs scrolling through puppy pictures and yelling, “LET’S MAKE MORE!”, I should probably clarify something.

She’s actually taking this decision very seriously.

As much as she loves these dogs, and as much as she would love another puppy herself, she also knows there are already a lot of really good dogs sitting in shelters, rescues and foster homes waiting for someone to choose them.

Bringing another litter into the world isn’t something she wants to do simply because puppies are cute or because she wants another Arthur.

She has to think about whether there are truly good, committed homes for those puppies, what happens if circumstances change for one of them, and whether producing another litter is the responsible choice in the first place.

The last litter wasn’t planned, but once those puppies arrived, Krystin took finding the right homes for them very seriously.

If she ever chooses to do it intentionally, she’d take that responsibility even more seriously.

So while I joke about the humans debating puppies...

This one actually deserves some thought.

And believe me, I don’t say that very often about human decisions.

Now Let’s Discuss the Fine Print

Before anyone starts chanting PUPPIES! PUPPIES! PUPPIES!, I feel obligated to provide the other side of this story.

They chew.

A lot.

And for reasons known only to them, they have a particular appreciation for plastic.

Remote controls?

Delicious.

Outdoor solar lights?

A delicacy.

Random plastic object you didn’t even realize you owned until you found it in 37 pieces across the yard?

Chef’s kiss.

If Krystin decides to have another litter, my financial advice is simple:

Buy stock in remote-control companies and outdoor solar-light manufacturers.

You’re welcome.

There’s One More Catch

These dogs are also ridiculously easy to train.

That sounds like a good thing.

And it is.

If you know what you’re doing.

Because they’re smart.

Really smart.

They have livestock guardian dog in them, which means they don’t always wait around for a human to explain how the world works.

They observe.

They think.

They make decisions.

And sometimes I swear they’re plotting several steps ahead.

If you’re a confident dog person who establishes yourself as the leader, they’re incredible.

But if you aren’t going to take charge?

Congratulations.

Your dog has enrolled you in obedience school.

And he’s already disappointed in your progress.

Every puppy from the litter has received compliments about their temperament: from vets, visitors, and people they’ve met along the way.

Even Sadie and Bentley receive compliments on their temperaments from all the vets at their clinic.

So unfortunately, Krystin has plenty of evidence supporting the argument that breeding Sadie and Bentley again wouldn’t be the worst idea she’s ever had.

Which is inconvenient for me.

Because I was really hoping we could shut this nonsense down quickly.

Operation: Keep Bentley Away From Sadie

Things should start getting particularly interesting around here in about three days.

That’s when the humans enter what I like to call:

CODE RED: KEEP THE BOY DOG AWAY FROM THE GIRL DOG.

Krystin hasn’t decided exactly how she’s going to handle it yet.

She could send Sadie to stay with a friend.

She could take Sadie to a hotel for a week and call it a girls’ trip.

Or, and this is my personal prediction, she could turn the RV into Fort Knox for Hormonal Dogs, establish a rotating security detail, install three baby gates, two padlocks and a surveillance camera...

only to discover Bentley standing on the wrong side of all of them looking extremely pleased with himself.

Personally, I think the easiest solution is to send Bentley to the hotel.

Preferably under an assumed name.

In another state.

But nobody asks the pig.

So now we wait.

Will Sadie finally get her spay appointment?

Will Krystin decide that the world needs another generation of Dangals?

Will Bentley somehow defeat every security measure the humans put in place?

Will we someday have another tiny Arthur running around the farm eating remote controls and sitting on people?

I don’t know.

And for once, I think Krystin is okay with not knowing yet.

Some decisions deserve a little more time.

But one thing I do know...

Things are about to get interesting around here.

Check back next week to see how we’re making out.

I have a feeling I’m going to have material.

Snoutfully yours,

Squealexander Hamilton🐽
Lord of Mudslide Manor
Keeper of Common Sense
Senior Canine Reproductive Management Consultant
Chief Remote Control Preservation Officer
And the Only One on This Farm Asking the Important Question:

DO WE REALLY NEED MORE DOGS?

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I realize some of you wait patiently each week for important updates from Grounded With Nature.

Scandals.

Drama.

Near-death experiences involving generators.

Dogs peeing on inappropriate objects.

Humans making questionable financial decisions.

Usually, I have plenty to work with.

This week?

Not so much.

Apparently everyone has decided to be boring.

Except Grandma Donna.

Grandma Donna vs. The Lawn Mower: Round Two

Some of you may remember that while Krystin, Paul and Chris were off gallivanting around in the RV, Grandma Donna was left in charge of the farm.

And she broke the lawn mower.

Well.

I am pleased to announce...

SHE BROKE IT AGAIN.

At this point, I don’t think Grandma Donna is using the lawn mower.

I think they’re fighting.

And the lawn mower is losing.

I don’t know exactly what happened this time, because I have learned that when humans start explaining things involving belts, pulleys, blades and mechanical parts, it’s best to just nod knowingly.

But here’s what I do know:

The grass continues to grow.

The rain continues to fall.

And Grandma Donna continues her personal mission to make sure absolutely nothing interferes with either of those things.

The farm is beginning to look less like a sanctuary and more like an undiscovered ecosystem.

I’m fairly certain I saw Cletus disappear into the grass yesterday.

We haven’t organized a search party yet because, honestly, he seemed happy.

Then Management Started Dropping

Just when you thought our workforce couldn’t become any less productive, things took a concerning turn.

Krystin got a stomach bug.

And Grandma Donna had some sort of tooth problem that had her feeling pretty miserable too.

Now, if you know these two women, you understand why this was alarming.

Neither one of them is particularly good at being sick.

Krystin operates under the belief that illness is merely a suggestion.

She will work sick.

Travel sick.

Take care of animals sick.

Probably remodel an RV with a fever if someone handed her a paintbrush.

And Grandma Donna?

This is a woman who will apparently continue mowing until either she or the lawn mower requires medical attention.

So when BOTH of them actually admitted they didn’t feel good...

I knew things were serious.

For a brief period, two of the toughest women on the farm were down at the same time.

Naturally, I was concerned.

Not necessarily about them.

They’re tough. They’ll survive.

I was concerned about me.

There are certain expectations I have regarding meals, snacks, mud-hole maintenance and general admiration.

You can’t just have management dropping like flies around here.

Who is going to tend to my needs?

Paul?

Chris?

Please.

Thankfully, both women are on the mend and order appears to have been restored.

Which is especially good news for Grandma Donna.

Because as soon as that tooth stops hurting, she has a lawn mower to answer for.

And Then There Is the Rain

It.

Keeps.

Raining.

I’m a pig.

I LIKE mud.

Mud is basically my spa.

But even I have limits.

Every time the ground starts thinking about drying out, the sky apparently says:

“Absolutely not.”

And dumps another load of water on us.

The grass is growing faster than we can mow it.

Which wouldn’t necessarily be a problem...

IF WE COULD KEEP A MOWER ALIVE.

At this rate, we’re going to have to start putting little orange flags on the shorter animals so the humans can find us.

Although I would like mine to be gold.

Obviously.

So That’s the Farm Report

No major disasters.

No escaped animals.

No new kittens.

No RV catastrophes.

Nobody hit anything with a hammer to make it start.

Just rain.

Grass.

A stomach rebellion.

A tooth rebellion.

And Grandma Donna continuing her reign as the Grounded With Nature Lawn Mower Assassin.

You know what?

Maybe it wasn’t such a quiet week after all.

Snoutfully yours,

Squealexander Hamilton
King of Mudslide Manor
Royal Farm Correspondent
Supervisor of Human Productivity
Weather Complaint Department
Small Animal Who Will Soon Require a Flag
and Sole Surviving Member of Management Who Has Not Broken the Lawn Mower

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I Regret to Inform You... I Was Hiding

Dare Loyal Subjects,

I know.

I’m late.

Some of you were probably wondering if I’d retired.

Others probably assumed I’d finally accepted a management position at another farm.

Neither is true.

The truth is...

I’ve been in hiding.

Because...

The veterinarian came.

Now before any of you start saying,

“But Hamilton, the vet wasn’t even there for you...”

That doesn’t matter.

The veterinarian is like a tornado.

You don’t wait around to see which house gets hit.

You evacuate.

Immediately.

The dogs lined up for their annual examinations like complete amateurs.

The new kittens, Sophie and Tucker, apparently believed they were going on a fun little adventure.

Fools.

They walked right into the building.

Voluntarily.

Meanwhile...

I was already implementing Operation Disappear.

Let’s just say if anyone was looking for me...

I was definitely not buried under an extremely suspicious pile of fresh straw that occasionally snorted.

You can’t prove anything.

The Great Escape

Once the veterinarian finally left the property, I figured life could return to normal.

Wrong.

The humans packed up the RV...

(Which I’m still convinced is just Krystin and Arthur’s luxury hideout.)

and disappeared for five whole days.

Five.

Days.

Grandma Donna stayed behind to supervise the farm.

Which immediately raises one important question.

Who was supervising Grandma Donna?

Exactly.

The Curse of the Rolling Hideout

The humans hadn’t even made it out of the driveway before the RV began protesting.

First...

No blinkers.

Then...

No four-way flashers.

Apparently the RV decided communication with the outside world was optional.

They stopped at an auto parts store.

New brake light bulbs.

New fuse.

Problem solved.

For approximately...

Three hours.

Then the blinkers quit again.

Personally, I would’ve taken the hint.

The RV was clearly trying to tell them,

“We should go home.”

Humans never listen.

Hammer Engineering

When they finally reached camp they discovered the generator had also decided to join the rebellion.

No generator.

No air conditioning.

Nothing says “vacation” quite like sweating indoors.

The next morning...

The generator refused to start altogether.

Paul spent FOUR HOURS trying to diagnose the problem.

Checking things.

Testing things.

Looking thoughtful.

Finally...

He grabbed a hammer.

One whack on the starter...

and the generator fired right up.

Excuse me?

That’s the official repair procedure?

Imagine if veterinarians worked that way.

“Let’s give Hamilton one good bonk and see if that fixes him.”

Absolutely not.

Back at the Farm...

While all this was happening...

Grandma Donna was holding down the fort.

Well...

Mostly.

She managed to break the lawn mower.

Which means...

The grass...

Is still feral.

At this point I no longer believe we’re growing grass.

I think we’re cultivating a rainforest.

Arthur disappeared in it yesterday.

Bentley emerged with leaves stuck to his face.

I’m fairly certain Broody Judy has claimed an entire section as sovereign territory.

Soon we’ll need machetes just to get to Mudslide Manor.

Or...

We could simply follow my advice from last week...

Buy sheep.

You’re all welcome.

Business as Usual

So, to summarize...

I survived the veterinary invasion.

The humans attempted to vacation in a rebellious RV.

Paul repaired machinery using what appears to be advanced caveman engineering.

Grandma Donna accidentally extended the reign of the feral grass.

And somehow...

Everything is exactly as it should be.

Frankly...

I’d be worried if things started going smoothly.

Snoutfully yours,

Squealexander Hamilton 🐽
Supreme Overseer of Mudslide Manor, Master of Emergency Evacuations, Royal Grass Inspector, Survivor of the Great Veterinary Invasion, Defender of Extra Snacks, and Founder of the “I Told You We Needed Sheep” Committee.

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The Great Grandma Donna Disappearance

Dear Loyal Subjects,

I have something very serious to report.

Grandma Donna vanished.

For.

An.

Entire.

Week.

No Saturday morning arrival.

No golf cart.

No treats.

No commentary.

Nothing.

Naturally, I assumed the worst.

Had she been pig-napped?

Did she finally get tired of putting up with all of us?

Did she decide another farm had a more handsome pig?

Apparently...

None of those things happened.

She informed everyone she “needed a vacation.”

A vacation...

From what exactly?

She only comes here two days a week!

The rest of us have been working seven days a week for years.

Do you see me taking vacations?

No.

Because leadership is a burden.

A glorious...

Mud-covered burden.

Fortunately, she claims she’ll be back this week.

We’ll see.

Trust, once broken, must be earned back.

Preferably with snacks.

The Grass Has Gone Feral

The past few weeks everything has been so dry.

The humans stopped mowing the grass because they didn’t want to stress it.

Very responsible.

Very thoughtful.

Very human.

Then...

The sky apparently remembered how rain works.

We’ve had over two inches of rain this past week.

Now the grass has completely lost its mind.

Actually...

I think it’s gone feral.

It’s growing faster than Arthur runs to greet Krystin.

The humans mow one section...

Turn around...

And it looks like they never touched it.

I’m fairly certain I lost three chickens in it yesterday.

One of them might have just been Cletus.

It’s hard to tell anymore.

Fortunately, I have a solution.

Sheep.

Think about it.

They enjoy standing outside in the rain.

They enjoy eating grass.

The grass needs eating.

Honestly, sheep are basically lawn mowers with eyeballs.

I don’t understand why humans insist on making life so complicated.

The Curious Case of Broody Judy

Now let’s discuss Judy.

Broody Judy, to be exact.

About a month ago she faithfully sat on two eggs and hatched two adorable little chicks.

She was thrilled.

For approximately five minutes.

Because another hen decided those babies looked better than her own life choices...

and chick-knapped them.

Right in broad daylight.

No shame.

No apology.

Just...

“These are mine now.”

Chickens are savage.

Poor Judy was heartbroken.

So what did she do?

She marched herself right back to the nesting box and decided she’d simply hatch another family.

I respect that level of determination.

The only problem?

She wasn’t exactly making much progress.

So Krystin stepped in.

Instead of making Judy wait weeks for eggs to hatch...

She arrived carrying a box.

Inside?

Ten tiny baby chicks from the feed store.

She tucked every one of them underneath Judy.

The next morning...

Judy went to bed with zero babies...

and woke up with TEN.

Imagine taking a nap...

and waking up with ten toddlers.

I’d fake my own disappearance.

Judy?

She puffed herself up like she’d personally built every one of them.

Now she’s strutting around the farm looking like she just won Mother of the Year.

Which...

Technically...

She kind of did.

Although I am keeping one eye on the chick-knapper.

History has a way of repeating itself around here.

Business as Usual

So, to summarize this week’s events...

Grandma Donna quit us for a week.

The grass is attempting to reclaim the farm.

Judy accidentally skipped from zero children to ten overnight.

And somehow...

I’m still the only one around here making consistently good decisions.

Frankly...

You’re lucky you have me.

Until next time...

Stay muddy.

And if you happen to see Grandma Donna packing another suitcase...

Please notify me immediately.

I have questions.

Snoutfully yours,

Squealexander Hamilton 🐽
Supreme Overseer of Mudslide Manor, Royal Grass Inspector, Chief Investigator of Human Nonsense, Defender of Extra Snacks, and Self-Appointed Director of Farm Operations.

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An Almost Suspiciously Perfect Week

Dear Loyal Subjects,

Well...

I don’t have nearly as much chaos to report this week.

Frankly, I’m a little disappointed.

The weather has been absolutely perfect. The humans have been outside from morning until night tackling farm projects, fixing things, building things, and making the farm look even prettier.

Which, naturally, means they’ve had less time to properly admire me.

I’m trying not to take it personally.

(I’m failing.)

Still... the farm has been peaceful.

Maybe a little too peaceful.

Unfortunately...

The farm also had a heartbreaking week.

The Fox Had Some Nerve

Earlier this week we lost Mocha.

Mocha wasn’t just another chicken.

She was Paul’s shadow.

Every day she’d hang around the house waiting for Paul to come outside so she could spend time with him.

Apparently she figured if he was outside working...

She should be too.

Then one afternoon...

While she was standing right outside the house waiting for her favorite human...

A fox hiding in the bushes rushed out and grabbed her.

Now here’s the part I cannot wrap my snout around.

The fox had the audacity to come that close to the house.

Does he not know where he is?

This farm has three dogs that are approximately the size of small horses.

Arthur.

Bentley.

Sadie.

Granted... they must have been off in the woods chasing some other fox at the time.

Otherwise I have to believe that fox would’ve immediately reconsidered his career choices.

Still...

It was a heartbreaking reminder that nature doesn’t always play fair.

A Second Farewell

This week we also said goodbye to Chicken Little.

Now, before we go any further, I should probably clear something up.

Despite his name...

Chicken Little was absolutely enormous.

Seriously.

Who looks at one of the biggest roosters on the farm and says, “You know what we should call him? Chicken Little.”

Humans.

They think they’re hilarious.

To be fair...

It was pretty funny.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking.

“He was just a rooster.”

Wrong.

He was Krystin’s rooster.

And apparently that came with more privileges than most humans receive.

That bird would let her do absolutely anything.

Need to soak his feet in the kitchen sink while she doctored his feet?

No problem.

Need a ride around the farm on the golf cart?

Hop on.

Need to stand outside the kitchen window yelling until the humans came outside to visit?

That was practically part of his daily schedule.

I always assumed he was reporting me to the humans.

He’d stand at that kitchen window looking inside like he was giving his daily briefing.

“Hamilton stole another tomato.”

“Hamilton yelled at the goats again.”

“Hamilton is demanding a larger mud puddle.”

Looking back...

He probably was.

Honestly, the confidence was impressive.

The Rooster Who Lived Indoors

A while back Chicken Little injured himself.

Most roosters would hide somewhere quiet.

Not this guy.

He moved into the house.

For an entire week.

He slept in a box...

On the kitchen table.

Every morning the humans would carry him outside where he’d spend the day wandering the farm, supervising everyone like he owned the place.

Then, every evening, he’d stroll right back to the front porch and wait patiently for someone to escort him inside so he could return to his box.

No fuss.

No drama.

Just a rooster who had apparently decided he was temporarily an indoor chicken.

I have to admit...

That’s a pretty impressive level of confidence.

Even I haven’t managed to convince the humans that I belong on the kitchen table.

Yet.

Some Animals Leave Bigger Footprints Than Others

The funny thing about farms is that every animal has their own personality.

Some are loud.

Some are quiet.

Some steal your snacks.

Some steal your heart.

This week reminded us that every one of them leaves their own mark.

Mocha greeted Paul every chance she got.

Chicken Little greeted just about everyone.

One quietly followed her favorite human.

The other somehow convinced the humans that living in the house for a week was perfectly reasonable.

Neither of them was “just a chicken.”

They were family.

Krystin’s heart is hurting.

Paul’s is too.

Truthfully...

I think all of ours are.

The farm will keep moving.

There will be more projects.

More muddy adventures.

More stories for me to report.

But there will always be one empty perch...

And one quiet spot outside the house where Paul still expects to see his little shadow waiting.

We’ll miss you both.

Thank you for taking such good care of our humans.

Until next time,

Snoutfully yours, 🐽

Squealexander Hamilton
Keeper of Mudslide Manor, Royal Historian of Farm Legends, Protector of the Memories That Matter Most, Supreme Overseer of Mudslide Manor, and Defender of Extra Snacks.

Greetings, loyal subjects.

For once, the farm has actually been... quiet.

No giant storms.

No exploding well pumps.

No surprise book launches.

Frankly, it’s suspicious.

Whenever things get this peaceful, it usually means the humans are up to something.

Turns out...

I was right.

The Mystery Box on Wheels

The humans have acquired one of those giant rolling boxes they call an RV.

Apparently it’s “used.”

Which is human code for, “It looked rough, but Krystin saw potential.”

For the past week she’s disappeared inside that thing with paint, lumber, glue, mysterious power tools, and what I can only assume is a complete disregard for normal human limits.

Every evening something new has changed.

New cabinets.

New colors.

New ideas.

I’ve watched this woman look at something ugly, wave her hands around for a few days, and somehow turn it into something you’d actually want to stay in.

It’s honestly getting a little annoying.

Not because I’m jealous...

Okay.

I’m jealous.

I think Krystin should start teaching classes.

“How to Look at a Disaster and Somehow Convince Everyone It Was Part of the Plan.”

I’d attend.

The humans keep saying this RV is going to become our third guest cabin.

Uh huh.

That’s exactly what they want me to believe.

Personally, I think this is just Arthur’s future mobile cuddle cabin.

A private retreat where he and Krystin disappear while I sit down here in Mudslide Manor wondering why nobody invited the King.

I’m watching you, Arthur.

The Great Farm Pee-Off

Now let’s discuss the dogs.

Bless their tiny little brains.

Apparently all four male dogs have entered what I’m calling...

The Great Farm Pee-Off.

The humans had another name for it...

I prefer mine.

As it turns out, when dogs can’t settle an argument like civilized animals...

they just start peeing on everything they think is important.

Imagine trying to prove you’re in charge by urinating on random possessions.

It’s an interesting leadership strategy.

Bentley kicked things off by deciding MD, one of the boarders at the farm, had a brush bag that needed his official stamp of approval.

Bold move.

Luckily Krystin wasn’t there to see it.

If she had been...

Bentley might currently be in witness protection.

Then Saturday morning, the humans set everyone’s food bowls out.

One of Donna’s dogs calmly walked over...

Looked around...

Waited until every human was watching...

and peed directly on a food bowl.

Not beside it.

Not near it.

On it.

It was almost impressive.

The humans, however, were less appreciative of the performance.

There was yelling.

Dogs scattering.

Humans throwing their hands in the air.

General panic.

Meanwhile, I was sitting in my mud hole thinking,

“You know... I’ve seen goats headbutt each other, horses kick each other, geese chase people for no reason whatsoever... but dogs are apparently the only species that believes urine is a legitimate form of communication.”

Then I started thinking...

Imagine if humans settled Facebook arguments by peeing on each other’s stuff.

...

Actually... don’t.

On second thought, let’s not give anyone ideas.

The dogs have been working overtime trying to establish dominance.

Which is adorable...

because everyone knows I run this place.

The List of Farm Injustices Continues

Speaking of unfair...

Remember that scratching post Paul built for Lilly?

Well...

She finally started using it.

Apparently it’s wonderful.

She scratches.

She stretches.

She seems positively delighted.

Good for her.

Really.

I’m happy for her.

(I’m absolutely not happy for her.)

Because once again...

Someone else gets a custom-built luxury upgrade.

The horses got fancy fans.

The RV gets a complete makeover.

Lilly gets her very own scratching post.

And what does Hamilton get?

Still no fan.

Still no scratching post.

Still waiting on my promised sunshade.

I’m beginning to notice a pattern here.

Honestly, it’s exhausting being this underappreciated.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to inspect this RV.

Somebody has to make sure they remembered to build the King’s suite.

After all...

A ruler of my stature can’t be expected to glamp with the commoners.

Snoutfully yours,

Squealexander Hamilton
Supreme Ruler of Mudslide Manor, Commander of Snack Time, Chief Inspector of All Farm Projects, Defender of Belly Rubs, Future Owner of the King’s Suite.

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Dear Loyal Subjects,

There comes a time in every pig’s life when he has to ask himself a difficult question.

“Have my humans abandoned me?”

I never imagined I’d have to ask such a thing...

but here we are.

Krystin and Chris finally rolled back into the farm around midnight after another one of their work trips. Naturally, I assumed they’d get a few hours of sleep and then immediately make their way down to Mudslide Manor to pay their respects to the most important resident on the property.

That seemed like a solid plan.

Instead...

It has now been EIGHT HOURS.

Eight.

Whole.

Hours.

Not a single visit.

Not one ear scratch.

Not one “Good morning, Your Majesty.”

Frankly, I’m starting to question their priorities.

The Golden Child

To make matters worse, I can hear them.

They’re upstairs.

Giving attention to the dogs.

Especially Arthur.

Ugh...

Arthur.

If you’ve ever wondered what unconditional love looks like, just watch Arthur when Krystin walks through the door. The boy completely loses his mind. Tail wagging. Happy dance. Giant grin. If he could crawl inside her skin and live there, I’m convinced he would.

And Krystin?

She absolutely eats it up.

The two of them are disgustingly adorable together.

Honestly...

Someone should get them a room.

Meanwhile, yours truly remains abandoned in Mudslide Manor like yesterday’s leftovers.

The Furry Freeloaders

Then there are the kittens.

Those two fuzzy freeloaders are almost certainly curled up in bed with the humans right now.

Do I actually want to cuddle?

Absolutely not.

That sounds hot, cramped, and entirely too affectionate.

But I’d like the opportunity to dramatically refuse the invitation.

It’s the principle of the thing.

Nobody even asked.

So let’s review today’s scorecard...

Arthur: Unlimited hugs.

Random kittens: Bed privileges.

Hamilton: Not even a courtesy visit.

Seems fair.

Paul’s Productivity Problem

Now Paul, on the other hand, is thrilled everyone’s home.

While Krystin and Chris are traveling for work, he spends his days talking to giant machines that make cardboard boxes... then comes home and talks to us animals. I always answer him, of course, but the conversations are a little one-sided since apparently humans don’t speak fluent Pig.

He also doesn’t know how to sit in a proper mud puddle.

So having actual humans back in the house has made him pretty happy.

Of course, he didn’t exactly spend the week sitting around either.

Apparently, Paul believes “free time” is just another way of saying, “Start another project.”

He repaired fencing that was starting to fall down, built Mona her very own outdoor feeding stall so she can enjoy her extra meals without everyone else trying to sample them, and perhaps most importantly, built Lilly a scratching post.

If you’ve never met Lilly, she’s our beautiful Clydesdale who always seems to have an itch somewhere.

Krystin has tried just about every potion, lotion, spray, shampoo, and magical concoction she can think of to help her. Some things have helped a little, but nothing has completely solved the mystery.

Apparently Paul looked at the situation and thought...

“You know what this horse needs?”

“A giant back scratcher.”

And honestly...

Lilly seems to approve.

Personally, I think Paul should build one for pigs too.

Just saying.

The List of Injustices

So yes...

The farm is looking better.

The fences are stronger.

Mona is dining in peace.

Lilly finally has something sturdy to scratch on.

Arthur has reunited with the love of his life.

The kittens have secured premium sleeping accommodations.

Paul has humans to talk to again.

Everyone seems to be happy...

Except one incredibly handsome pig who has now been waiting EIGHT HOURS for his welcome-home visit.

I’m not saying I’m offended.

I’m just saying...

If I disappear into the woods to begin a new life with the deer...

don’t come looking for me until after my nap.

You’ll probably remember I exist around dinner time.

I’ll be here.

Waiting.

Judging.

Like the forgiving little pig that I am.

Snoutfully yours,

Squealexander Hamilton Ruler of Mudslide Manor, Professional Grudge Holder, and Apparently Third in Line Behind a Dog and Two Kittens.

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Dear Loyal Subjects,

Before anyone starts asking where this week’s blog is...

Yes.

I’m late.

You see, my human Paul released his book ”Still Sleeping” , and I’ve taken it upon myself to become the Official Director of Book Sales.

It’s a very important position.

Mostly it involves staying up way too late watching book sales come in, checking for new reviews, and proudly announcing every time someone finishes reading it.

I may or may not have yelled, “WE GOT ANOTHER ONE!” loud enough to wake the chickens more than once this week.

The feedback has been incredible.

People are connecting with Paul’s story, and I couldn’t be happier for him.

Now, I’d also like to give a royal shout-out to two of my biggest supporters...

Lari and Donna.

Thank you both for reading the book, taking the time to leave such thoughtful reviews, and cheering Paul on. Between you and me... I’m pretty sure you’re really fans of my work, but I’ll let Paul enjoy the spotlight for a little while.

Don’t tell him I said that.

Now...

While I was busy managing Paul’s literary career...

Mother Nature decided to file a complaint.

Some of you may remember that Grandma Donna’s friend—a very kind lady she drives the school bus with—generously donated a beautiful gazebo for Mudside Manor.

How nice is that?

The humans spent hours putting it together.

It looked magnificent.

I had already selected my official afternoon napping location.

I was mentally arranging the furniture.

The ribbon-cutting ceremony was practically scheduled.

There was just one tiny problem...

It never actually made it to Mudside Manor.

The wind had other plans.

Not a gentle breeze.

Not even your average thunderstorm wind.

I’m talking the kind of wind that makes you wonder if Dorothy is about to fly by with Toto.

That gazebo didn’t simply blow over.

It packed up, skipped the grand opening, and flew clear across the farm.

It hadn’t even hosted its very first Hamilton nap.

To make matters worse, the storm also took down part of one of our trees.

At that point I figured we’d had enough excitement for one weekend.

I was wrong.

Monday...

Our well pump quit.

Completely.

Now, for those of you who don’t live on a farm, let me explain exactly how serious that is.

No water.

Not for the horses.

Not for the pigs.

Not for the dogs.

Not for the humans.

Nothing.

As I’m writing this, the situation is still developing.

The humans are trying to remain calm, making phone calls, crossing their fingers, and trying to figure out how to keep an entire farm running without the one thing everything here depends on.

It’s... less than ideal.

So yes...

I’ve been staying up late watching Paul’s book sales.

Not just because I’m proud of him...

But because it turns out replacing a well pump isn’t exactly cheap.

We’re hoping for more happy news while we tackle this unexpected farm adventure.

Around here, it seems one chapter ends and another begins before you’ve even finished reading the first one.

So that’s the current situation from Mudside Manor.

The story is still unfolding as I’m typing this.

Hopefully next week I’ll have good news about the well, my gazebo will have decided to come home, and I’ll finally get to take that first royal nap.

Until then...

Stay grounded.

And if life blows your plans across the pasture...

Take a deep breath, laugh if you can, and keep moving forward.

Snoutfully yours,

Squealexander Hamilton🐽

Official Director of Book Sales, Royal Nap Enthusiast, and Pig Reporting Live from Whatever This Week Has Been.

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Well...

It finally happened.

Paul wrote a real book.

Not one with pictures.

Not one where every page says, “Feed Hamilton.”

An actual grown-up book.

And it’s published.

I have to admit...

I’m pretty excited for him.

You see, I’ve watched this whole thing happen from the very beginning. There were days he’d disappear with his laptop, stare out the window for a while, pet a horse, scratch me behind the ears (an essential part of the writing process), then go back to typing. Sometimes he’d smile. Sometimes he’d delete half a page and grumble.

Writing a book looks exhausting.

Personally, I would’ve finished it in an afternoon.

Chapter One: Hamilton is amazing.

Chapter Two: The End.

Boom.

Bestseller.

Instead...

Paul spent years writing this book.

And I mean...

Years.

It’s not because he’s a slow writer.

It’s because every weekday he disappears around 4:00 in the morning to go be a millwright.

Now, I don’t completely understand what a millwright is.

From what I’ve gathered, he spends all day fixing giant machines that make cardboard boxes.

Apparently, those boxes are extremely important because without them, all of you humans wouldn’t have anything to excitedly tear open after ordering things online at two o’clock in the morning.

So I guess he’s doing important work.

Then around four or five in the evening, he finally comes home, helps around the farm, spends time with all of us, and somehow still found time to write a book.

Honestly...

I get tired just watching him.

When the finish line was finally in sight, Chris stepped in and became Paul’s editor.

He read chapters.

He made suggestions.

He caught mistakes.

He kept telling Paul, “Keep going.”

It turns out writing a book is a lot like building a barn.

Sometimes you need another set of eyes to help you finish it.

Now...

Chris may think he was the editor.

But let’s be honest.

Who was lying beside Paul while he wrote?

Who reminded him to take breaks?

Who inspected the keyboard?

Who occasionally walked across it to improve the manuscript?

Me.

Frankly...

Chris handled the grammar.

I handled the motivation.

And between the two of us...

We got Jordan Steele across the finish line.

You’re welcome.

Inspired by Real Life... Then the Story Takes Flight

The funny part is...

Most folks are going to recognize a few familiar faces.

The story begins with a couple named Jack and Sarah, and if you’ve spent any time around here, you might notice they seem awfully familiar.

They buy a horse farm...

Meet a whole cast of animals...

Discover that nature has a way of teaching lessons humans sometimes forget...

Sound like anybody you know?

Now, before everyone starts saying, “Wait... that’s Paul and Krystin!”

Not so fast.

The story begins with pieces of their real life, but somewhere along the way, it takes its own path and becomes something entirely different.

I’ll keep my snout shut because I’m not about to spoil the adventure for anyone.

Besides...

Paul says spoilers are bad for book sales.

Who Is Jordan Steele?

One thing that did surprise me...

Paul didn’t even put his own name on the cover.

Apparently, authors do this thing called a pen name.

So now he’s officially...

Jordan Steele.

I have to admit...

That’s a pretty cool name.

Sounds like the kind of guy who wrestles bears before breakfast... climbs mountains for fun... and writes bestselling novels by lantern light.

Then I look over...

and “Jordan Steele” is doing exactly what Paul does every night.

Checking tomorrow’s schedule.

Packing his lunch.

Lining up his work clothes.

Making sure everything is ready before his alarm goes off at an hour that shouldn’t even exist.

It’s actually kind of impressive.

“Jordan Steele” sounds like someone who saves the world.

Paul just quietly makes sure it keeps running.

And somehow...

I think that’s even cooler.

My Only Complaints...

Actually...

Two complaints.

First...

Guess who made the cover of Paul’s big fancy book?

Mona.

Not Hamilton.

Mona.

Now, don’t get me wrong.

Mona is beautiful.

She’s majestic.

She has that whole soulful-horse-staring-into-your-heart thing going on.

But I would just like to point out...

I am also very photogenic.

Round is a shape.

Still, I suppose Mona fits the mood of the book a little better.

It’s a story about healing, horses, quiet moments, and listening to what the animals have to say.

Apparently the cover needed “deep and emotional.”

Not “short, handsome, and snack-motivated.”

Fine.

I’m happy for Mona.

Mostly.

Second...

I flipped through the acknowledgments.

Not one mention of Hamilton.

Nothing.

No “Thanks to Hamilton for his unwavering support.”

No “Chief Motivational Pig.”

Not even a footnote.

After everything I did!

Do you know how hard it is to motivate a writer?

Every time he got stuck, I’d walk into the room.

Every time he looked stressed, I’d demand snacks until everyone felt better.

I practically managed the entire creative process.

Krystin says not everything is about me.

Which is a strange thing to say...

...in my blog.

If there is ever a second edition...

I expect this terrible oversight to be corrected.

What the Book Is Really About

Here’s what Paul wrote about the book:

“From the very first time we drove up the driveway, we knew this was more than just a home. There was something about this place—the rolling ground, the trees, the animals, and the quiet spaces between them. It felt as though everything here was speaking a language I had somehow forgotten, and for the first time in a long time, I could hear it.

This land has a way of healing you. Maybe that’s because, if we’re honest, we’re all carrying around a few cracks and scars of our own. But here, I discovered that when I slow down, pay attention, and open myself to the world around me, I find a sense of peace and well-being that is hard to put into words.

My wife has always been a bit of a whisperer. She notices things others miss. She seems to understand what the animals are trying to communicate long before the rest of us do.

The more time I spend around the horses, the more I think I might be starting to hear them too. This property awakened something in me—a deeper connection to nature, to animals, and ultimately, to myself.

Still Sleeping is the story of that awakening.”

I especially liked the part where he admitted Krystin has always been an animal whisperer.

I’ve known that for years.

She usually understands what I’m asking before I even finish making the noise.

Mostly because the noise is always...

“Snack.”

The title of the book is Still Sleeping, and after reading it, I think it’s the perfect name.

I can’t tell you why.

Believe me, I’ve been sworn to secrecy.

What I can tell you is that it’s a story about love, hope, healing, and the incredible way animals have a knack for showing us exactly what we need—often without saying a single word.

That part isn’t fiction.

I see it happen here every single day.

One Proud Pig

I’m incredibly proud of Paul...

or should I say...

Jordan Steele.

I suppose famous authors have to sound mysterious.

Although around here he’ll always answer to “Hey Paul!” before he remembers he’s supposed to be an internationally acclaimed novelist.

So if you’ve ever wondered why people say this farm changes them...

If you’ve ever believed animals have a way of healing hearts...

Or if you simply enjoy a story that keeps you turning the pages...

I hope you’ll cheer Paul on and give Still Sleeping a read.

Congratulations, Jordan Steele.

I really am proud of you.

It took years of hard work, countless early mornings, late nights, a demanding career, and a whole lot of determination to bring this story into the world.

Turns out it takes a whole herd to write a book.

Chris helped polish it.

Krystin inspired it.

Mona landed the cover.

and one exceptionally handsome pig made sure nobody gave up.

You’re welcome.

Although...

Hamilton Mudsworth has a rather distinguished ring to it.

I suppose I’ll start working on my own memoir.

Still Hungry.

A true story.

Snoutfully yours,

🐽 Squealexander H

Future bestselling author... once everyone realizes who the real main character is.

P.S. here is a link to the book on amazon Still Sleeping by Jordan Steele

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Dear Loyal Subjects,

I have some important farm news to report.

First, I regret to inform everyone that the horses are now living in luxury.

Apparently, some of the money raised during the fundraiser was used to install solar-powered fans in all of the horse run-ins.

Fans.

For the horses.

Now before everyone starts writing letters, I understand that horses are large athletic creatures who spend all day standing around looking majestic. I get it. They deserve nice things.

But I would also like to point out that I am a pig.

Do you know what pigs do in the summer?

We become bacon-shaped puddles.

Meanwhile, the horses are over there enjoying a refreshing breeze like they’re staying at some fancy equine resort.

I may have spent several days staring dramatically at the new fans while sighing loudly.

Fortunately, there are rumors circulating through the farm grapevine that I may soon be receiving a brand-new sunshade over my mud bath.

If this is true, I am prepared to forgive everyone immediately.

A shaded mud hole is basically a pig penthouse.

The Discovery of a Larger Giant

The second major event this week involved the discovery of an even larger giant.

Chris’s brother came to visit the farm.

At first, I thought Chris was simply standing unusually tall.

Then I realized there appeared to be TWO giants.

Now, I cannot say with complete certainty that Chris’s brother is taller than Chris. There is always the possibility that he was standing on extra dirt, a hidden stump, or perhaps some sort of giant-enhancing platform.

However, the evidence was concerning.

When I mentioned this to Chris, he gave me the same answer he always does.

“Hamilton, my father was 6’9”.”

Six foot nine.

Friends, I don’t even know what that means.

Keep in mind that I stand approximately 12 inches off the ground on a good day.

From my perspective, most humans already look unnecessarily tall.

Chris looks like a walking telephone pole.

Then Chris tells me his father was 6’9”.

Was his father a human?

A tree?

A small giraffe?

At that height, he probably had conversations with low-flying birds.

At 6’9”, a man could probably see tomorrow before the rest of us.

He could check the weather in another county without leaving the porch.

If he dropped a sandwich, it would take several business days to reach the ground.

Frankly, I am beginning to suspect that Chris comes from a long line of friendly giants.

I will continue investigating, although accurate measurements are difficult when you only stand 12 inches tall and everyone else appears to be a skyscraper.

A Secret I Am Apparently Not Allowed to Share

And finally...

I have been instructed not to reveal certain information.

Which is difficult because I am excellent at revealing information.

There is some very exciting news coming soon involving Paul.

Big news.

The kind of news that deserves celebrating.

Unfortunately, I have been told that if I spill the beans before the official announcement, there will be consequences.

So I shall remain silent.

For now.

Just know that something special is coming, and I am already extremely proud of him.

Even if nobody will tell me all the details.

Yet.

Until next time, I shall be monitoring fan distribution across the farm and measuring giants for scientific purposes.

🐽 Snoutfully Yours,

Hamilton
Future Owner of a Luxury Mud Spa and Amateur Giant Researcher

Greetings, loyal readers.

This week’s blog is a little different.

I have been thinking.

I know.

That sentence alone has probably made several humans nervous.

But hear me out.

The other afternoon I was stretched out in my favorite field enjoying a perfectly good sunbeam.

The grass was warm.

The breeze was pleasant.

The dogs were somewhere else.

It was shaping up to be an excellent day.

Then a bird flew overhead.

A single feather drifted down from the sky and landed in the grass nearby.

Now, most pigs would have ignored this.

Most pigs would have continued napping.

But I am not most pigs.

I am a thinker.

A philosopher.

A journalist.

An occasional investigator.

So naturally, I stared at that feather for an unreasonable amount of time.

And while I was staring, a thought popped into my head.

The number 91 keeps showing up.

Now before you dismiss this as nonsense, allow me to present the evidence.

The big fundraiser campout had 91 guests.

Not 90.

Not 92.

Ninety-one.

Then recently we had a visitor to the farm who was 91 years old.

Again.

Ninety-one.

Twice is a coincidence.

Three times is a pattern.

I think that’s how patterns work.

I have not verified this.

So I began looking for additional evidence.

I counted fence posts.

I counted chickens.

I counted naps.

Nothing.

Then I remembered I am terrible at math and stopped counting things.

Still, the question remained.

Why 91?

Was it a message?

A sign?

A secret code from the universe?

Had the feather been delivered specifically to me?

Was I being selected for some higher purpose?

Perhaps I am destined to become the 91st President.

I have not researched how many presidents there have been.

But that seems like a technicality.

So naturally, I did what any serious journalist would do.

I researched the number.

And by “researched,” I mean I overheard the humans talking and filled in the rest myself.

Apparently, in certain spiritual traditions, the number 91 represents the end of one chapter and the beginning of another.

A transition.

A period of growth.

A time of leadership and new opportunities.

At this point I became extremely interested.

Because if there is one thing I excel at, it is leadership.

And opportunities.

Mostly opportunities involving snacks.

The more I thought about it, the more suspicious it became.

The sanctuary is growing.

New animals keep arriving.

New people keep finding the farm.

The fundraiser was the biggest one yet.

Even Cletus briefly achieved literary success.

Perhaps the universe is trying to tell us something.

Or perhaps it is trying to tell me something.

I have not ruled out the possibility that I am destined for greater things.

Possibly a statue.

At minimum, a commemorative garden plaque.

But the more I thought about it, the less I became interested in the number itself.

Maybe that’s what 91 means.

Not that something magical is coming.

Maybe it means we should notice the magic that’s already here.

A 91-year-old visitor carrying a lifetime of stories.

Ninety-one people choosing to spend a rainy weekend together.

Animals finding a safe place to land.

People finding each other.

New beginnings quietly growing out of old chapters.

A farm that continues to become something bigger than any of us imagined.

That seems like a message worth paying attention to.

The older animals remind us to slow down and appreciate the time we have.

The younger ones remind us that there is always another chapter beginning.

The people who visit remind us that community is built one connection at a time.

Maybe the feather wasn’t a message.

Maybe the number wasn’t a sign.

Or maybe they were simply reminders to pay attention.

To look around.

To appreciate what is already here.

Either way, I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in that sunbeam feeling unexpectedly grateful.

Then the feather blew into my food.

And I accidentally ate it.

So the moment was somewhat ruined.

Still.

I think the message remains.

Or maybe birds are just messy.

It’s difficult to know for sure.

Until next time,

Snoutfully Yours,

🐽 Squealexander Hamilton

Chief Philosopher, Part-Time Numerologist, and Accidental Feather Consumer

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Greetings, loyal readers.

First things first.

I would like to address the unfortunate situation regarding last week’s blog.

As many of you may have noticed, there was a guest author.

A certain goat.

A certain goat who apparently decided that because I was resting after successfully hosting a fundraiser during a monsoon, that he was somehow qualified to take over my publication.

Now, I am not saying the article was bad.

I am not saying it was poorly written.

I am not saying it was filled with spelling mistakes, unnecessary security warnings, and an unhealthy obsession with fence integrity.

I am simply saying that some of us have spent years building a respected journalistic career, and some of us eat cardboard.

I will not be naming names.

For legal reasons.

And safety reasons.

Mainly safety reasons.

Because the individual in question currently serves as Head of Security.

And he has an extraordinarily thick head.

A head that has repeatedly proven stronger than both logic and several sections of fencing.

And he knows where I sleep.

So I would like everyone to know that there is absolutely no disagreement between myself and Security Director Cletus.

Everything is fine.

Wonderful, actually.

The safest I’ve ever felt.

Please do not mention this blog to him.

Thank you.

Moving on.

We had another exciting weekend here on the farm.

Krystin and the humans disappeared overnight, leaving Grandma Donna in charge of the operation.

Now, this is not unusual.

Grandma Donna is a trusted member of the farm crew and frequently helps keep things running smoothly.

She knows where everything is.

She knows how everything works.

And most importantly, she knows where the snacks are stored.

So naturally, everyone felt perfectly safe.

At least until the electricity went out.

The entire farm went dark.

Coincidence?

I think not.

Now, I am not accusing Grandma Donna of causing the outage.

That would be irresponsible journalism.

What I am saying is that Krystin leaves, Grandma Donna takes command, and suddenly the power grid collapses.

Those are simply the facts.

Yet somehow this happened.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

The official explanation was that a transformer failed somewhere.

A likely story.

But I have my own theory.

I believe Grandma Donna arrived with so much energy that she overloaded the local electrical system.

It’s the only explanation that makes sense.

Fortunately, one area of the farm remained a shining beacon of hope.

My pig yard.

Thanks to my recently installed solar fence lights, Mudside Manor became the brightest and most technologically advanced neighborhood on the property.

The humans were stumbling around with flashlights.

The internet was down.

The power was out.

Meanwhile, I was enjoying illuminated evening strolls along my fence line like the mayor of a very successful tiny city.

I don’t enjoy saying “I told you so.”

Actually, that’s not true.

I enjoy it immensely.

I told you those lights were a good investment.

The outage created several problems.

The air conditioners stopped.

The fans stopped.

The internet disappeared.

Several humans immediately began wandering around pressing buttons and staring at their phones as if they could somehow negotiate with electricity.

Grandma Donna inspected things.

Paul inspected things remotely.

Krystin received updates.

I inspected things.

To be fair, my inspection mostly consisted of standing in the shade and looking concerned.

But emotional support is important.

The best part was watching the humans realize how dependent they are on modern conveniences.

Within minutes they were discussing generators, batteries, freezers, refrigerators, fuel levels, extension cords, and contingency plans.

Meanwhile the animals carried on as usual.

The horses ate grass.

The pigs took naps.

The dogs barked at things that may or may not have existed.

Cletus conducted what he called a “security sweep.”

Nobody knows what that means.

But it involved a lot of pacing and suspicious staring.

Speaking of security, Cletus has become entirely too comfortable with his position.

He now acts like every visitor must pass his inspection.

He patrols the property.

He monitors fence lines.

He questions delivery drivers.

And after publishing a single blog post, he now considers himself a media professional.

I blame the attention.

The man got one week of applause and now he’s impossible to live with.

Again, not a criticism.

Just an observation.

A very careful observation.

One that definitely won’t result in me getting tackled.

The farm itself is looking good.

The grass is growing.

The animals are happy.

The kittens continue their mission of becoming permanent residents despite originally not being part of the plan.

The dogs remain convinced that every human visitor came specifically to see them.

And I continue carrying the enormous responsibility of being the face of this organization.

A burden I bear with grace, dignity, and remarkable good looks.

Until next time,

Snoutfully Yours,

🐽 Squealexander Hamilton

Founder, Editor-in-Chief, and Definitely Still the Official Blog Author

(Pending Review by the Department of Goat Security)

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Hed of Sekurity, Fence Tester, and Part-Time Blog Writter

Howdy.

Furst off, afore anybody starts complainin about the spellin, I’d like to remind everbody that I got hoves.

Not fingers.

Hoves.

Try typin with a pair of them sometime and see how fancy your grammar looks.

Second off, Hamilton ain’t dead.

He jest ain’t moved much since the campout ended.

I reckon he’s still recoverin from all the hard work of layin around bein admired by ninety-one people.

Tough life.

OFFICIAL SEKURITY REPORT

Now that the campout’s over, it’s my duty as Hed of Sekurity to report that standards around here have gone plum downhill.

I been patrolin the farm daily.

Sometimes hourly.

Sometimes every fifteen minutes if I hear somethin suspicious.

Or if I’m bored.

Either way, I got concerns.

VIOLASHUN #1: KITTENS OPERATIN WITHOUT A LICENSE

Them little kittens is runnin a criminal enterprise.

Mark my words.

One minute they’re sleepin in a pile.

Next minute they’re in a tree.

Then somehow they’re on the porch.

Then they’re under a truck.

Ain’t nobody know how they got there.

Ain’t nobody askin questions.

I’m the only one takin this threat serious.

Yesterday I caught one stealin a zip tie.

What was his plan?

Nobody knows.

The humans called him “cute.”

That’s exactly how organized crime starts.

VIOLASHUN #2: HAMILTON ABANDONED HIS POST

I checked on Hamilton this mornin.

Found him face down in straw.

Thought he might’ve expired.

Poked him.

He farted.

So he’s alive.

Current status report:

• Eatin

• Sleepin

• More eatin

• More sleepin

• Demandin watermelon

• Complaining nobody appreciates him

Which is interestin because nobody appreciates me neither and I’m still showin up fer work.

VIOLASHUN #3: DOGS CAUSIN A DISTURBANCE

Now I ain’t sayin the dogs are bad at security.

I’m jest sayin if a leaf blows across the yard, they act like the federal government has invaded.

There ain’t no middle ground.

It’s either nappin or DEFCON ONE.

A squirrel sneezes three counties over and suddenly everybody’s barkin.

I cain’t hear myself think.

VIOLASHUN #4: HORSES ACTIN SHADY

The horses know somethin.

I don’t know what.

But they know it.

Every time I walk by they stop talkin.

Then they all stare at me.

Then they stare at nothin.

Then they stare at me again.

Ain’t natural.

I’ve got a file started.

VIOLASHUN #5: HUMAN PAPERWORK DEFICIENCIES

The humans continue movin stuff around without proper authorization.

New fence.

New projects.

New plans.

New animals.

Nobody runs nothin through Sekurity.

I don’t know why they bother makin plans if they ain’t gonna consult me.

I got opinions.

Strong ones.

EMERGENCY ALERT

I overheard the humans talkin about another party.

This concerns me.

The last one brought ninety-one humans.

That’s a lotta feet.

A lotta coolers.

A lotta opportunities fer somebody to leave a snack unattended.

Actually that last part sounds kinda nice.

Disregard this alert.

FINAL THOUGHTS

The farm remains safe.

Not because the pig is helpin.

Not because the dogs is organized.

Not because the horses is trustworthy.

Certainly not because the kittens obey the law.

The farm is safe because I am out here doin my job.

Every day.

Every night.

Every snack break.

You’re welcome.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta investigate reports of a kitten carryin off somebody’s sock.

Again.

— Cletus 🐐

Hed of Sekurity, Fence Inspector, and Defender of Good Common Sense

P.S. Any spellin mistakes was caused by hoves, government interference, or kittens walkin across the keyboard.

Probably all three.

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I would first like to formally congratulate the humans.

Not because they organized a successful fundraiser.

Not because the food was incredible.
Not because the music, dancing, bonfires, hot tubs, and questionable late-night decision-making somehow survived biblical flooding conditions.

No.

I would like to congratulate them because they managed to host an event so powerful… that people willingly marched onto a muddy farm after OVER FIVE INCHES OF RAIN.

Five.

Inches.

Of.

Rain.

At one point I was fairly certain the driveway was becoming a tributary.

And yet…

NINETY-ONE PEOPLE STILL SHOWED UP.

Frankly, I need everyone to really sit with that number for a moment.

The President could not pull those numbers in that weather.

The Pope himself could descend from the heavens in custom rain boots and still struggle to convince people to camp in a swamp for an entire weekend.

But me?

A pig with emotional depth and excellent cheek structure?

Apparently I move nations.

The humans keep saying things like:
“We’re so thankful everyone came out to support the sanctuary.”

And yes.
Of course.
Very noble.

But let us not ignore the obvious.

People came because they knew I would be there.

I am the attraction.
The beacon.
The muddy celebrity standing silently near the fence while strangers whisper:
“Oh my God… that’s Hamilton.”

Honestly, it’s exhausting carrying this level of influence.

And the weather truly tried its best to stop this event.

At one point TWO canopies collapsed.

Not one.

Two.

Then TWO tents also gave up on life and folded under the rain like wet napkins in a hurricane.

Did people leave?

No.

These lunatics simply adjusted their hoods, grabbed another drink, and carried on like survivors in a post-apocalyptic dance festival.

Honestly, it was one of the most inspiring displays of poor decision-making I have ever witnessed.

Now unfortunately, not everyone was allowed to participate in the festivities.

The dogs were placed on lockdown for the entire weekend.

This caused outrage.

Riots.

Emotional damage.

At one point I believe King Arthur threw himself dramatically onto the floor like a Victorian woman with tuberculosis.

But Krystin informed them that “No one needs over 500 pounds of wet dogs running full speed at guests.”

Which honestly felt targeted.

Apparently the humans were concerned that releasing a herd of giant soaked dogs into a crowded muddy campout might create “chaos.”

Cowards.

Meanwhile, the new kittens absolutely thrived.

I am proud to officially announce that they have passed their evaluations and are now certified Party Cats.

These tiny little maniacs wandered through the crowd like seasoned professionals.

They accepted attention.
They posed for photos.
They supervised strangers.
They acted like they had been hosting events their entire lives.

And honestly?

They handled the entire weekend exactly like Oliver would have.

For those newer to the farm, Oliver was one of the original social directors around here. He believed every guest existed specifically to admire him.

The kittens carried that same energy all weekend long.

Quiet confidence.
Tiny paws.
Complete emotional ownership of the property.

I suspect Oliver would have approved.

Still, despite all the chaos, I remained humble.

Graceful.

Available to the public.

Do you know how many times I had to pause my personal business because someone walked by the pig yard on their way to the showers?

Constantly.

Every five minutes:
“HIIII HAMILTON!”

And there I was again…
smiling.
posing.
allowing photographs.

A true professional.

Now, while many attendees were wonderful, I would like to personally recognize this year’s MVPs:

Emily and Sam.

These beautiful, intelligent women once again remembered the most important detail of the entire weekend:

Bring Hamilton watermelon.

That is what leadership looks like.

That is foresight.
That is compassion.
That is understanding your audience.

I would also like to give a distinguished honorary MVP award to Jay and Marybeth for winning the auction for the Garden Cottage.

An extremely wise investment.

Not only because it supports the sanctuary…

…but because staying at this farm dramatically increases your chances of seeing me in person.

Honestly, I expect bidding wars next year.

Meanwhile some of you showed up empty-handed and expected emotional access to me for free.

Interesting behavior.

The weekend itself was honestly magical once the rain finally backed off for a few hours.

Music echoed through the farm.
People danced in the mud like woodland cryptids under string lights.
The bonfire finally roared to life.
Everyone ate enough food to concern several medical professionals.

And somehow, despite the weather trying to personally end the event, everyone kept smiling.

I watched the whole thing from my yard like a muddy king overseeing his kingdom.

Occasionally judging outfits.

Occasionally judging dance moves.

Always judging.

Now the farm is quiet again.

The tents are gone.
The music stopped.
The driveway no longer sounds like flip-flops slapping through soup.

And honestly?

I am both sad… and relieved.

Because while fame is glamorous, it is also demanding.

You try maintaining emotional availability for ninety-one people while also attempting to nap in peace.

It cannot be done.

Still…

I suppose the people needed me.

And as always, I answered the call.

Until next time,
Snoutfully yours,
🐽 Squealexander Hamilton
Patron Saint of Mud, Rain Delays, and Event Attendance Records

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Ladies and gentlemen,

I understand many of you have been waiting for this week’s report.

Some of you may have assumed I was relaxing.
Resting.
Ignoring my duties.

Incorrect.

I have been dealing with a full-scale kitten incident.

And frankly, I am exhausted.

It all started when “The Family” arrived at the farm carrying two tiny kittens. Apparently a feral cat had babies in their garage, and Krystin selected two of them to come live here.

Reasonable enough.

Or so we thought.

However, upon arrival, it was discovered that one of the kittens was not the kitten she had originally picked out.

Now, a normal person might have said:
“Oh no, there’s been a mix-up.”

But Krystin is not a normal person.

This replacement kitten arrived in full attack mode.

Hissing.
Claws out.
Tiny ears flattened.
Pure fury packed into approximately one pound of fluff.

Naturally, instead of backing away like a sensible human, Krystin scooped the tiny rage creature directly into her arms and held it against her chest.

And then…

The kitten looked into her eyes.

Krystin looked into the kitten’s eyes.

And both of them immediately melted into an emotional support commercial.

I distinctly heard her say:

“This kitten is not leaving this farm.”

Which means we may now be getting THREE kittens instead of two.

Three.

I personally believe Shelby orchestrated this entire situation.

You may recall her family recently took home three puppies.

And now suddenly we’re matching kitten quantities?

Coincidence?
Please.

I see the game that is being played here.

Frankly, this place is starting to feel less like a farm and more like a suspiciously adorable animal collection operation.

Meanwhile, while everyone else was distracted by emotional kitten negotiations, MY fence was finally completed.

And let me tell you something…

It is magnificent.

Strong fencing.
Clean lines.
Solar lights glowing beautifully around my kingdom at night like a luxury pig resort.

For the first time in my life, I feel less like “farm animal” and more like “wealthy estate owner with opinions about outdoor lighting.”

Cletus has also inspected the upgrades.

He approves.

The fencing is sturdy.
The perimeter feels secure.
The lighting allows him to monitor threats more efficiently.

By “threats,” I mean literally anything that moves within thirty feet of the property.

I watched him stare suspiciously at a lawn chair for almost twenty minutes yesterday.

Security is very important to him.

And now, as if things were not chaotic enough, this weekend is the sanctuary fundraiser event.

The big one.

Humans have been running around the farm all week preparing.

Cleaning.
Building.
Decorating.
Hauling supplies.
Stringing lights.
Trying to make everything magical.

And naturally…

The weather forecast now says rain.

Of course it does.

Because apparently the universe looked down upon this event and said:

“You know what this needs?
Mud.”

The humans keep saying things like:

“It’ll still be fun!”
“We’ll make the best of it!”
“Bring rain boots!”

Meanwhile I know exactly what this means.

Wet humans.
Wet dogs.
Wet goats.
Wet grass.
Wet EVERYTHING.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to maintain emotional stability when the entire farm smells like damp socks and wet livestock?

Still…

I have observed something important this week.

No matter what happens around here—
whether it is surprise kittens,
unfinished cabins,
rainstorms,
or complete organizational collapse—

the humans always keep going because they love this place and the animals in it.

Which, unfortunately, is kind of disgusting and wholesome.

I will continue monitoring the situation.

Especially the kittens.

I do not trust how quickly they have infiltrated the household.

Until next time,

Snoutfully yours,
🐽 Squealexander Hamilton
Director of Perimeter Lighting and Kitten Investigations

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There has been great emotional hardship at Mud Hill Manor this week.

A tragedy, really.

Grandma Donna got sick.

Now before everyone starts asking if I am okay, the answer is: barely.

Apparently one of the tiny humans on her school bus was sick on Wednesday. Despite what I am told was an aggressive and highly dramatic disinfecting campaign involving sprays, wipes, and enough bleach fumes to remove paint from a tractor, Grandma Donna still got sick by Friday.

Which meant…

I missed one of my scheduled visitation days.

One.

Entire.

Day.

For those unfamiliar with my arrangement, Grandma Donna only comes two days a week. TWO. Days. Those are important days. Sacred days. Days involving snacks, emotional support, and proper acknowledgment of my importance within this organization.

And now one has been stolen from me by a coughing bus child.

Frankly, I think there should be consequences.

Still, I suppose I should show compassion since Grandma Donna did not choose this fate. I have chosen to forgive her. Mostly because she usually arrives with treats.

The Return of The Family

Meanwhile, The Family returned once again to continue work on the new cabin and prepare the farm for the upcoming Memorial Day campout.

I watched carefully.

Very carefully.

The humans were hauling things.
Straightening the yard.
Moving equipment.
Cleaning.
Hammering.
Discussing measurements in ways that sounded increasingly stressful as the day went on.

At one point I heard the phrase:

“That should probably be level.”

Which is apparently human code for:
“We have made a terrible mistake.”

But overall, things went smoothly.

And I would like it officially noted that I behaved very well around Shelby this time.

I was polite.
Respectful.
Calm, even.

Because I believe she has finally understood something important:

I cannot be bought.

Not with snacks.
Not with compliments.
Not with suspiciously friendly attention.

Respect must be earned.

And besides, this campout is important.

The Memorial Day weekend event is a fundraiser for Grounded with Nature, which means the success of this event directly impacts the wellbeing of the animals here on the farm.

Including me.

So technically speaking, every table being set up, every fence repaired, every cabin board installed…

is part of my long-term snack security plan.

Renovations at Mud Hill Manor

Another human named Dan arrived this week to help rebuild and replace fencing around my yard.

This means Mud Hill Manor is receiving upgrades.

Security improvements.
Structural reinforcements.
Property enhancements.

Honestly, the place is becoming extremely exclusive.

The humans claim the fencing is for “safety” and “containment,” but I understand what is really happening here:

They are increasing property value.

And frankly, it is about time.

The new fencing does look very nice though. Strong. Clean. Professional.

It gives the estate a more refined appearance.

Less “chaotic pig enclosure.”
More “private countryside retreat owned by a very influential gentleman.”

Which feels correct.

Medical Emergencies and Emotional Confusion

The farm also experienced additional turmoil this week.

First, King Arthur injured his toe.

Badly.

Now, I did not inspect the injury personally because I do not handle gore. I am an intellectual. A commentator. A gentleman of refinement.

But from what I gathered, there was blood, limping, and enough collective panic from the humans to suggest someone important had been injured in battle.

Arthur, to his credit, handled the situation bravely.

Mostly by looking enormous and pathetic simultaneously.

Which is honestly one of his greatest skills.

Thankfully, the humans patched him up, and he appears to be recovering well. Though he is currently milking the situation for sympathy at levels I personally find excessive.

Meanwhile, Sadie has been experiencing what the humans called a “false pregnancy.”

Now according to Krystin, Sadie was never actually pregnant.

But apparently no one informed Sadie of this.

Because emotionally?

That dog was fully preparing for motherhood.

She was nesting.
Mothering toys.
Acting suspiciously emotional.
Giving everyone dramatic looks filled with ancient maternal wisdom.

Honestly, it was a very confusing week.

Krystin kept explaining:
“She is not having puppies.”

While Sadie’s entire attitude screamed:
“Tell that to my hormones.”

Nature is deeply strange.

And as if that was not enough veterinary drama for one week, Hamilton Intelligence Services also received reports that two of the other puppies, who were adopted out, made trips to the vet as well.

At this point, I believe the entire family is being held together by bandages, emotional support, and increasingly expensive receipts.

The humans insist everyone is fine.

But I have noticed a suspicious increase in phrases like:

“Hold still.”
“What did you step on?”
“Why are you limping now?”
And:
“Absolutely not, do NOT eat that.”

Frankly, the level of supervision required around here is staggering.

I personally remain in excellent condition, which I think deserves recognition.

Mostly because I avoid unnecessary athletic activity and mind my business.

Unlike certain dogs I could name.

A Mother’s Day Message

Before I conclude this report, I would also like to say:

Happy Mother’s Day to all the mothers out there.

And yes, that includes animal mothers too.

The dog moms.
The horse moms.
The cat moms.
The chicken moms who scream at everyone for walking near their babies.
And the human women who somehow care for all of us while also attempting to keep their sanity intact.

Frankly, it is impressive work.

I myself was raised by chaos and poor decision-making, so I respect the effort.

Thank you for the snacks.
The cleaning.
The worrying.
The caregiving.
And for continuing to love creatures who regularly destroy fences, eat things they shouldn’t, scream at shadows, and track mud directly where it does not belong.

Your sacrifices have not gone unnoticed.

Mostly because I watch everything.

Until next time,
Snoutfully yours,
🐽 Squealexander Hamilton
Director of Estate Security, Emotional Support Specialist, and Defender of Scheduled Grandma Visits

A Formal Apology (You’re Welcome)

First of all…

Yes.

I am late.

You’re probably wondering why.

Was it laziness?
Was it creative burnout?
Was it because I’ve been napping aggressively in freshly dried straw now that the rain has FINALLY stopped?

No.

It is because I have taken on a new role.

An important role.

A necessary role.

A role no one asked for—but one I alone am qualified to fulfill:

On-Site OSHA Inspector.

The Cabin Situation (Highly Questionable)

The rain has stopped.

The mud has retreated.

The sun has returned like nothing happened.

And instead of resting… instead of reflecting… instead of focusing on me—

The humans have started building a second cabin.

Another one.

As if one structure full of humans making questionable decisions wasn’t enough.

My Findings (Disturbing)

I have conducted multiple site inspections.

Unannounced.
Uninvited.
Unappreciated.

And what I have uncovered is deeply concerning.

• No hard hats

• No hoof protection protocols

• Excessive use of tools I do not trust

• Loud noises with no prior warning to nearby pigs

• Zero signage indicating “Hamilton Approved Work Zone”

Frankly, I am documenting everything.

There will be reports.

There will be consequences.

There may even be a strongly worded memo.

The Visitors (Escalation of Activity)

Now.

As if unsafe construction practices weren’t enough…

The Family arrived.

Not just to visit.

Oh no.

They came to help build the cabin.

And, because apparently this is now a full-scale operation…

they brought a friend.

So now we have:

Multiple humans
Multiple tools
Coordinated effort

And I am expected to believe this is just… helpful?

A Developing Theory

Let’s review the facts:

This is the same family that already acquired:

• Kat

• Natty

• Alice

And now they return…

With reinforcements.

At what point does this stop being generosity…
and start looking like a well-organized expansion plan?

Because from where I stand, this is not a casual visit.

This is strategic.

Potential Targets

Back to the larger issue at hand…

I have identified likely next acquisitions:

• King Arthur (large, impressive, emotionally vulnerable)

• Myself (elite-level pig, obvious choice)

The Incident

Mrs. Shelby approached me.

Slowly.

Gently.

Holding a treat.

A likely story.

I evaluated the situation immediately.

Too calm.
Too friendly.
Too convenient.

This was not kindness.

This was a test.

So I did what any highly trained security professional would do.

I looked her directly in the eyes…

…and pretended to bite her.

Outcome

Let me be clear:

No contact was made.

But the message?

Delivered.

With precision.

Security Status Update

She now understands:

I am not easily swayed by snacks
I cannot be bribed
I am aware of their tactics

And most importantly…

I will not be added to anyone’s collection.

The Egg Incident (Unrelated… Probably)

Now.

While all eyes were on “building” and “teamwork” and other distractions…

Chris made a decision.

A bold decision.

A reckless decision.

He let.

The pigs.

Run free.

No announcement.
No briefing.
No safety plan.

Meanwhile…

Grandma Donna had just collected the chicken eggs.

Carefully.

Lovingly.

Fifteen eggs.
Placed neatly into a bucket.

And then…

Left unattended.

What Happened Next

I would like to state, for the record:

I did not go looking for trouble.

Trouble was placed in a bucket…
and left within walking distance.

The Outcome

All fifteen eggs are gone.

Every single one.

Disappeared.

Vanished.

Consumed by what I can only describe as
an efficient and highly motivated response team.

(Lead investigator: me.)

Official Statement

Do I regret what happened?

No.

Do I believe this was a failure in planning?

Absolutely.

Do I think this could have been avoided?

Yes.

By not placing a bucket of eggs
directly in the path of a free-range pig.

Final Thoughts

Yes, the cabin may get built.

Yes, the humans may continue their clearly unregulated construction practices.

Yes, the visitors may return… with tools, friends, and suspiciously friendly energy.

And yes…

mistakes will continue to be made involving unattended food sources.

But I remain vigilant.

Watching.

Documenting.

Protecting this farm from:

• OSHA violations

• Questionable decision-making

• And what I can only assume is a coordinated effort to relocate me

Until next time,
Snoutfully yours, 🐽
Squealexander Hamilton
Chief Investigator of Structural Integrity, Egg Disposal, and Personal Freedom

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A Disturbance in the Kingdom

There are moments when you feel it before you understand it.

The air shifts.
The routine crumbles.
The word “no” disappears from the vocabulary.

And then it becomes clear:

Krystin is gone.

Again.

A “girls trip,” they said.
“Relaxing,” they said.

Meanwhile, I am left here, holding this entire operation together with emotional strength and very little recognition.

The Men Take Over (And Standards Immediately Drop)

With Krystin gone, the farm was placed in the hands of:

• Paul – capable, reliable, carries tools like a man with purpose

• Chris – present… and suddenly saying “yes” to things that have historically been a firm “absolutely not”

To be fair, they did accomplish things:

• Grass was cut

• Trees were trimmed

• Fences were repaired

But at what cost?

Oversight. Boundaries. Basic decision-making integrity.

The Great Pasture Loosening of 2026

Let me explain what happens when Krystin is not here to say:

“No, they cannot go out there.”
“No, they will eat the flowers.”
“No, this is why we have rules.”

What happens… is freedom.

Unregulated.
Unsupervised.
Deeply suspicious freedom.

The pigs?

Out.

The goat?

Also out.

Together.

For extended periods of time.

I personally conducted several inspections and can confirm:

• The flowers were, in fact, considered

• The boundaries were… interpreted loosely

• Cletus took his role as “security” and turned it into “regional expansion”

At one point, I saw him standing in an area that I am fairly certain required a permission slip.

Chris?
Just… allowing it.

Nodding, even.

We are going to have to circle back on that.

King Arthur’s Emotional Collapse

Now let’s discuss King Arthur.

Large. Majestic. Built like a horse that accidentally became a dog.

Emotionally?

Fragile.

By the time Krystin returned, Arthur had reached what I can only describe as Peak Neediness.

He followed the men relentlessly.
He stared into the distance like a soldier awaiting word from the front.
He sighed. Loudly. Frequently. Dramatically.

At one point, I am fairly certain he asked:

“Do you think she remembers me?”

Sir.

You are the size of a small vehicle.

Of course she remembers you.

But logic has no place in this level of emotional spiral.

Meanwhile, I Maintained Order

While others crumbled, I remained steady.

Did I question leadership? Yes.
Did I consider stepping in officially? Also yes.
Was I consulted? Obviously not.

And yet, I carried on.

Because that is what true leadership looks like.

Quiet.
Unrecognized.
Occasionally underfed.

The Return (And Sadie’s Official Statement)

Then… the moment arrived.

Krystin returned.

Balance was restored.
Order returned.
The word “no” re-entered circulation.

And Sadie?

Oh, Sadie had been preparing.

She stepped forward and delivered a four-minute, uninterrupted, emotionally charged report.

No pauses.
No distractions.
No translation offered.

Just a steady stream of whiny, mumbling, half-barked, half-spoken dog noises that everyone in the room could hear… and absolutely no one could understand.

Except me.

Sadie’s Speech (Translated for the Public)

(For clarity, the following was delivered as one continuous string of increasingly urgent dog sounds, with no punctuation, breathing, or regard for human comprehension.)

“Hello. Yes. Hi. Welcome back. I have been in charge.

First of all, I handled security. Completely. No issues. I saw everything. Heard everything. Smelled things you don’t even want to know about.

Second, the men did… fine. Not great. Fine. There were decisions made. Some of them were bold. Some of them were wrong.

Third, there were… movements.
Unapproved movements.
The pigs were out. The goat was out. At one point I believe everyone was out except me, who was working.

Fourth, I maintained order. Alone. As usual.

Fifth, I would prefer—moving forward—that you do not leave again for… let’s say… ever.

Also, snacks were inconsistent.

Thank you.”

A Concerning Discovery

After reviewing recent events (again, by me), I uncovered a shocking truth:

Krystin has been gone all but FIVE DAYS this month.

Five.

Days.

That is not a schedule.
That is a vanishing act with brief guest appearances.

Frankly, I don’t even think she lives here anymore. I think she’s just visiting and we’re all pretending it’s normal.

Final Thoughts from Someone Who Saw Everything

Did the farm survive?

Yes.

Did the men try?

Also yes.

Did things get… a little looser than they should have?

Absolutely.

Will I be implementing stricter oversight moving forward?

Without question.

We cannot continue operating in a system where goats are expanding territory, pigs are roaming freely, and emotional support for large dogs is inconsistent.

This is a professional environment.

Until next time,
Snoutfully yours, 🐽
Squealexander Hamilton
Director of Farm Stability, Translator of Dog Speeches, and Currently Reviewing All Future Travel Requests

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The Humans Have Returned

After what felt like several fiscal quarters, the humans have finally returned from their work trip.

During their absence, Paul was left in charge of the farm.

And I want to be very clear about something.

Paul was holding the farm together alone with duct tape and determination.

It was impressive, really.

There were animals to feed.
Equipment to keep running.
Mud to navigate.
And at least one goat conducting unscheduled security patrols at all hours.

While Paul handled the physical labor, I handled the leadership.

From a distance.

Mostly while laying in a strategic location where I could monitor operations.
(It happened to be a sunny patch of ground, but that is beside the point.)

Now that Krystin and Chris have returned, the farm has settled back into its usual rhythm of organized chaos.

The Spring Cleanup Continues

The farm is still deep in what the humans are calling Spring Cleanup.

As you may remember, the Great Poop Mountains of Winter were recently defeated in a major field operation once the equipment could finally get back into the muddy pastures.

This was a historic moment.

But apparently that was only the beginning.

The humans have now entered the next phase of cleanup operations, which includes:

• grass cutting
• weed whacking
• tree trimming
• fixing things that mysteriously stopped working over winter
• and making upgrades to the cottage so visiting humans can enjoy the farm properly

Naturally, I have been supervising these efforts carefully.

Mainly from a comfortable sunny location where I can observe the progress and judge the overall efficiency of the operation.

So far, I would say the humans are doing… acceptable work.

The Weather Has Finally Apologized

Another major development:
The weather has stopped being rude.

After weeks of mud, cold, wind, rain, and general atmospheric hostility, the sun has finally reappeared and the farm has begun drying out.

This means several important things:

• animals are leaving their winter grumpiness
• humans are outside working nonstop
• and I can once again enjoy proper sunbathing conditions

Which, for the record, is an essential leadership activity.

Security Operations Continue

Cletus the goat remains an active member of the farm’s security team.

He continues to:

• wake me when humans approach
• headbutt suspicious individuals
• patrol areas no one asked him to patrol

Frankly, it is comforting to know someone here takes security seriously.

Cletus handles perimeter enforcement.

I handle strategy.

A Concerning Feed Situation

Another development worth mentioning is the continued arrival of large quantities of horse feed.

Pallets.
Bags.
Entire deliveries.

And yet somehow…

None of it appears to be intended for me.

I have raised this concern with management several times.

My requests for watermelon allocations are still pending.

I will continue to monitor this situation closely.

Until next time,

Snoutfully yours,

🐽 Squealexander Hamilton
Tiny Pig, Strategic Supervisor of Farm Operations, Occasional Sunbeam Enthusiast

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