Okay, Homestead. I'm Done.

Dear LoupGarou Terriers and Not 1040 Farm,

I'm done. I am resigning from my current position of sole proprietor, CEO, COO, operational planner, civil engineer, and janitor of LoupGarou Terriers and Not 1040 Farm (to be known as "Homestead" or "the homestead"), effective immediately. No. Really. I mean it this time. I've had enough. For a bunch of years, I've given you most of my time. Met your demands. I've even built fences and offered nice goat shelters and given up cushions to keep cats happy. All that time? All that work? That ends now. I have no cause, you say? Let's take a look, shall we?

Let's start with my ungrateful garden. Dan and I scraped you out of scrub grass and clay. For that alone, you'd think I deserve some consideration. Every year I add new topsoil through cultivating and aerating packed earth, applying cottonseed meal, wood ashes, goat poo, and compost. Sure, every so often I get a bumper crop (last year's cucuzza!) and I'm grateful to see that a few earthworms have taken up residence. But you constantly tease me with beautiful growth, gorgeous blossoms, copious pollinators, and the promise of sumptuous fruit--all lies, terrible lies when it comes time to harvest. I know, I know. There was a cotton field here followed by a cow pasture. I'm should be happy I can grow weeds. I'm not. This letter is to inform you that I know the footprint of an above-ground swimming pool. Think about it.

And what about you, goats? I have six of you--yes, I can count, six--when am I going to get these gallons of milk daily that you promised? Okay, three of you are bucks and one of you is a wether, but dang . . . I've given you your chances. Dan and I like our milk and we're not seeing enough. It's time to talk tough, ladies and gentlemen. I will remind you: I have empty freezers right now and I know someone who sells raw milk. Not saying. Just saying.

Quail! More eggs! Less dying! I know that you're maniacal suicidal murder machines, but look--roosters are extraneous and delicious wrapped in bacon. Sadly, you guys are creating issues with my girls and, even though I'd like fertile eggs, targeted population reduction might be in the near future. (See my final word to the goats.)

Chickens. I love you Rooster Roo. I promise you more girls soon. Hugs and kisses. You can stay. Just let me sleep a little longer, okay? Crack of dawn rising is no longer on the schedule.

Cats . . . without the goats and the quail, I might not need you guys for rodent control. I can probably find a nice home for you, Whitefoot, because you're fluffy and beautiful and nice . . . well, pleasant . . . okay, fluffy and beautiful. Mr. Yellow Cat, you're a shoo-in for a home for an old lady who will feed you pancakes and let you snooze on her lap between meals. Delilah? Creamsicle? Hmmmm . . . maybe you can guard Rooster Roo's food from rodents. You two fend for yourselves pretty well, so we can talk.

Now, it's time to talk turkey to dogs. No, Steele. Absolutely not. I am NOT offering you turkey. That means to be firm. To be honest. To cut the bull-- No, Steele! I'm not offering you a fun thing to roll in, either. It's a good thing that you're cute . . .

You dogs think that you're so smart. I work all winter during deer season getting meat for your meals year round. I feed you. I give you water. I put you outside for you to run your fool heads off and create havoc with my chickens. I bathe you, groom you, train you. I take you for walks. We go to classes and shows and trials. If I'm not actually with my dogs, I'm talking about them. If I'm not talking about them, I'm reading about other people's dogs. Dogs are nothing but earworms in cute fuzzy suits (when those suits aren't unzipped to reveal the demons inside). My life revolves around dogs. I spend more money on dogs than they will ever produce for me. Wait. Maybe my dogs ARE so smart. If you guys will pay the bills, maybe I can stay on as your employee, preferably over the night shift. I demand better benefits, though, and a crate at least the size of Cassidy's.

Seriously. It's time to admit that my desire to sleep has won over my desire to keep up with weeding, feeding, scooping poop, and training. I would love to be able to take an afternoon nap sometime that is not interrupted by barking, howling, cat fights, crowing, or frantic bleats from the open pasture because a raindrop has impacted with a goat's behind. I LIKE staying up till midnight and sleeping in until 8:00. I LIKE being able to walk out the door for a weekend visit without spending days preparing extra food, blankets, and so on for someone else to take over my duties. You know, like normal people do. You know what I don't like? Getting up at 5:00 in the morning to work outside. Because I like sleep, on my schedule, when and where I want to sleep.

So, that's it. I'm done. Homestead, please consider this letter to be my immediate resignation. Boy, am I going to enjoy that crawfish boil this weekend with that weight removed from my shoulders! Cassidy, I'll leave you in charge. You're the herding dog. You like order. You know what to do.

But, whoops, have to go. I've got to go to the laundromat before I can leave tomorrow morning. Since I'm going to town, I might as well pick up those alfalfa pellets for the goats and Leela needs more puppy food. If I have time, I can pick up some chicken and quail feed from the co-op while I'm at it and maybe some feed bread from the bread outlet store. I have a lot to do before I leave tomorrow.

Don't snicker, Homestead. That's just mean.