Ah yes. A new year.
A fresh start.
A clean slate.
Which is adorable, because absolutely no one on this farm is changing.
Apparently, humans make New Year’s Resolutions. They write them down, say them out loud, and then immediately return to their normal nonsense. As the farm’s unofficial but clearly most qualified observer, I felt it was my responsibility to participate.
Hamilton’s Very Serious New Year’s Resolutions
- Squeal less at the wind.
(This depends entirely on whether the wind behaves.) - Stop identifying as a cat when it benefits me.
(This resolution expired upon writing.) - Fewer snacks after midnight.
(I regret this one deeply.) - Mind my own business.
(Absolutely not.) - Keep a closer eye on suspicious holiday figures.
(Important. You’ll see why.)
Meanwhile, in the Horse Department…
Honest Word… also known as Redword, Sanctuary Elder, Wise One, and Professional Nap Enthusiast, received a very special winter gift from Bodhi’s dad, MD, the father of one of our boarder horses.
The gift was a heavyweight winter blanket, a dependable, battle-tested hand-me-down, which in horse terms is actually a badge of honor.
Redword does not care that it is pre-loved.
Redword cares that it is warm.
He is now extra toasty on these cold winter days, standing in the pasture like a being who has achieved inner peace. If comfort were a competitive sport, Redword would not even acknowledge the other contestants.
I requested something similar.
I was once again reminded that I am a pig and I don’t like clothes.
And Then… The Horses Escaped. Again.
For the second time last year.
Because of course they did.
This happened three or four days after Krystin’s surgery, which is exactly when the universe likes to test farm management skills.
Paul looked out the window and made the sound.
The sound that indicates something is wrong, but we are attempting to be discreet.
Chris immediately understood.
Krystin immediately did not remain calm.
All six horses from Field 2 were on the wrong side of the fence… a deeply unacceptable location.
The guys moved fast… shoes on, lead ropes grabbed, and hopes of resolving the situation quietly and ideally, without Krystin noticing.
This plan failed instantly.
Despite strict instructions to rest, Krystin hobbled out in her onesie, fueled by concern, adrenaline, and the unshakable knowledge of just how bad loose horses can get. She didn’t intend to catch anyone, only to guide if things went sideways.
As the guys approached, the horses briefly considered being ornery. You could see it forming. A committee was convened.
And then…
Mona.
A massive Shire mare.
Calm. Commanding. A professional problem-solver.
Mona spotted Krystin, clearly not supposed to be upright, hunched over, defying all orders, making her way up the driveway.
And without hesitation, Mona turned around…
…and led every single horse straight back into the pasture.
No chase.
No chaos.
No dramatic squealing (from the horses, anyway).
Just leadership.
Hamilton does not know who was watching over Krystin that day, but it must have been someone with serious pull. Because Mona did the thing, and everyone went home safely.
The Case of the Mysteriously Open Gate
Now here’s where things get suspicious.
No one ever uses that gate.
No one.
It is not convenient. It is not necessary. It is, frankly, considered decorative.
And yet… it was open.
There are no clear explanations.
Which leaves only one reasonable conclusion.
Santa.
Think about it.
He was on the farm last week.
Sneaking around at night.
Wearing boots.
Making a list.
Judging behavior.
He has access to the gates.
He has motives.
And he has time.
I am not saying Santa opened the gate.
I am just saying that no one has ever seen Santa and an open gate in the same place at the same time and proven otherwise.
Coincidence?
Unlikely.
So here we are.
A new year.
Same farm.
Same pig.
Same mysterious forces at work.
May your resolutions be flexible, your horses stay fenced, your blankets stay heavy, and your holiday visitors keep their hands off the gates.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have already broken several resolutions, and it’s not even lunchtime.
Snoutfully yours,
🐽Squealexander Hamilton
Tiny Pig, Wind Victim, Amateur Meteorologist & Occasionally a Cat