25 July 2026 

The day started before seven this morning, thanks to the dogs. They all needed to go out, and while Beau has continued to do remarkably well settling back into life here on the farm, River decided that after coming back inside, what he really wanted was a little attention. He climbed up beside me, content to spend a few quiet moments together before the day’s work began.

After breakfast and cleaning up the kitchen, it was time to head to the barn.

The rabbits were looked after first, followed by the quail, then the goats. The sheep were due for another move, so I trimmed along the fence line, set up a new section of electric fencing, moved the flock onto fresh pasture, and then took the old fence back down so it would be ready for their next rotation. It’s a fair bit of work every few days, but fresh pasture is one of the keys to keeping healthy sheep and healthy land.

Back at the barn, I continued mixing yesterday’s feed into plastic barrels before any mice or other uninvited guests decided to help themselves. It’s one of those jobs that isn’t particularly exciting, but it saves feed and saves money.

Yesterday I managed to get about half of this year’s round bales under the carport, but the remaining bales are still waiting outside. Looking at them today, my mind started working on the next challenge.

There has to be an easier way.

Rather than trying to muscle 700-pound round bales, I’ve been thinking about using a chain hoist suspended from one of the overhead beams. Since the bales are sitting on pallets, I may only need to lift one edge of the pallet an inch or two—just enough to reach the tipping point and let leverage and gravity do the rest. It’ll have to be tested carefully, watching the beam every step of the way. If it doesn’t seem right, I’ll lower everything and find another method.

That’s one of the things farming has taught me.

You don’t always need more strength.

Sometimes you just need a better idea.

Then, in the middle of an ordinary afternoon, everything changed.

I was standing with my back to the road when I heard a sickening thud.

I turned around and saw Roscoe.

My heart sank.

After checking him over as carefully as I could, I couldn’t find any obvious injuries beyond a small scrape. He was favouring one hind leg, and I could see the shock in his eyes, but there was no crying, no flinching, and no obvious sign of broken bones. Mary drove us home with Roscoe riding in the truck. Once home, he settled onto his mattress with fresh food and water while I returned to the barn to finish the chores and bring Beau and River home.

I can tell you one thing.

Roscoe is more than a dog to me. He’s my son.

This evening, before turning in, I headed out one last time to close up the chicken coop.

Roscoe insisted on coming with me.

He was still limping, and I could tell there was still some pain there, but he was using that leg more than he had earlier in the day. His nose was still cold and wet, and despite everything that had happened, he wasn’t about to let me make my evening rounds alone.

That short walk to the coop may not have seemed like much, but to me it meant everything.

He’s not one hundred percent yet, and I’ll be keeping a close eye on him over the next several days, but seeing him determined to be by my side again filled me with hope.

As the evening wound down, I finally got around to cleaning the slow cooker from the lamb rib roast I had made a couple of days ago.

The juices had cooled, leaving a thick white layer of hardened fat across the top. It looked almost exactly like candle wax. Instead of throwing it away, I skimmed it off into a clean milk carton.

That simple little job sparked another idea.

For generations, farmers rendered sheep tallow into candles, soap, leather dressing, and all sorts of useful products around the homestead. I’ve been thinking about making candles for quite a while now. Between the empty glass jars I’ve been saving and even old soup cans, I may already have everything I need for a few experiments.

Who knows?

Maybe one day Briden Farm will have its own hand-poured tallow candles, made from the very animals that help sustain this little farm.

It’s funny how a day can unfold.

It begins with quiet morning chores, continues with sheep, fences, feed, and hay, suddenly reminds you just how precious those you love really are, and quietly ends by rediscovering a skill that our grandparents probably considered perfectly ordinary.

That’s one of the things I love most about this life.

Every day teaches something.

Sometimes it’s a lesson in patience.

Sometimes it’s a reminder to be thankful.

And sometimes, it’s discovering that what looks like waste today may become something useful tomorrow.

Until next time…

Brian
Briden Farm 🌾🐑🐐🐕🕯️