https://www.facebook.com/884928354704569/

The Daily Bleat with Bunn, 21648 Old Farm Avenue, Petersburg, IL (2026)

07/24/2026

From the Desk of Bunn 🐐

Well… I owe my Mom an apology.

I’d like to start by saying I’ve always been a perfect angel… adelicate little pasture princess… a lady… a scholar…. a philanthropist… never once have I intentionally chosen violence.

…Until the other night.

Apparently there’s this little thing called estrus. I’d never heard of it before because I’m just a baby goat trying to make it through life one pine needle at a time. Evidently, my hormones clocked in for their first shift and immediately said, “You know what would be a GREAT idea? RAM YOUR FAVORITE PERSON.”

So that’s exactly what I did.

I lowered my head, engaged all seventeen of my remaining brain cells, and absolutely SMOKED Mom right in the ribs.

Y’all…

I left this woman with a bruise the size of a baked potato.

Now thankfully, she’d taken one little puff off her magical giggle stick before chores. I don’t know what’s in that thing, but sometimes it makes her laugh at literally everything. So instead of immediately shipping me to Craigslist under “slightly used goat with anger issues,” she just stood there completely stunned.

Then…

SHE SPANKED ME.

Can you even imagine??

The woman.

Spanked.

Me.

Now before everybody calls Goat Protective Services… it wasn’t hard. It was more of a “Miss Ma’am, we do NOT assault the staff” kind of tap.

Then she looked at me and said, “Bunn… that wasn’t nice. You hurt my feelings.”

Friends… I’d rather have been turned into goat cheese.

The guilt hit harder than I hit Mom.

I’ve spent the last two days replaying the incident in my head while staring dramatically into the pasture like I’m in a country music video.

To make matters worse, she LEFT ME HOME today and went kayaking with Kim and Mary. Didn’t even stop by the barn to tell me goodbye.

Honestly? Fair.

I earned that one.

Mom… if you’re reading this… I’m real sorry. These new goat hormones have me acting like somebody unplugged my common sense and replaced it with a cinder block.

You’re still my favorite person in the whole world. I promise I’ll try to keep my horns, my feelings, and my emotional support forehead to myself from now on.

Love,
Bunn

P.S. If anybody asks… tell them you got that bruise rescuing a family from a burning building. It’s way cooler than admitting you got body-checked by a 60-pound emotional support lawn mower.

07/04/2026

🇺🇸 FROM THE DESK OF BUNN 🇺🇸

Happy 250th Birthday to the greatest country this little goat has ever licked. 🇺🇸🐐

Now, I know what you’re thinking…

“Bunn… you’re just a goat. What could you possibly know about 250 years of American history?”

Quite a bit, actually.

I’ve listened to Mom ramble enough that I’ve become the family historian. Granted… she’s not exactly the person you’d want calling the shots on a history documentary.

Bless her heart.

She can’t do math.

Like… at all.

Yesterday she said, “Bunn, I think you weigh about 40 pounds.”

Ma’am…

I weigh 87.

You own a photography business. Numbers are apparently just decorative little squiggles that occasionally appear on invoices.

History, however? Different story.

Mom isn’t what you’d call a history buff.

She couldn’t tell you who signed what, when somebody crossed which river, or which war happened before the other one. If you asked her what year something happened she’d probably say…

“Definitely sometime after dinosaurs.”

And honestly?

That’s probably as close as you’re getting.

But here’s what she DOES know…

She knows this country has given her the freedom to build a business from absolutely nothing.

She knows she’s free to spend every day chasing sunsets with a camera around her neck.

She knows she gets to wake up on this little farm every morning surrounded by goats, cows, sheep, dogs, chickens, ducks, and whatever other creature she’s impulsively brought home this week because she looked at it for seventeen seconds and whispered…

“Well… I guess you live with us now.”

That’s America, baby.

Freedom.

Questionable financial decisions.

And emotional support livestock.

Now, me?

I would’ve made an exceptional Founding Father.

The Founding Goat, if you will.

George Washington had wooden teeth.

I have four stomachs.

Advantage: Bunn.

Paul Revere rode one horse yelling, “The British are coming!”

I would’ve been out there screaming…

“THE SNACKS ARE COMING!! THE SNACKS ARE COMING!! EVERYBODY PANIC!!”

The Boston Tea Party?

Please.

If goats had organized it, it would’ve been the Boston Feed Party.

Nothing would’ve gone into the harbor except kale that nobody wanted.

The Declaration of Independence would’ve been one sentence long:

“We the Goats, in order to nibble absolutely everything within reach, find these truths to be self-evident…”

Honestly… I think it would’ve held up in court.

So today I’m floating around my patriotic swimming pool looking like the founding influencer of Freedom™ with my sunglasses on, my hooves crossed, and not a single responsibility in the world except judging everyone who forgot to bring me watermelon.

And while Mom may never remember dates, battles, or who signed what…

She’ll always stop what she’s doing when the National Anthem plays.

She tears up every single time military families are reunited.

She flies Old Glory proudly.

And she’s grateful every single day that this beautiful country gave a girl who can’t multiply without a calculator the chance to make a living creating art, loving animals, and somehow convincing thousands of people to follow the daily opinions of a goat.

Frankly…

That’s the most American thing I’ve ever heard.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a patriotic raft to captain, apples to demand, and the freedom to scream at absolutely nothing for no apparent reason.

🦅🇺🇸

God Bless America… and God Bless whoever invented animal crackers. Those people deserve their own national holiday. 🐐❤️🤍💙

06/04/2026

FROM THE DESK OF BUNN

Well… before we go any further, I'd like you to meet Elliott. He's the tiny sheep currently wandering the farm looking like he misplaced an important document and isn't sure who to ask for help.

Mom spent three and a half business days, seventeen family debates, approximately forty-seven name suggestions from the internet, and an unhealthy amount of staring at him while whispering, "But who ARE you?" before finally accepting what the rest of us already knew:

✨ Elliott. ✨

Now listen… Mom really liked the name Rupert. REALLY liked it.

But every time she'd sit with him, rub his little fuzzy head, kiss his tiny sheep lips (yes, on the lips... because we're not livestock, we're her children) and stare deeply into his soul like she's conducting a personality interview for a Fortune 500 company, she kept saying: "Nope. He's Elliott. I can just feel it."

So Elliott it is.

And honestly? She's right. The kid is about as Elliott as an Elliott can get.

He's low-key… polite.. quiet.. doesn't start drama. Frankly, it's suspicious.

Meanwhile I'm over here making poor decisions and eating things I shouldn't. 🤭

Elliott spends most of his day delicately nibbling clover like he's attending a garden brunch… which is great because we have approximately nine million acres of clover this year.

His current challenge in life is figuring out the automatic waterer… watching him attempt this has become one of my favorite hobbies.

Every few hours he wanders over, stares at it, stares at the water, stares at the pump mechanism, stares at the water again, and then walks away looking like he just failed a college entrance exam.

You'll get there, buddy… we're rooting for you.

The real entertainment started on Day Two. Mom decided it was Bath Day.

Every animal that arrives here eventually experiences what I can only describe as The Initiation.

First you settle in… then Mom starts feeding you snacks… then she tells you how handsome or beautiful you are… then suddenly you're getting scrubbed in a wash tub while she's yelling things like:

"SHEEP-Y HOLD STILL!"

"SHEEP-Y WE'RE ALMOST DONE!"

"SHEEP-Y PLEASE COOPERATE!"

At the time he didn't even have a name yet, so his legal government name was apparently Sheep-y.

The bath itself was spectacular. There was bucking… there was head-butting… there was splashing… there was Mom questioning her life choices… there was Elliott questioning HER life choices. 😂

Honestly it was one of the funniest things I've witnessed all season. I've included photographic evidence for your enjoyment.

The good news is he came out looking like a tiny cloud with legs.

A very angry cloud… but a cloud nonetheless.

He was also a huge hit at the wedding this weekend!

Of course so was I… and Pádraig. We're basically celebrities at this point. 🤷🏻‍♀️

Mom was nice enough to turn off the electric fence so wedding guests could pet us… which was thoughtful.

Because sometimes... and I don't have proof of this... But SOMETIMES... Mom leaves the fence on.

I suspect she finds the occasional surprise zap considerably funnier than she should.

Especially after someone's parent says, "Don't touch that part." and then they immediately touch that part.

Anyway… that's between us. Don't narc.

Other than that, not much is new around here.

Wedding season is in full swing, which means Mom has disappeared into the studio cave where she survives primarily on coffee, editing, and sheer determination.

The garden looks absolutely ridiculous this year… best it's ever looked. And yet... I am STILL not allowed inside.

Apparently "all the flowers are perfectly blooming" and "Bunn has the self-control of a raccoon at a buffet."

Which feels hurtful… accurate, but hurtful.

At least Mom gives me all the weeds she pulls.

Honestly? The weeds are delicious. So I'm trying not to take it too personally.

Anyway… Welcome to the farm, Elliott. You've joined a strange little gang.

But you're loved here already… even if your first official memory is being chased around a wash tub by a woman yelling "SHEEP-Y!"

Love,
Bunn 🐐

Vice President of Poor Decisions
Head of Public Relations
Professional Clover Consultant

04/23/2026

From the Desk of Bunn, Pasture Princess, Currently in Her “Soft-Launch My New Teeth” Era

Hi… Hello….

Yes, I’m aware. I’ve been missing from social media… the streets are talking. The goats are whispering. The ducks have formed a committee.

And while I would LOVE to say I’ve been on a luxurious sabbatical in the clover fields of self discovery…I regret to inform you it is, in fact, far more tragic.

I am… losing my teeth.

My tiny. Delicate. Precious. Baby teeth.

Gone… evicted… dropping like poorly planned fence posts.

And in their place?

Aggressive… fully committed… adult chompers.
Teeth that say, “I pay taxes now” and “I could absolutely win in a fight with a cardboard box.”

NO ONE prepared me for this.

One day I’m a dainty little woodland princess nibbling petals like a lady… Next thing I know I’m in the pasture like, “Why do I look like I could bite through a seatbelt?”

It’s been… uhhh, ummm… a journey.

An awkward, slightly lopsided, emotionally complex journey.

I’ve been trying to smile for photos and it’s giving…
half sweet angel baby, half retired pirate.

And Mom?

Ohhhhh, Mom…

She looks at me with those soft, reassuring eyes and goes, “Bunn, you are still so beautiful. Growth is something you do in confidence.”

Ma’am…

You have had the same teeth your entire adult life.
Respectfully, you are not in your “surprise face rearrangement” era.

But I do appreciate the sentiment. I really do. Because somehow… this woman is constantly growing. Mentally… emotionally… spiritually… And she just… glows through it like a well-lit bridal suite at golden hour.

Meanwhile I’m out here feeling a little… frumpy. A little wibbly-wobbly. Like a croissant that didn’t emotionally prepare for expansion.

So I’ve been practicing…

Channeling my inner Mom. Strutting the pasture. Head high. Confidence radiating. Smiling… but like… subtly. Mysteriously. Giving “you don’t need to see all the teeth to know they exist.”

It’s a work in progress.

Also… quick side note… would it have KILLED her to warn me???

Like a simple, “Hey Bunn, heads up, your entire mouth is about to reinvent itself.” Maybe schedule a little goat dentist consult? A pamphlet? A vision board? A support group???

But no. Just vibes and surprise dentistry over here.

It’s fine… I’ve processed it. I forgive her. I am evolving.

And honestly… the best part?

Bramble and Paddy? They do. not. care. Not even a little…

Those two hype me up like I’m walking a runway in Paris… not awkwardly chewing hay like it personally offended me.

Bramble looks at me like I hung the moon. ❤️ Paddy tells me I’m beautiful while standing there shaped like a sentient ottoman with bangs. 🐂

And together, we are still ✨the three best friends that anyone could have✨

A very small gang. A slightly tooth-chaotic gang (I mean, has Mom shown you Paddy’s teeth yet… yowza). But a loyal, ride-or-die, pasture-roaming gang nonetheless.

Mom’s in it too, obviously. She’s like… management.

So yes… that’s where I’ve been.

Healing. Growing. Becoming a stronger, more powerful version of myself… one tooth at a time.

And when I return to posting regularly, just know… I will be smiling.

Maybe not fully smiling. But confidently, strategically, emotionally evolved smiling.

Respect the journey.

Respect the teeth.

Respect the growth.

Warm regards,
Bunn

Pasture Princess,
Teeth Transition Specialist,
Still Beautiful, Just Slightly More Bite-Forward 🐐✨

03/26/2026

From the Desk of Bunn, LLC
Resident Artist. Snack Critic. Part-Time Garden “Helper.” Full-Time Icon.

So apparently Mom has decided she’s a watercolor artist now… which is adorable. Truly. We love a late-blooming creative queen. 🌸

But let’s be very clear about something…
She did not embark on this artistic journey alone.

No, no. She was immediately enrolled in a dual-instructor program featuring me.

Because if there’s one thing I refuse to allow, it’s Mom discovering a new hobby that doesn’t revolve around me being involved, admired, or occasionally fed snacks during.

So now we watercolor. Together. Like the cultured, sun-drenched creatives we are.

And let me just say… I am exceptional.

People love to bring up the “but Bunn, you don’t have thumbs” narrative… and honestly? That feels like limiting language. I don’t have thumbs, correct. But I do have vision. I have emotion. I have hooves that refuse to be silenced.

My technique? Bold. Expressive. Slightly chaotic.
Some would say my brush strokes resemble “accidental hoof drags across wet paper,” but those people lack depth.

I specialize in sunset swirly rainbow masterpieces. Pinks, purples, oranges, yellows… the kind of colors that make you feel like you just licked a Lisa Frank folder and had a spiritual awakening.

Side note… because I am also incredibly thoughtful and generous: For Mom’s birthday, I collaborated with Liz… my Mom’s human bestie all the way in Oregon… and we secured what I can only describe as a museum-worthy, Lisa Frank–style portrait of yours truly.

It’s going in Mom’s studio office. Right above her computer. Front and center. Where it belongs.

So even when she’s working… we’re still together.
She gets to look up and see me in all my neon, majestic, sparkly, rainbow glory… while I’m outside the window, absolutely demolishing hydrangeas like it’s my full-time job.

And between you and me… this isn’t just sentimental. It’s strategic.

I know for a fact that seeing me while she edits increases her productivity by at least 73%. Faster editing = faster workflow = faster return to her real responsibilities…

Like feeding me spicy Doritos.

You’re welcome for the efficiency boost, Mom. And thanks Liz for coming up with the most epic present for Mom… you’re the best!

Anyway…

Mom sets up out by the venue, the sun hits just right, there’s a little breeze, and I lay there like the muse I am… occasionally stepping directly onto her painting to “add dimension.”

You’re welcome, Mom.

But I’ve been noticing something lately…

She keeps talking about gardening season and wedding season like those are… important.

Which feels suspicious.

Because last I checked, our daily schedule was:
1. Lay in sun
2. Be admired
3. Paint like tortured artists
4. Eat snacks
5. Repeat

And now suddenly it’s:
“Bunn, we have to prep the venue.”
“Bunn, I need to clean up the garden beds.”
“Bunn, please stop eating the new plants.”

Excuse me??? I thought this was a collaborative effort.

To be fair, I do help with gardening cleanup.
It’s actually one of my strongest skill sets.

Crispy leaves? Gone.
Fresh little buds? Also gone.
Low hanging greenery? Don’t even worry about it.

I call it “selective pruning.”
The plants call it something else, but they don’t have a platform, so.

Now… let’s talk about the hairy meatball in the pasture.

Yes. Paddy.
Also known as: The Meat Boulder. The Pasture Ornament. The Walking Throw Blanket.

I’ll admit… at first I had my concerns.
He’s large. He’s fuzzy. He has the energy of a decorative rug that came to life.

But lately?
I get it.

He’s actually kind of my people.

He just lays around. Eats snacks. Accepts belly rubs like it’s his full-time job. Keeps things low drama.

We’ve bonded over our shared interests:
• Mom (our favorite human, obviously)
• Carrots (elite snack)
• Animal cookies (the cornerstone of our relationship)

Specifically… the hippo ones. 🦛

Which raises an important question…

Why do we not have a hippo here?

I’ve seen the cookies. I know they exist.
Little round, chunky, snack-shaped icons.

I would very much like to meet one in person.
Maybe become friends. Maybe form a snack-based alliance.

However, based on Dad’s previous reactions to… literally everything… I have a feeling “bringing a hippo home” is going to be met with unnecessary negativity.

Unfortunate.

Anyway, back to my art career.

I’ve truly hit my stride.
Despite the ongoing anti-hoof bias in the art community, I have persevered.

My color palettes? Immaculate.
My emotional depth? Unmatched.
My ability to accidentally step in wet paint and track it across three additional surfaces? Revolutionary.

So yes… while Mom heads into her “busy season,” I will be here.

Soaking up every last sunny watercolor day.
Mentoring her through her artistic journey.
Casually improving all of her work with my presence.

And then transitioning seamlessly into my next role:

Director of Garden Cleanup & Snack Acquisition.

It’s a lot of responsibility, but I’m nothing if not committed.

Now if you’ll excuse me…
I have a painting to finish and a plant to eat.

Priorities.

With paint on my hooves, snacks on my mind, and absolutely no intention of stopping either,
Bunn

Resident Artist, Hydrangea Taste Tester, & Director of Snack-Fueled Productivity 🎨🌸🍪

03/07/2026

From the Desk of Bunn, Pasture Princess & Director of Gift Evaluation 🐐

Well…

It has come to my attention that Dad has decided to absolutely show the rest of us up in the birthday gift department this year.

Mom’s birthday is coming up, and while most normal husbands bring home things like flowers… jewelry… maybe a nice dinner reservation…

Dad brought home a miniature Highland cow.

His name is Pádraig.

Now apparently, according to the humans, Pádraig is Patrick in Scottish.

Did I know that? No.
Did I try to pronounce it correctly the first time? Also no.

The first time Mom said it out loud I attempted to repeat it and what came out sounded like “Paw-drig… Patter-dig… Puddle-rig…”

Speaking with a Scottish accent is not exactly my forte. In my defense, I am a goat… from Illinois.

So until I can properly roll my R’s like a Highlander standing dramatically on a windy cliff somewhere, I will simply be referring to him as:

The Hairy Meatball
The Meat Boulder
The Pasture Ornament

Which, if you ask me, are far easier to pronounce and much more accurate descriptions.

Now listen. I’m not saying the gift is excessive… but when Dad unloaded a walking throw rug with legs into the pasture, I realized the bar for birthday gifts has been launched into the stratosphere and I, quite frankly, was not emotionally prepared.

Because you see…

I have ALSO been working on a birthday gift for Mom.

Mine is hoof-made.

Which, for the record, is much harder than handmade because hooves are not designed for crafting. Nobody talks about this.

For weeks now I have been secretly working on my project out in the pasture whenever Mom isn’t looking. Do you know how hard it is to create something meaningful while Bramble is trying to eat the supplies and the chickens keep judging your technique?

Very hard.

Anyway… now Dad rolls in with the Meat Boulder and suddenly my gift is looking a little…

…less impressive.

I mean how exactly do you compete with a Scottish s**g carpet that moos?

You don’t.

You simply do your best.

So when Mom opens my gift and it maybe looks a little… rustic… slightly chewed… and potentially still covered in grass… just remember:

It was made with love.
It was made with dedication.
It was made with hooves.

And frankly, that hairy meatball better not take all the credit for making Mom happy this birthday.

Because some of us have been working very hard out here in the pasture.

Anyway. I must go supervise the meat boulder before he eats my crafting materials… again.

Warmest regards,
Bunn
Pasture Princess
Senior Gift Consultant
Hoof-Made Artisan
Mom’s Favorite (verified data)
And Currently Competing With A Hairy Meatball For Birthday Glory 🐐

03/05/2026

From the Desk of Bunn: Animal Crackers, Salt & Vinegar Chips, and a Cow That Said “Absolutely Not”

Hello to all my loyal subjects, admirers, and people who accidentally followed this account because they liked one goat photo and now they’re stuck here forever…

It has been a BUSY week here on the farm and, as usual, I have been at the center of most of the chaos… mostly because I place myself there intentionally. Leadership requires visibility.

First things first… Let’s address the snack situation, which frankly has been absolutely outstanding lately.

Mom has been showing up to the barn with her coat pockets absolutely stuffed full of animal crackers like some sort of suspicious wildlife smuggler. She thinks she’s being subtle about it too... She’ll stroll in all casual, sing us all a little tune, glance around like she’s in a spy movie… and then suddenly BOOM… fistfuls of animal crackers for me and Bramble when no one else is looking.

Obviously this confirms what I have suspected all along… She loves us the most.

I mean… she loves everyone (well, not everyone, but all of us four-legged friends)… but we are the favorites. It’s science. 🤷🏻‍♀️

Bramble and I accept this responsibility with grace and humility, obviously.

Now… onto the Great Cow Debacle of 2026, which truly deserves its own documentary.

Mom and Dad decided they needed to load Jersey into the livestock trailer. I’m not entirely sure where she was going… but I have some suspicions involving the butcher that I will NOT be announcing publicly because the cows are already a nervous bunch and I’m not trying to start a panic in the pasture.

Anyway… You should have seen these two out there trying to lure Jersey into the trailer like amateur magicians.

First they tried corn. Then extra hay. Then more corn.

Nothing. 😆

Jersey stood there looking at them like they were two deeply confused houseplants.

Dad starts getting frustrated because he had to time trade a couple hours to help Mom load the cow, and Mom doesn’t love getting too close to those horns sometimes, so now everyone’s patience is thinning (just like my Dad’s hair).

At one point Dad hollers across the field:

“THESE COWS WANT SNACKS ANY OTHER TIME BUT NOT WHEN WE NEED THEM TO WANT THEM.”

Which I personally thought was an excellent observation.

So he tells Mom to go to the house and grab some “sweet treats.”

Now when Mom left, I assumed she’d come back with something reasonable… Maybe apples… Maybe grain. Maybe, you know… food cows actually eat.

But no. Mom returns carrying a loaf of bread, a bag of Cuties oranges, and a bag of salt and vinegar chips.

I’m still not entirely sure what the strategic plan was there… but let me tell you something…

She shared those chips with me and they were FANTASTIC. Crunchy. Tangy. A little spicy. 10/10 experience. Would absolutely eat again.

Unfortunately, the cows were less impressed.

Eventually our neighbor Dave came over to help.

The cows didn’t like him either. 🐄 🚫

At this point someone mentioned that Jersey was supposedly going to Mr. and Mrs. Carter’s place. Now … whether that means their pasture or their refrigerator is frankly none of my business and I will not be speculating further.

Anyway, after the cows finished eating everything in Mom’s snack arsenal, they just wandered around their pasture like they always do.

Still no trailer action.

Then, about thirty minutes later… JoJo walked straight into the trailer.

Huge mistake.

The gate slammed shut.

Mom and Dad looked at each other and basically said: “Well… that’s not the right cow… but what’s done is done.”

And that was the end of that.

Humans are fascinating creatures. Truly.

I love watching the way their little brains work. It’s like observing two raccoons trying to assemble furniture.

Naturally, I was in the middle of the entire operation, being a Pasture Princess Menace, because standing quietly off to the side is not a lifestyle I subscribe to.

Now on to the Buttercup Situation…

I’m sure y’all have seen photos of her (instead of me) on Facebook, Insta and Snap… but Mom currently has a tiny little goatie living inside the house.

Her name is Buttercup and she’s recovering because Naomi, who is a first-time mom, apparently decided she only liked one of her children and kicked poor Buttercup to the curb.

Rude.

But Mom is bottle feeding her and nursing her back to health like she always does.

I will admit I’m a little jealous of the in-house snuggle treatment… but I understand the assignment. Buttercup needs it right now.

Besides… I am Mom’s right-hand woman out here.

Someone has to run this operation and manage the herd of simple-minded goats wandering around this place.

Also… who would snuggle my handsome boo Bramby if I wasn’t here?

Honestly that goat is so handsome it should be illegal.

A little loud with the screaming sometimes… but I put up with it because he lets me nuzzle his soft, beautiful ears.

Love requires sacrifice.

Anyway… That’s the latest farm news.

Mom’s birthday is coming up in a couple days and apparently she’s turning FORTY. 🎉

Holy goat.

That is extremely old.

I’m currently helping Dad plan her birthday party, which mostly involves making sure there are snacks and supervising the decorations.

It’s a lot of responsibility, but leadership has never scared me.

Alright, I’ve gotta go… there are animal crackers to locate, Bramble ears to nuzzle, and a birthday party to plan.

Stay chaotic,
Bunn

01/23/2026

From the Desk of Bunn

One Year Old. 🎈 🎉 🥳 🎂 Still a Medical Miracle. Still Unemployed.

Alright, everyone settle in. This is not a recap. This is a victory lap.

Today I turn ONE YEAR OLD, which feels honestly fake considering I entered this world like a half-assembled IKEA project. I was born on the coldest day of the year, which feels on-brand considering today is also the coldest day of the year. Consistency matters. I came early. Premature. Fashionably unprepared. My hooves were basically soft suggestions. No teeth. No standing. No dignity. I couldn’t even wobble. I was less “goat” and more “tiny questionable marshmallow with ears.” I could barely exist. For three straight days I just laid there like, I hope someone knows what they’re doing.

Luckily, Mom did.

She scooped me up and brought me inside the house, where I became a full-time indoor crisis. Warm towels. Bottles. No sleep. Constant monitoring. Meanwhile I contributed nothing except tiny noises and emotional stress. Honestly, iconic of me.

But I made it.
And once I decided to live, I went all in.

Since then, I have lived an entire lifetime in my twelve short months.

I’ve ridden shotgun on side-by-side adventures with Mom like a tiny outlaw, wind in my ears, absolutely unconcerned with safety or speed. I have survived the Great Turkey Incident, which I will remind everyone involved was NOT funny at the time. That bird had audacity. That bird had intentions. That bird chased Nana, and frankly, that was unacceptable behavior. I stood my ground. Emotionally. From a safe distance.

I’ve chewed off a literal chunk of Aunt Allie’s hair, which I still believe was justified because it was there and I was curious. Zero regrets. Would sample again.

I have rang the Salvation Army bell in full sparkle mode, collected donations, accepted snacks, and casually made the news like it was no big deal. I met children. I met fans. I accepted head scratches like a benevolent ruler greeting her people. I understood my calling in that moment. Philanthropy looks good on me.

I’ve adventured with Mom, Dad, Nana, Aunt Allie, Uncle Austin, and my two favorite tiny humans, Cam and Bean, who bring me snacks and chaos and whom I love deeply even when they’re loud and sticky. 💕

I’ve watched the wedding venue bloom every weekend from my pasture throne. Chairs appear. Flowers multiply. Brides float around glowing. And I stand there thinking, Yes. I’ll allow all this joy. 💒

I’ve perfected my snuggle technique. I’ve refined my side-eye. I’ve become emotionally attached to the sound of treat containers. Growth. 🙌🏼

And then there’s Bramble. 🥰
My boyfriend. My barn sweetheart. My growing, strapping young lad. His barn snuggles are elite. His nose kisses are top tier. Almost as good as Mom’s. Almost. Please do not repeat this sentence to her.

So here I am.
One year old. 🎉
Born too early. Born freezing. Born fragile. 🥶
Raised warm, loved hard, and now living loudly. 🔥
Still snacking.
Still standing.
Still absolutely running this farm emotionally.

Here’s to another year of supervising weddings, stealing snacks, causing minor chaos, loving my people, dodging turkeys, riding side-by-sides, ringing bells for good causes, and continuing to act like I am in charge.

Anyway,
Happy Birthday to me.

Signing off,
Bunn 🐐✨

The Daily Bleat with Bunn

07/24/2026

07/04/2026

06/04/2026

04/23/2026

03/26/2026

03/07/2026

03/05/2026

01/23/2026

Address

Website

Alerts

Shortcuts

Share

Category

Listing takedown request