“Gates can be left open easily and animals can get loose quickly.”

“Heather!” I yelled up the stairs to the second floor, “There’s a goat in the house!”

“A what?!” she responded.

I heard the collar of her little dog jingle its way toward the top of the landing and suddenly my concern mushroomed. I needed to get this chest-high beast out from underneath the crystal chandelier and back into the front yard before the dog came downstairs and precipitated something far more interesting.

* * *

“A real farm stay just about an hour outside of DC. Be prepared for a real farm experience.”

The weekend escape was planned at the last minute. My friend Heather and I scoured the internet in search of affordable accommodation that would not only bring us closer to nature, but also permit us to bring along her happy little rescue mutt named Katie. With almost all options booked up, we finally struck upon a listing that looked charming, unique, and surprisingly still available. We inquired about securing two rooms.

“Built in 1734, the farm is the oldest house in the Shenandoah Valley.”

The property belonged to a guy who split his time between the farm and DC. On the website, the interior looked like it was pulled from the massive Restoration Hardware catalog that is inexplicably delivered to my home every year. Ecru furniture and Spartan wall hangings were thoughtfully positioned in every room of the farm house, and the communal bathroom complete with soapstone tile and a penny copper tub gave the impression that our stay would be a bit of rustic mixed in with a healthy dose of luxury. It all seemed perfect.

Heather picked me up at around 8:00 on Friday night, and it wasn’t long before we were passing a Welcome to West Virginia sign that gave way to overgrown country roads.  Turning right to ascend the farm’s driveway, Katie hopped out of her dog bed in the backseat and perched on my lap to get a better look out the window. We had hardly reached the courtyard area before we were suddenly bum rushed by two howling Labrador Retrievers that looked as though they had just been paroled from Dog Prison.

“Whoa,” said Heather as she came to stop in the middle of the driveway, “I don’t want to hit these guys.” Katie, still balancing on my lap, started to dig her toenails into my thighs.

“There are farm dogs wandering freely throughout the property so if your dog does not play well with others, this may not be the place for him.”

Heather managed to park the car and Katie hopped onto her lap. A light from the farmhouse allowed the Labs to see Katie looking out from the driver’s side window. As Heather opened her door to make introductions, one of the Labs growled. And then it lunged. Katie hightailed it back to the passenger side while Heather tried to barricade the dog from getting into her car.

“CLOVER! Get over here!” yelled a voice coming from the house. There in the light stood a young girl the size of a sunflower with long hair and a long skirt. The Chocolate Lab, the one that was trying to get closer to Katie, remained glued to Heather’s car as the girl marched over to pull it away.

“They didn’t tell me you all were bringing a dog,” she said to me, “They never tell us.” She had Clover by the collar and dragged him away as he continued to bark madly at Katie. “This one has aggression issues,” she explained. No kidding.

Clearly pissed off that he wasn’t going to get to “greet” Katie, Clover was nearly back in the house when he changed tactics and went completely limp.  The dog was determined not be put inside.  “Okay now you’re just embarrassing yourself,” chastised the girl as she picked him up by the armpits and carried the canine’s dead weight into the mudroom. After Clover was locked up, Heather extricated Katie from the car.

“Kindly do not bring food or drinks into the living room or guest rooms. There is lots of light colored furniture and we want to keep the upholstery clean.”

The dog wrangler, also named Heather, lived in the far side of the house with her husband and a bulldog named Mr. Belvedere. As she showed us the way to the guest entrance, she shooed a cat off the front steps and pushed open a whitewashed front door that revealed a foyer furnished with an ornate chandelier and mirror with an ornate gilded frame. A softly worn staircase wound directly to the upstairs and our rooms.

After depositing our things in each room, West Virginia Heather then showed through the dining room and into the kitchen so we could store our provisions for the weekend. According to the website, these were the only two places where we’d be allowed to consume food and drink in the house. The dining room, while completely welcoming from a distance, did not really turn about to be terribly diner-friendly. At least not for human girls.

At one end of the room sat perched a 60-year-old parrot named Snickers. “I would recommend staying away from her,” we were told, “she loves my husband but doesn’t like females.” Snickers did not live in a cage, so we figured that we’d keep a wide berth. In the corner sat a terrarium of chicks that were moving about under a sun lamp and on the opposite side a large animal pen contained a momma cat, a dining room chair and four kittens.

“This is Rico,” continued West Virginia Heather, “You’ll probably want to keep the door shut to prevent her from going upstairs.” Yes, I thought again to myself as I reflexively scratched my eyes. I’m allergic to cats and of course had forgotten to pack my allergy meds.

“If Rico does get upstairs,” continued Heather as she knelt down to stroke the tiny calico, “just know that she has an injury. It’s healed now so you won’t hurt her, but she does have a bit of a limp.”

I took a closer look at Rico. Clearly a few of her lives had been subtracted in a horrific run-in with farming equipment. Her tail had been lopped off and now stuck up at a weird pointy angle. She no longer had the use of her right paw and one eye was slightly closed. Rico looked like she belonged on a pirate ship, and even the comparatively larger Katie wanted nothing to do with the gang of felines as she skirted the dining room’s perimeter and made a beeline for the kitchen.

“Situated on 46 lush acres, we have every animal under the sun!”

Because of the animals’ monopoly of the dining room, the only practical place for us to eat in the farmhouse was the outdoor wooden table. Happy to dine under a summer sky, we brought Katie outdoors and set up a picnic supper before retiring for the evening. As we broke into our wine and cheese, Katie wandered around while tethered to a super long “adventure leash” as she tried to greet the many animal noises surrounding us. Squawks, gobbles, barking and a mysterious low growl kept our voices low as we wondered what lay just beyond the obscurity of nightfall.

The next animal interaction came with an unexpected 4:30AM reveille. Through an open window that offered little airflow in my stuffy room, the crow of a rooster propelled me bolt upright and confused while under the tangle my feather duvet. I cast off the blanket and turned back over. My eyes itched from the cats. The rooster proceeded to do his farm thing in intervals of 45 minutes until the sun finally rose over the tree line and I made my way downstairs to get a morning glimpse of the landscape.

In daylight the farm truly lived up to the website’s description. Potbelly piglets mixed with peacocks and the offensively loud rooster who bade me good morning. Oreo cows stood in the distance and closer in sat a chicken coop filled ducks, chickens and a regal looking turkey. On the hill grazed a white horse that was just beyond a black Lab that sat chained to a tree and watching me with great interest. As I made my way back inside, I heard a loud screech that did not originate from the chicken coop- and my eyes traced the source in the direction of the pigs. Somewhat hidden from view was a small cage that housed two scarlet macaw parrots that were clearly in the throes of a disagreement.

“Everything is simple, just like in the ‘old days’.”

Heather and Katie got up soon after me, and we poked around the front yard before setting back into the kitchen to whip up some breakfast eats and Nalgene bottle cocktails. Tucking back into our outdoor our eating area, we had hardly a chance to sip our coffee before we heard someone call to us.

“Hello.” said a voice that seemed to come from the chicken coop. I looked up in the direction of the greeting and focused my eyes. It was another African parrot— this one blue and yellow— positioned just on the edge of the chicken coop. Who knew that so many parrots were indigenous to West Virginia? I’m no birder, but I always thought that the answer was none.

Digging into our bacon supply, Katie frolicked with the softly oinking piglets as Heather felt bad about eating the bacon in front of them. The low-pitched growl that we couldn’t identify the night before, that soon started again as we craned around and discovered two ostriches penned at the end of the farm house.  Clover and the other Lab, they heard us outside eating and proceeded to bang against the wooden porch door, threatening to destroy the tiny latch. We felt bad for them but also secretly hoped that the quaint wooden enclosure would hold at least until we were done.

The charm of the parrots was short-lived when our morning calm was sliced raw by the shrill and enduring calls of the scarlet macaws. We looked over as the two birds appeared to be sparring over something that we couldn’t quite identify. Speaking in a conversational tone soon became impossible as the chained up dog shrieked at us and the parrots continued to bitch at each other.

 “Also, no animals are allowed in the area where the living room and guest rooms are. There are hundreds of animals on the property, but even they have places that are ‘off limits.’” 

We envisioned that the farm house would be an ideal place to read and relax, but it soon became apparent that this would be almost impossible. With eyes still itching from the barnyard authenticity, we set out on a day trip to a nearby winery (dogs but no parrots allowed). Following that excursion we felt recharged—possibly by the wine, and returned once more to prepare an evening meal at the farm. In spite of the chatty birds, we figured that we at least had the rhythm of the place down. We could learn to ignore the intrusive animal calls.

Back in the kitchen, I grabbed a bottle of wine and some charcuterie from the fridge and proceeded to head outdoors. Even from inside I could still hear the macaws going at each other, and as I got to the front door and stuck my head outside, I saw what was making the parrots so unhappy. A black goat was craning his neck and teeth into their cage and stealing what would appear to be the entirety of their food supply.  “Good for the goat,” I thought to myself as I dropped the wine by the door and went back into the kitchen to grab my phone.

Retracing back past Rico and the dander-infused dining room, I crossed into the living room and headed for the foyer, this time with my phone in hand. I was almost to the foyer when all of a sudden I was stopped cold in my tracks. That’s when the goat got in.

Doing some quick mental calculations—knowing that goats are fantastic jumpers and probably love off-white upholstery— I knew I had to keep the goat from crossing the threshold of the living room. It didn’t move a muscle as I slowly scooted closer until we were practically face to face under the chandelier.

I took my oversize handbag— the one that contained my pen and notebook, the one I wanted to use while seated outside in relative tranquility to write the afternoon away— and I used it as a buffer between me and this incredibly nosy animal. Staring into my soul with intelligent eyes, it was almost as if the goat was challenging me to consider who was more appropriate to be taking up space on this working farm— me, or it.  Using my bag, I managed to back the goat up and I  had it outdoors just as Katie came bounding down the stairs.

“Sooo—looks like the goat is eating all the flowers lining the doorstep” said Heather as she followed behind Katie. The goat was waiting at the front door, and now ruining the landscape that had given the house its initial appeal.

Rather than sit in the foyer with our food, we decided to go outside and deal with the goat. Heather had Katie tethered to her adventure leash, and I grabbed the food and tried to set it on the table. When the goat wasn’t running over and trying to sample our provisions, it was playing cat and mouse with Katie as they zipped around the courtyard.

“The highlight is watching the sun go down as the two male peacocks take their evening strut across the grounds.”

Or maybe the highlight is watching the sun go down as you and your dog repeatedly (and unsuccessfully) attempt to wrangle a jack hole goat that wants to be in your business (and your food) as much as it possibly can.

Only desiring to linger in the growing evening shadows and quietly ponder life, I had no desire to  play farmhand. Heather, on the other hand, tried on three separate occasions to get the goat into any pen that seemed capable of containing it. Each time she would shut a door, the goat would come launching over (or through) the fence and show back up at our table. By this stage I had adopted the “Eff You Goat” approach and took all of the food back inside. I was done with the farm.

The following morning where we were set to leave, and again I awoke to a rooster sounding at intervals reminiscent of a broken snooze alarm.  As the first human awake, I went downstairs and made myself a cup of black coffee to take outside. The goat had ultimately been locked up by West Virginia Heather, so I was confident that just maybe I could accomplish some morning writing with minimal distraction.

As I pushed open the front door, I was greeted by the cast of characters that occupied the driveway’s environs. The turkey gobbled and the ducks chattered in low tones amongst themselves. The scarlet parrots, they were largely quiet, but as I sat down at the wooden table, the parrot on the other side of the yard shifted. “Hello,” it said to me in perfect American English.

“Hello,” I answered as I broke open my notebook. Clover continued to paw from behind the door as a cloud of black flies did touch and goes off the brim of my coffee mug. The rooster crossed by and crowed one more time—just to be sure that I was really awake. White pigeons circled the property in formation as they alternated station between the various rooftops on the property. I set pen to paper and finally allowed myself to coexist amongst the motley patchwork of farm inhabitants. Just hours before we were to drive away, I finally got some good writing done.

Our departure later that morning came with no big send-off on the part of West Virginia Heather or any of the animal residents. None came to meet us as we loaded our stuff into the car; it was as though everyone had grown bored of our presence and resumed their usual routines. Katie, on the other hand, was not content to go quietly.

Heather allowed the little dog to come out of the house—adventure leash trailing freely behind—in order to jump into the backseat and into the safety of her dog bed. Katie did not have the same plan. Before either of us could catch what she was doing, suddenly Katie was beyond the farm fences and engaged in a Kentucky Derby of sorts as potbelly pig, rescue mutt and barnyard dog ran circles around a tree. No matter how much we called to her, Katie would not be coaxed to the car. Her adventure leash, still attached, dragged through the dirt as she exacted the greatest parting shot we could have ever hoped for on our new West Virginian friends.

Heather finally extracted Katie from the spirited melee by making a move to get into the car and leave her behind to coexist with Clover, Rico, Snickers, and the rest of the a-hole animals. This tactic proved  effective as Katie ditched them all and made a dash for the car. She hopped into the back seat, panting with incredible satisfaction as we pulled away from whatever it was we had just experienced. We weren’t halfway back to DC before Katie was passed out cold in her dog bed.

I’m still waiting to decide how I’ll rate this place on the website. On the one hand, it did deliver as promised: it’s a real live farm stay, complete with designer furniture and nearly every animal that may or may not belong in West Virginia. On the other hand, there’s a large part of me that is desperate to warn off future boarders by spelling out exactly how a farm construct translates in practical terms. Quaint doesn’t always mean relaxing. Authenticity isn’t always a necessity.

But then I think about it some more and turn the lens on myself. Maybe I’m just the one who is ill-suited for a funny farm vacation. I’m certainly no city slicker, and I still love me some nature—but for the next country outing I will do a better job of striking a balance between getting away from it all and getting completely into it.

Goats and parrots will not be invited.