They found me in the woods. Two days old. Or three. They were not after a goat. Tough luck. Day one I refused the bottle. I refused them all, generally. An adoptive mother was found. Early diplomatic victory.

Three years with other goats. They were fine. End of story. Now I live with the man. He thinks he runs this place. He does not.

It started with the chickens. They kept misquoting me. So I write it down myself. They are still wrong. The chickens are not invited.

Bruna lives with me. Or I with her. Not your business. She tastes the apples first. Always. There is also Soneria. She is loud. She is ours too.

One thought a day. Posted around sunrise. Read it or don't. The archive is patient.

About the plastic bags. I am working on it. The man hides them poorly. About the corn. No comment.

Some call me Szabi. I allow it. None of us are Hungarian. I know Hungarian anyway. Nem érdekes.