Next I visit the goats. They look like wise old men, with their serious eyes and long beards. “Hi, Agatha. Hi, Christie,” I say. It feels a little strange to call boy goats female names. Mr. Townsend said he’d had to live with being called Bev all his life, so he figured a goat could handle it. Besides, people shouldn’t assign gender roles to animals. “Or people,” I said, without thinking. Mr. Townsend grinned and smacked me on the back. “Thatta girl,” he said. Which kind of did exactly that, but I didn’t say anything since I could tell his heart was in the right place.

The goats are way more eager to get their food than Ben and Gil. They go “Maaaaaa” and dance in circles while they wait for me to bring their grain. Then they almost tip over their buckets pressing their noses in. The goats do not smell good, like the horses do. Their poops are little pellet-type things that Mr. Townsend said I could rake into a pile in the corner of their pen for now. I have a feeling I’m going to be learning a lot about poop on this job.

When I get to the chickens, I start to have a sinking feeling. They look at me suspiciously from their coop, like they know I’m about to take away all the eggs they’re sitting on. I sprinkle a bunch of corn feed on the ground in their outdoor pen, then open the hatch to their coop. They come out slowly, marching in a little parade down the ramp. They look the same at first, but as I study them, I can see they are different sizes and move slightly differently.

The last hen out is the tiniest and looks a bit scruffy, like she’s been in a fight. Mr. Townsend said he’s still trying to come up with names for all of them and I was welcome to suggest some, but I’ll have to get to know them all before I can decide who’s named what. As soon as they’re all out, I grab the wicker basket by the door to their coop and go inside. It’s hot and stuffy and smells terrible. Chicken poop is definitely the worst poop so far.

I make my way to each nest, checking for eggs and taking what I find. The eggs are still warm, and some are dirty and it’s all pretty disgusting. Just as I’m about to reach for the last nest in the far corner, one of the chickens comes back through the little hatch and clucks at me. I try to step around her, but she pecks at my ankle.

“Hey!” I yell. She does it again. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s a little creepy. I think this one should be called Bossy.