It would have been hilarious to see them bleeding on my land if it hadn’t been mine.
Two grown men in matching black polos were crawling across my grass on their hands and knees, moaning and holding their shins like I had run them over with my truck. One of them, the big one with a stomach that was straining his flimsy belt, was crying out loud. The other one, who was tall and skinny and had a buzzcut that used to look nice before Carl got to him, continued yelling, “He’s got a ram! The insane guy has an attack ram!”
I leaned back in my porch rocking chair and took another careful sip of my sweet tea. I hoped my voice would help.
I told them, “Carl is a Rocky Mountain ram.” “And you boys are breaking the law.”
Buzzcut tried to stand up, but when he saw Carl behind him, who was scratching the ground near the dock like he was thinking about working overtime, he quickly concluded that crawling was the best way to get around. His knees slapped the grass again.
I said, “If I were you, I would move faster.” Carl is just getting started.
My older border collie, Buck, reclined at my feet with his tongue hanging out and watched the events with little interest. Daisy, his younger doppelganger, sat by the steps shaking with excitement, her eyes shining as if she believed this was the best live-action TV show she’d ever seen. The Nigerian dwarf goats stood in a line along the fence, eating cud, and looked sad that the fun might be coming to an end.
I’m Mitchell Harper. For fifteen years, I worked as a rodeo physician, sewing up cowboys who thought they could outsmart gravity. For ten more years, I worked as a farrier, hammering shoes onto horses that didn’t appreciate having their feet touched by strangers. I’ve seen a lot of bad choices in person. That afternoon, what was going on in my pasture was very important.
I dreamed of retiring to a ranch on the lake. Forty acres of Pine Ridge paradise, a long gravel driveway, and a view that people pay a lot of money to have printed on calendars. The morning mist rises off the ocean like something from a painting. Loons are calling. The way the sunlight hits the surface makes you think that maybe, just maybe, you didn’t waste your life.
When the real estate agent sold it to me, she used a lot of adjectives and teeth.
She had said, “exclusive community.” “Unspoiled nature.” Shared facilities. A homeowners’ association that is particularly active.
What she omitted to say was that Patricia Kendall had just been elected president of the HOA. She was a lady who made drill sergeants look like preschool instructors and thought her HOA title gave her the power of a petty dictator.
But that came after.
Right now, I saw two fools crawling toward a white vehicle with the words “PINE RIDGE SECURITY” emblazoned down the side in letters that looked like they had been pasted on by a teenager with a credit card and a vinyl cutter.
Carl, who weighed two hundred pounds and had horns, was back to eating like nothing had happened. His muscular neck went back and forth, breaking up clumps of grass with ease. If you didn’t know better, you could think he was simply another lucky farm animal with good genes.
If you did know better, you would stay out of the way of his horns.
I took my phone out of my pocket and made sure the video was still going. Yes, of course. In spectacular HD, every embarrassing inch of their retreat was being recorded, along with HOA “security” badges and the glaring red NO TRESPASSING sign on my locked gate in the backdrop.
I swiped the keyboard and called 911.
“911, what’s the problem?” The dispatcher asked in a calm, trained voice.
“Hi there,” I replied in a kind way, rocking back and forth as the hefty one let out another dramatic sigh. “I have two males who broke into my property without permission, threatened my animals, and are currently crawling across my yard after my ram defended himself. I want to register a complaint against someone who is trespassing.
There was a break.
“Did you say that your ram fought back?” she inquired.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “They came in through my locked gate without my permission, said they were HOA security, and tried to steal my animals.” Carl, my ram, didn’t like it. “They’re both awake and moving, but they’re going really slowly and making a lot of noise.”
“We’ll send a unit out,” she answered, sounding like she was trying very hard not to ask any more questions. “Please stay on the scene.”
“Wouldn’t dream of leaving,” I said, and then I hung up.
The heavy one had gotten to the van and was attempting to figure out how to get into the driver’s seat without using his legs. Buzzcut was still crawling on his stomach across the grass, leaving a trail of compost and birdbath water behind him from where Carl had thrown him. He looked like a beast from the swamp attempting to get back into society.
Carl, bless his fuzzy heart, looked my way. I nodded at him. He snorted, shook his head once, and then went back to the vital task of eating.
Two mature guys calling my ram a demon sheep and crawling away on all fours is how we got here. It all started with a note.
Part 2
The note came exactly one week after I moved in.
I had just finished putting up fence posts with Buck and Daisy watching when I saw something leaning against my mailbox. The mailbox is outside my gate, next to the road. My land, but just barely. Someone had put a yard rake on top of the mail flag. There was a piece of paper taped to the handle of the rake.
I took it off and opened it up. Ink in purple. Big, tight letters that looked like they had been carved into the paper, as if the writer was stabbing it with a pen.
Dear Mr. Harper,
I have learned that you are keeping illegal animals on your premises. “Ornamental pets only” is clearly stated in Section 3.1A of the Pine Ridge Estates Covenants. You have 72 hours to get rid of your goats and that horned monster.
If you don’t follow the rules, you will be fined, and action will be taken.
Signed,
Patricia Kendall
President of the HOA
I read it two times. For the sake of the goats, out loud. They all looked at me sideways and then went back to cutting the grass.
Carl came over, sniffed around my pockets for snacks, and knocked his head against my hand until I scratched the base of his horns.
I informed him, “She says you’re a horned monster.”
Carl blinked his beautiful eyes. With his warm breath on my palm, it was hard to believe Patricia.
I stepped around the gate and saw the notice I had put up the first day I got the keys: “PRIVATE PROPERTY—NO TRESPASSING—LIVESTOCK PRESENT.” Then I looked at my deed, which I kept in a plastic sleeve in the truck for just this type of thing.
Allowed for use in farming. Animals: allowed. HOA power is only for non-farm land.
I had spent my whole career seeing bull riders break bones because they didn’t pay attention to the warning indicators. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake with little print.
I crumpled Patricia’s message into a ball and threw it into the burn barrel by the barn. In less than ten seconds, the flame licked everything up and converted it to ash.
I said, “That’s about how much your authority is worth around here.”
Things were quiet for a week. I got used to my routine. The mist was curling off the lake as I drank my coffee on the porch. In the morning, I feed the goats, check the water trough, and throw the dogs their Frisbee. Carl followed me around like a big puppy and head-butted my hip when I forgot to scratch his chin.
The problems started again in ways that would have been humorous if I hadn’t seen what insecure people with small amounts of authority and big egos can accomplish.
The first thing that happened was the motion sensors.
One morning, I woke up to see three new posts along the field just outside my fence line. Each one had a small white box that pointed straight toward my land. There was a rat’s nest of wires going from the boxes to a central hub on a post. The power line snaked its way toward Patricia’s land.
Buck and Daisy barked at it like it had spoken something bad about their moms.
I walked down the hill with a coffee cup in my hand. There was a cheap sticker on the side of the crates that said “PINE RIDGE ESTATES – ANIMAL ACTIVITY MONITORING.”
“Ornamental pets only, my ass,” I said under my breath.
A certified letter came later that afternoon. The HOA emblem at the top was a stylized pinecone that was overly huge, as if they thought it made them official.
Mr. Harper,
This letter is a formal notice that your property is being watched because there are several possible infractions of community standards. There is proof that unauthorized livestock has been seen grazing from the road.
We have also gotten complaints about:
• Too many animal sounds (bleating)
• Aggressive horn display by a big ungulate
• Organized behavior of dogs herding
You have 72 hours to get rid of all non-decorative animals on your property, or you may face fines, liens, and possible legal action.
With all my heart,
Patricia Kendall
President of the HOA
I read that three times. After that, I made a new folder in my filing cabinet and wrote “COMEDY GOLD” on it in bright red Sharpie.
The letters kept pouring in for the following two weeks, and each one was crazier than the last.
Carl bent down and stretched in the morning before he ran down the hill. “Behavior of aggressive dominance in full view of nearby homes.”
The goats running around the old oak tree? “Pattern of grazing that hasn’t been approved.”
Buck and Daisy circling the goats, tongues lolling, utterly in paradise doing the task they were bred for? “Promotion of organized animal gang activity.”
I started to wonder if Patricia was sitting outside the window with a thesaurus and binoculars.
I answered once. Not to her. To the board.
Dear Pine Ridge Board,
Please find attached a copy of my recorded deed. It includes complete livestock rights and says that this property will stay agricultural according to county zoning. The HOA rules you mentioned don’t apply to this property.
If you keep bothering or threatening me about my animals, I will write down what you say and take legal action.
With respect,
Mitchell Harper
I copied my lawyer acquaintance from the sheriff’s office days, even though she usually did wills and divorces. I wanted Patricia to see the Esq. and maybe choke on it.
It only made her more angry.
I began to hear stories. When neighbors walked their doodle mixes past the fence, they would drop their voices and tell stories like we were gossiping in a church foyer.
A woman named Gloria claimed, “She told my husband that his truck had to be parked in the garage at all times or she would fine us.” She threw Buck a tennis ball.
Another neighbor complained, “They threatened to sue me because my wind chimes were ‘aural pollution.'”
“She made my teenage son take down an American flag because it didn’t fit the ‘approved dimensions.'”
It seems that I wasn’t her first target. I was the first one to have horns on my side.
That Friday came next.
I went to town to get food and other things. First, I went to Tractor Supply, then the co-op, and then I stopped by Wade’s hardware for a quick look because the proprietor gives veterans half a donut and a full smile every time they buy something. I was gone for three hours at most.
A shiver raced down my neck when I turned back onto my road. Buck and Daisy weren’t there to meet me at the gate like they usually are. You couldn’t see the goats on the hill. The air felt weird.
I drove slowly up the driveway, and the dirt crunched under my tires. There it was: my front gate, still latched. And inside, two males in my pasture made my prickly feeling turn into a burn.
They all wore black polos that matched. Each one had a badge that was laminated and hung from a lanyard. One of them, a big guy with a receding hairline, was swinging a bright blue pool noodle like it was a baton. The other one, who was tall and slender, was sneaking up on my goats with what I swear was a butterfly net.
They parked their white van just off the road next to my house. The door had a logo on it that said “PINE RIDGE SECURITY” and had a cartoon pinecone wearing sunglasses.
I parked my truck, turned off the engine, and got out. My heart was racing, yet my speech came out clear.
I said, “Afternoon, gentlemen,” as I walked to the gate. “Do you mind informing me what you’re doing on my land?”
They jumped like I shot them.
Heavyset puffed up his chest and walked toward me, brandishing his badge at me.
“Sir, HOA security,” he said. “We’re here for business.” Level two of enforcing private property norms.
His emblem was made of laminated card paper with a holographic star sticker that wasn’t quite straight in the corner.
“Level two, huh?” I said. “Can’t believe how much training it took to get a pool noodle.”
Buzzcut rushed up, breathing hard, with the butterfly net still in his hand. He remarked in a nasal voice that made my teeth grind, “We’re acting under the authority of HOA president Kendall.” “There are creatures on this land that aren’t allowed. We’re here to get rid of them. She said they would be tame.
I let my eyes drift intentionally to the barred gate.
I said, “That’s interesting.” “And who gave you the right to come through my locked gate without permission?””
Heavyset said, “HOA rules are more important than individual property rights,” as if he had memorized it. “Section… whatever. Hey, we don’t need your permission. “We have full power to use the force we need.”
I responded, “With a butterfly net.” “On a ram that weighs two hundred pounds.”
He frowned.
Carl had gotten closer as we were talking because he was interested. He was about twenty feet away from Heavyset, with his head tilted and his ears flicking.
He turned on his body camera, which was a cheap black plastic thing that fastened to his chest. He touched it again, as if he were proud of himself.
He said, “This is all being recorded.” “For the sake of the law.”
I felt it was perfect as I took out my phone. “Mine too,” I responded happily, pushing record with my thumb. “And just to be clear, those signs on my fence that say “NO TRESPASSING”? Not for decorating. You are now breaking the law by trespassing. It is my right to protect my property and my animals.
Heavyset rolled his eyes and walked away from me. “Come here, sheep,” he said, raising the pool noodle and walking toward Carl. “It’s time to go to a nice farm in the north.”
I have seen broncs throw off cocky city boys who believed they were tough because they wore cowboy hats. Heavyset looked the same.
“Buddy,” I told him, “you might want to back off.”
He didn’t listen to me and hit Carl in the side with the foam tube.
Carl stopped eating.
His ears went back. He changed his weight. His shoulders’ and neck muscles all tensed up, and his head slowly dropped lower.
People who have been around a ram for even five minutes would have known what to look for. It was evident that these two had spent much of their time around HOA rules and parking lots at strip malls.
I said, “Last chance.”
Heavyset tilted his head halfway toward me and halfway toward his friend. “He’s not going to—”
He only went that far.
Carl sprang in a blur that still plays back in my memory like NFL footage in slow motion. Two hundred pounds of angry mountain muscle charged ahead, horns aiming with deadly accuracy.
I’ll never forget the sound of the horn hitting the shin.
I’m very sure only Daisy heard the very top of Heavyset’s scream. He soared back like a sack of wet clothes and fell right in the wheelbarrow full of fresh compost that I had left near the garden.
The wheelbarrow turned over. The stuff inside—rotten veggies, chicken poop, and the leftovers of a pumpkin from last fall that were starting to rot—slid over him like the worst spa treatment in the world.
A second later, the fragrance hit. It made my eyes water even from where I was.
Buzzcut stopped moving. His butterfly net was hanging down at his side. The body camera on his chest caught his whisper flawlessly.
“He smiles at me,” he said. “Why is it smiling?””
Carl did not smile. Rams don’t grin. But I have to say that it felt good to see him stand up straight as he focused on the last intruder.
I said, “Run.”
Buzzcut ran away.
Carl went after.
Carl didn’t go straight for the hit; instead, he turned a little and whacked Buzzcut in the back of the knees. The man’s legs flew up like a vehicle hood in a crash. He turned in the air in a wonderful, awful half-somersault and landed right in my birdbath, which was meant to be pretty.
There had been a dozen stone birds and a solar-powered fountain in the birdbath till then. It had never been in that many fights. Water shot up into the air. Stone finches flew. Buzzcut’s body camera went underwater for a short while and then came back up sputtering.
“Why does it have knees that are like hammers?” He screamed, waving his arms about. “What kind of sheep is this demon?””
I kept my phone on him, and the red REC light stayed on.
Buck barked once, a quick, cutting sound that I swear meant “I told you so.”
Twenty minutes later, as the sheriff’s Tahoe pulled up the drive, we were back where we started: two big men crawling toward their van, coated in compost and birdbath scum, moaning like Civil War reenactors, and one very happy ram cutting my grass.
Sheriff Davidson got out, cap low, and his thumb hooked in his belt. He had known me when I was a farrier, which was when I first started putting shoes on horses for the department.
He looked around and said, “Mitchell.” “What the hell happened here?””
I gave him my phone, which was set to the moment of the video where the “security” badges caught the light.
I said, “You might want to see for yourself.”
Part 3
The sheriff didn’t say much while watching the whole video. His jaw moved twice. His mustache moved when Heavyset called Carl a sheep. Carl said under his breath, “That’s a ram, you idiot,” when his horns hit his shin for the first time.
He gave me my phone back after it was over and strolled over to the van, where the two would-be enforcers were slumped in the open doorway. An EMT was putting cold packs and ace bandages on their legs. It didn’t look like anything was broken, but the bruises that were starting to show up under the skin were going to be big.
In his formal voice, the sheriff said, “Good afternoon, gentlemen.” “I need to see some ID,” he said.
They showed their laminated badges and driver’s licenses. The badges looked much worse up close: the words “PINE RIDGE HOA SECURITY” were in block letters, the photos were off-center, and the holographic star adhesives were half-peeling.
The sheriff clutched one between his thumb and forefinger like it was going to make him sick.
He said in a monotone voice, “These aren’t real security credentials.” ” In this state, pretending to be a security guard is a crime. You guys are in a lot of trouble now that you have broken into someone’s property and tried to steal their livestock.
Buzzcut, whose license would later show that he was Thomas Briggs, started talking.
He said, “It wasn’t our idea.” “Patricia hired us.” She told us we had full power. She claimed that HOA rules are more important than property law. She suggested the ram was probably tame.
The sheriff’s eyebrows went up.
“Patricia…Kendall?” he asked.
Bradley Kendall, who was heavyset, nodded and winced when his ace bandage moved. The license claimed he was heavyset, which answered one question. He said, “She’s my aunt.” “She told me to take the horned one to her cousin’s farm.” “Twenty minutes, easy money.”
The sheriff listened with his head tilted. I could almost hear the gears turning in his head.
I continued, “One of her complaints mentioned something called the HOA Animal Compliance Division.” I bet that’s you two.
Thomas actually had the decency to flush.
“Sir, we honestly thought—” he began.
“You honestly thought you could break a lock, ignore a no trespassing sign, try to steal a man’s animals, and fall back on ‘the HOA told me to’?” the sheriff cut in. “You were wrong.”
One of his deputies wrote down everything that was said in detail. The EMTs put the two of them in the ambulance to transport them for X-rays, even though they were both groaning in a very dramatic way. An EMT finally turned off the body camera on Thomas’s chest with a deep sigh.
“Mitchell,” the sheriff continued, turning back to me. “I’m charging them with impersonating security personnel and breaking the law by trespassing. If you wish to take civil action, I recommend finding yourself a true shark of a lawyer.”
“Oh, I already have one in mind,” I said.
Janet Morrison had retired from the DA’s office five years earlier and now ran a one-woman practice out of a converted farmhouse. She liked three things: black coffee, righteous wrath, and making insurance companies cry. I once saw her question a man who had tried to cheat a farrier out of money. He had to pay twice as much and say sorry to the horse.
She took off her glasses, cleaned them slowly, and said, “I don’t get gifts this nicely wrapped very often,” when I showed her the video.
“You think we have a case?” “Why?” I asked.
“We have a lot of cases,” she remarked, her eyes shining. “Criminal conspiracy, harassment, trespass by proxy, false representation of authority, and I’m willing to bet that whatever fever dream Patricia is having isn’t covered by the HOA’s rules.” We’re going to roast her so much that she can keep the community pool warm for a whole year.
That afternoon, she sent a cease-and-desist letter by certified mail with a return receipt sought. It clearly spelled out in twelve short paragraphs how Patricia had gone too far and how much it would cost her if she didn’t stop.
Janet had answered half of my inquiries and found twice as many difficulties in less than forty-eight hours.
To start, Bradley and Thomas weren’t simply random fools. They were Patricia’s nephew and his friend who lived with him. Patricia had given them $200 apiece in cash. She had manufactured their badges at a print shop in the mall. The van belonged to her cousin and had been used for a carpet cleaning business that had closed down.
But the best part was the sound from Thomas’s body camera.
He presumably turned it on in the van so he could record their great victory for some imagined courtroom showdown. Instead, he had recorded the phone chat with Patricia on speakerphone just before they hopped over my fence.
It was easy to hear her voice.
“Just grab the one with the horns,” she added. “He’s probably tame.” If the owner gives you trouble, inform him that you will call the police if he doesn’t stop messing with the HOA. “Don’t worry, the board will support me.”
Janet listened to the audio clip three times just to enjoy it.
She said, “This woman is my new plan for retirement.”
A week later, Pine Ridge Estates scheduled an emergency HOA meeting.
In a place where people have more time than activities, news travels quickly. By Thursday night, the parking lot at the community center was full of minivans, work trucks, and a few golf carts for the older people who didn’t want to walk. People stood close together on the sidewalk, chatting in low, anxious tones.
I drove my pickup there with Janet in the front seat. A TV and a laptop with speakers were tied down in the bed. Proof on wheels.
“Are you ready for this?” Janet asked as we went in.
“I’ve seen bulls throw riders over fences,” I remarked. “This can’t be worse than that.”
There were a lot of people in the meeting room. There were orderly rows of folding seats, a big table in the front for the board, and a battered podium that someone had painted beige fifteen years ago. The air smelled like coffee, perfume, and stress.
Patricia wore a coral jacket and lipstick that matched it. Her hair was shellacked into a blonde helmet, and she sat in the middle of the board table. It looked like she had eaten a full lemon. Next to her, the other board members, a few retired people, and a middle-aged dad who looked stressed glanced through papers and didn’t look at her.
As the board president, an old guy named Harold Summers, tapped the microphone, people quieted down.
He replied, “I call this emergency meeting of the Pine Ridge Estates Homeowners Association to order.” “We are here to talk about what happened at Mr. Harper’s property and the claims that our president did something wrong.”
Before he could say anything else, Patricia jumped to her feet.
She snapped, “This is crazy.” “I was enforcing the rules of the community.” “That man,” she said, pointing a well-manicured finger at me, “is keeping dangerous animals that could hurt our property values.”
Harold winced. “Patricia, please sit down,” he said. “Mr. Harper has asked to show proof.
“Proof of what?” she asked. “His refusal to comply?”“
“Proof of your crimes,” Janet said quietly to herself.
Harold nodded in my direction. I pushed the TV cart to the front, plugged in the laptop, and opened the file called “ATTACK RAM V HOA.”
The lights went out, and the room got darker. The first frame showed my field, which took up the whole screen. The gate that is locked. The two guys in their black polo shirts. The noodle for the pool.
I pushed play.
The gasps began as Carl first came into view. When Heavyset called him a sheep and poked him with the foam tube, they started to snort and giggle.
Someone in the back exclaimed, “Yes!” when Carl hit his shin. ” Another person put their hand over their mouth. When Buzzcut executed his half-somersault into the birdbath, everyone in the room leaned forward.
I had seen the clip at home a dozen times. You’d think it would have lost its power. It hadn’t.
The body camera audio did the most damage, even though the ram impacts were satisfying.
Next, Janet set it up. From the van, Thomas’s point of view. The jokes that make you nervous. The caller ID showed Patricia’s name. The speakerphone made a beep.
Then her voice rang out through the community center.
“Just grab the one with horns.” He is likely tame. If the owner gives you trouble, inform him that you will call the police if he doesn’t stop meddling with the HOA. “Don’t worry, the board will support me.”
After that, the silence was dense.
The lights came back on. Everyone’s face I could see was looking at Patricia.
She had gone from pink to white to a gray color that was intriguing. Her lips were so tight that they almost disappeared.
“What. Was. That?” One of the board members, Susan Chen, inquired.
Patricia raised her head.
“I was in a dangerous situation,” she remarked in a stern voice. “We have agreements for a reason.” This is not a farm; it is a residential area. His animals—
“His deed and county zoning allow it,” Janet said as she stood up. “Mr. Harper’s parcel is still considered agricultural. This HOA has almost no power over his animals.
People turned their heads toward her. Janet smiled, her teeth gleaming like a shark’s.
“Meanwhile,” she went on, “Ms. Kendall hired two guys who didn’t have licenses, gave them phony security badges, told them to breach a barred fence, and told them to take Mr. Harper’s legally owned animals. That is breaking and entering, conspiracy, attempted stealing, and pretending to be a security guard. Your HOA’s insurance carrier has already said that they won’t cover any responsibility that comes up because of these acts.
The crowd began to grumble, agitated and getting louder.
A man in a polo shirt yelled, “She told us she was working with lawyers.” “She said that everything she did was legal.”
Gloria said, “She fined me two hundred dollars because my trash can was visible from the street for an hour.” Her voice shook.
Another neighbor snapped, “She told my son he couldn’t park his work truck in his own driveway.”
The stories came out now that there was blood in the water. Tickets for parking. Demands for paint colors. Threats of liens for Christmas lights that were still up two days after New Year’s.
Harold looked like he wanted to fall through the floor. “Patricia,” he continued in a rough voice, “did you hire your nephew and his friend to go onto Mr. Harper’s property without his permission?””
She put her arms across her chest. She said, “I did what I had to do.” ” Being a leader means making tough decisions sometimes. I was looking out for the value of our homes. We can’t let animals walk around like this is some kind of… ranch.
A few heads in the room turned to look at me, and then they all turned to look out the windows at my land. A few folks grinned without meaning to. There was no doubt that it was a gorgeous ranch.
Janet moved closer to the table.
“What you did,” she continued coolly, “was abuse your position, break the law, and expose this association to lawsuits that will make your heads spin. Mr. Harper has already made a criminal complaint. The district attorney is reviewing charges. He is also looking for civil remedies. I strongly suggest that this board fire Ms. Kendall right away and work together wholeheartedly.
Harold cleared his throat. “I… want to vote against President Kendall,” he remarked.
The vote took less than a minute. Five to one. Patricia was the only one who voted no.
“Also, I move that Ms. Kendall not be allowed to hold any more board positions,” Harold said swiftly. “And that we look at all of her enforcement actions from the last two years.”
Another vote of five to one. Patricia’s hands shook as she tried to stack her papers, which wouldn’t remain clean.
She said, “This is a witch hunt.” “One man with a farm is making a joke out of our standards.”
“This is the result,” Susan stated in a low voice. “Patricia, sit down.”
There was a lot of talking and anger at the end of the meeting. People flocked around me, patted me on the back, said they were sorry, and told me their own scary Patricia experiences.
“Mr. “Harper,” Harold remarked as he shook my hand with both of his. “I’m very sorry on behalf of the association.” We will do everything we can to fix this.
“I appreciate that,” I said. “I don’t want to run for office here.” I just want things to be calm. And for my ram to be left alone.
Janet pushed me on the way out.
“Showtime,” she whispered.
A man in a wrinkled button-down shirt stood by the door with a folder full of documents and looked around the room. He stepped forward when he saw Patricia.
“Ms. Kendall?” he called.
She looked around, already angry. “Yes?””
He gave her the documents quickly, like he had done before.
He said, “You’ve been served.”
She looked down at the first page. It said “Criminal Complaint.” Under that, a civil summons.
Her face turned white.
“This isn’t over,” she said, glancing from me to Janet to the board in a crazy way.
Janet said, “Oh, it’s very over.” “You just haven’t caught up yet.”
Part 4
The wheels of the law move slowly, but they do work.
The DA’s office charged Patricia with three crimes: minor conspiracy to commit trespass, making a false report (she had called the sheriff after the occurrence and tried to say I had sent a “dangerous, uncontrolled animal” after her “officers”), and criminal harassment.
Janet handled the civil side. She sued Patricia personally and, just to be safe, added the HOA as a co-defendant. Emotional pain. Trespass. Tried to change ownership of property. Costs of hiring a lawyer.
She said, “Even if the HOA gets its coverage to kick in, board members’ intentional criminal acts usually aren’t covered.” ” So Ms. HOA President here is going to have to pay for it herself.” Maybe she can sell some of her yard art that looks like a gavel.
As the lawyers danced their long, paperwork-heavy waltz, things at the ranch got back to normal.
Carl became a bit of a local star.
Sheriff Davidson made a mistake in his professional judgment when he brought up the “attack ram” event at his brother-in-law’s cookout. By the end of the month, half of the county had heard the story. A Facebook group shared a picture of Carl standing on a hill and glaring at Patricia’s house with the words “HERO OF PINE RIDGE” written on it.
Kids began asking their parents if they could “see the ram that beat up the bad guys.” I made some regulations, such as no feeding, no trying to climb the fence, and no trespassing. I also let them visit with an adult. Carl took gifts of apple slices like a Roman emperor: graciously and without a care.
Buck was very serious about his job as a tour guide. He would walk families along the fence line, looking back every now and then to make sure everyone was still with him.
One dad commented, “Your dog is smarter than most of the people at those HOA meetings.”
I said, “Don’t tell him that.” “He’ll run for office.”
Inside Pine Ridge Estates, the attitude changed in ways that were easy to see.
People waved without peeking over their shoulders for the first time since I moved in. Cars slowed down so that drivers could throw down their windows and call, “Mitchell, do you have any eggs to sell?” “How’s Carl doing? ” Are you offering him snacks that look like his shins?”
Some people didn’t look each other in the eye. There are always people who would rather have bullies in power as long as the bullies don’t bite them. But the quiet from that camp was no longer heavy. It was simply… silent.
The HOA board had three more sessions to sort out Patricia’s mess. They took back six fines. Gave back money to others. Said sorry to almost everyone.
They also changed the rules. Susan was in charge of that.
“We need language that recognizes we live in a community with many uses,” she stated during a meeting I went to. “Some of us have garden gnomes and front yards. Some of us have farms and tractors. “Everyone has to get along with everyone else.”
She asked me to join a “land use committee,” and I almost choked on my water.
I said, “You don’t want me on a committee.” “I’ve stepped in enough poop for one lifetime.”
“Yes,” she said. “We need people who can tell the difference between cow pies and legal ones.”
In the end, I agreed to come once every three months and give advice. Either that or sit back and hope the next Patricia who came around didn’t have a nephew with a pool noodle.
The case against the offender carried on. Patricia’s lawyer, who was pricey, from out of town, and more used to contract disputes than HOA drama, sought to say that she had acted “in good faith” to enforce the rules.
The video made him laugh out of that lane.
There were about half as many people in the courtroom at the sentencing hearing. On a Tuesday morning, neighbors had come by just to see it.
The judge, a woman with sharp eyes and a hairdo that didn’t mess around, didn’t seem to care much about Patricia’s “I was protecting property values” remark.
The judge replied in a dry voice, “For the record, the only property that was seriously damaged here was the defendant’s reputation, and that was because of her own actions.”
Some folks in the gallery coughed. It may have been laughter.
The judge went on, “Because the defendant has no prior criminal record, I will not send him to jail.” But I think that probation alone isn’t enough.
She read the passage after adjusting her spectacles.
“Probation for eighteen months with supervision. Two hundred hours of community service, which must be done with animal welfare organizations that the court has approved. A fine of $10,000, which must be paid within a year.
Patricia eventually lost her cool.
“Ten thousand dollars?” she shrieked, voice going shrill. “For trying to maintain standards? This is injustice!”
“Ms. The judge added, “Kendall,” with his gavel in hand, “you tried to have untrained people steal a man’s legally owned animals from his property, and then you lied to the police about it.” You are lucky that no one was hurt badly.
She glanced at the paperwork in front of her.
“And,” she said, as if it were an afterthought, “for the record, HOA rules do not take the place of state law.” Always.
The gavel came down. The case is over.
Janet tapped me on the shoulder outside the courthouse.
“Next is civil,” she said. “Give me her homeowners’ policy.” After that, we’ll find out how much of that gavel-themed decor she truly needs.
A few months later, the civil case was settled quietly. Janet wouldn’t let me tell how much it was, but let’s just say I suddenly had enough money to fix the roof on my barn and build a real pier on the lake. Patricia’s insurance company gave her all it could, but then it dumped her like a hot rock.
People also heard about her community service.
It seems that she had asked to perform something “dignified,” like paperwork for animal groups. The judge thought differently.
They gave her a scoop and showed her where the kennels were on her first day at the county animal shelter.
The organizer allegedly advised her, “You like to supervise animals so much, start with this.”
I passed by the shelter on my way into town many times and saw her in the rear, with her hair in a frizzy ponytail, cleaning out the pens while a line of muddy hounds waited.
I kept going. I didn’t brag. I didn’t have to.
It was already done for me by life.
Pine Ridge had their annual summer picnic three weeks following the sentencing. Patricia had made it into a half-mandatory, completely boring “community engagement event” in the past, with speeches about the right color of mulch and the right kind of patio furniture.
This year, the board made the decision to shake things up.
No speeches. Tables for potlucks under the oaks. A local bluegrass band playing on a stage that wasn’t built for them. Kids running wild in the grass, their faces wet with watermelon. Someone brought boards for cornhole, and someone else brought a slip-n-slide.
I brought the goats.
People loved them right away. Kids screamed. Adults giggled as they saw three Nigerian dwarfs gently chasing their infants, who believed shoelaces were delectable vines.
Carl stayed in his pasture, although you could see him from the picnic. Every now and then, someone would point up the hill, and everyone would turn their heads, like in a wildlife documentary.
A small child in dinosaur swim trunks pulled on my arm.
“Is that the ram?” he asked, out of breath. “The one that hit the bad guys?”“
“That’s him,” I said.
“What is his superpower?” The boy said, “
I responded, “Good aim and better instincts.” “And never putting up with bullies.”
He nodded seriously, as if I had just told him how to be an adult.
Later, when the sun went down and the sky turned pink over the lake, Susan tapped a spoon against a mason jar to catch everyone’s attention.
“We wanted to say something,” she remarked, standing barefoot on the grass. “When the HOA acts like a bully, we all lose.” This year, we’re doing something different. We’re starting a council to give advice to our neighbors. Not just folks who appreciate regulations and meetings, which earned a laugh, but also individuals who know this location. The land. The water. The creatures.”
She turned at me and added, “Mitchell has agreed to serve on it.”
There were some cheers and some applause. I raised my beer in thanks.
I said, “Don’t expect me to wear a tie.”
“Not a chance,” she said.
The thick grass was full of blinking fireflies as the night went on. Kids with plastic glow sticks became neon blurs. Someone set off fireworks. Carl snorted once at the crackling sound in the distance and then decided it wasn’t his business.
Patricia didn’t show up for the picnic. People said she was selling her house. A week later, I saw the sign go up. It said, “Motivated seller.” For the sake of any future HOA she joins, I hope she tells them everything.
That night, I sat on the porch and watched the stars’ reflection on the lake. Buck was snoring at my feet. Daisy moved around in her sleep, chasing sheep in her dreams. The goats made noise in the barn. Carl stood on his favorite hill, his outline against the sky, and looked over his little empire.
I said softly, “Good job today, buddy.”
He shook his head once, and the moonlight caught the curve of his horns.
He looked like a statue that someone had placed to remember something important if you squinted.
Part 5
You would think that after all that, the narrative would just stop. Villain loses, ram wins, and the HOA is ashamed. Roll the credits.
Life isn’t a movie. It keeps going even if your arc doesn’t feel finished.
A year after the event, Pine Ridge appeared different in ways that a brochure couldn’t show.
The motion sensors fell down. The board voted to get rid of half of the more silly “ornamental only” clauses and replace them with what Susan called “common-sense coexistence.” You couldn’t park a rusty semi in your front yard, but as long as your chickens weren’t attacking anyone, you wouldn’t be fined.
Some of the more rigid people complained. Then they found out how much they loved fresh eggs and goat yoga, and they recognized that property worth might have more to do with the community than with matching mailboxes.
After finishing their community service and paying their fines, Bradley and Thomas came by one afternoon.
I saw the white van from my porch and got tense right away. The logo had changed. It now said “KENDALL & BRIGGS HANDY SERVICES.” The pinecone with sunglasses had been replaced with a plain hammer.
They climbed out gingerly, both of them looking at Carl with the caution of men who had felt his horns before.
Thomas held up his hands and said, “We come in peace.”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “Do you have any pool noodles with you?””
They both laughed uncomfortably.
Bradley rubbed the back of his neck and muttered, “Look.” “We came to say sorry. In the right way. Aunt Patr—Ms. Kendall, she lied to us a lot. About your property. About what she could do. We were dumb enough to trust her.
Thomas said, “I broke a gate.” “Let me fix it.”
He made an awkward gesture toward the barrier. I had already fixed the lock myself, but the post still swayed where they had tried to break it open.
“Do you know how to put up a post?” “Why?” I asked.
He said, “I watched a lot of YouTube.”
I said, “That’s good enough.” “Come on.”
We spent the afternoon resetting the post, adding new gravel, and hanging the gate back up so it swung just right. They worked hard, groaned, and followed orders without complaining.
At one time, Bradley looked up the slope.
“Is he angry with us?” he asked.
Carl was observing from his spot, munching with his eyes half-closed.
I said, “He’s fine.” “Don’t poke him with foam toys, and you’ll probably be fine.”
By the time we were done, the gate swung open and I thought they were no longer “morons,” but “reformed morons.”
Bradley stated as they went, “You have our number if you ever need help with odd jobs.” “We’re working on starting a real business.” This time it’s legal.
I told them to “Start by changing the mailbox at the community center for your aunt.” “Maybe something that doesn’t look like a gavel.”
He smiled. “Already on the schedule.”
The animal welfare groups that had Patricia stay with them for her community service also got in touch with me.
One of them, a rescue that helped farm animals, asked if I would take in a few older sheep who needed a peaceful place to retire. After some introductions and a serious conversation with Carl about when it’s okay to headbutt, I said sure.
It was strange to see Patricia shoveling manure next to me six months later on a day to thank volunteers.
Her hair was limp with sweat, and her face was red. She kept her head down.
“Hey,” I whispered softly as we worked together in the goat pen. “You are doing a great job.”
She made a noise like a pig. “Work ordered by the court,” she said.
I said, “Still work.” “The goats don’t care why you’re here.”
One of the goats that was saved quickly headbutted her in the hip. Not hard enough to hurt, just enough to shake.
“Ow! open,She screamed, “Oh!” and put her hand on her side.
The rescue manager said, “That’s Mildred.” “She doesn’t like it when people talk while they’re supposed to be scooping.”
For a second, it looked like Patricia’s mouth was about to smile. It went away fast.
She looked at me later when we were washing the tools.
She suddenly said, “I was wrong.”
I blinked. “About…?””
“All of it,” she murmured, looking at the concrete. “About what my job was. About what was important. I assumed that if I kept everything flawless, I would be protected.
I put my weight on the hose. “How’s that going for you?””
She laughed for a short while, but it wasn’t funny. “They still talk about me at Aldi,” she claimed. “Like I’m some kind of urban legend. The HOA President Who Got Rammed.”
“Carl can sign autographs if you want,” I added.
She shook her head. “You could’ve ruined me worse,” she added. “Posted those videos everywhere. Made a show of myself.
“I didn’t need to,” I said. “Life handled the spectacle part.”
She nodded once and then went back to cleaning.
I’m not suggesting she became a saint. When someone parked a truck a little crooked, I still noticed her wince. But she learned to use her need for control in a less harmful way, including organizing supply drives for the shelter, color-coding files for the county’s low-cost spay/neuter clinic, and giving people lectures about appropriate fence instead of mailbox paint.
She never served on another HOA board. That alone felt like doing something good for the community.
As for me, I leaned into the life I’d worked hard to build.
The store in the back became more than simply a place for me to work on my hobbies. People started talking about it. Invoices for everything from farmhouse tables to wedding arches started to crop up with “Harper’s Custom Woodworks” on them. I hired a child from down the street to work part-time with sanding and sweeping. It felt like I was rich when I could pay someone else to breathe in sawdust.
I began a sort of unofficial therapy program for other people who were having problems with their HOAs.
People from nearby towns would come over, sit on my porch, and tell me about board members who were trying to control the color of their flowers or the angle of their blinds. I’d listen to them, pour them sweet tea, and then advise, “Check your deed first.” The next step is to write everything down. Third, don’t be afraid to go a little “rammy.”
Carl became a symbol, whether he wanted it or not.
A local artist painted a mural on the exterior of the Pine Ridge community center. It showed a stylized ram standing on a hill, its horns spread, looking down a line of similar, faceless small cottages. In a looped script below, it says “STAND YOUR GROUND.”
The board said no. They also didn’t take it down.
When the dogwoods blossom and the lake fog rolls over the water every spring, I sit on that porch bench and remember the day I came home to discover two men with a pool noodle and a butterfly net inside my locked gate.
I think about how easy it would have been to yell, hit, or get angry in ways that don’t make for hilarious videos. I think about how much better it was to allow the legal system and a two-hundred-pound ram to do the work.
A new family moved in two lots down one night. A husband, a wife, two kids, and a rescue dog. They walked up the driveway, said hello, and then spoke in hushed whispers like they were plotting something.
The spouse said, “We heard there was… an incident out here a while ago.” “With the HOA.”
“There was,” I said.
He pointed to the pasture where Carl was standing, watching over his empire. He said, “We chose this place because of that.” “We thought that any neighborhood where the goat guy beat the HOA president would be a good fit for us.”
I laughed.
“I don’t like goats,” I said. “I’m a guy with a ram.”
The younger child frowned at me and asked, “What does it matter?” she inquired.
I responded, “About a hundred pounds and a bad attitude.”
Carl snorted, as if he had been told to, and ran up the hill with a lot of energy. He turned around at the top, planted his front hooves, and looked down at us like he was the ruler of everything he saw.
The girl’s eyes got bigger.
“Can I touch him?” she inquired.
I said, “Maybe someday.” “Once he forgives your HOA ancestors.”
Her parents understood the joke, but she didn’t.
We stood there together, watching the sun go down behind the pines and the lake catch fire with the light. Birds were talking to each other in the trees. The goats made a lazy sound. Someone ignited a barbecue somewhere down the road. The wind carried the smell of charcoal up.
I rocked in my chair, holding a glass of sweet tea that was sweating, and let the tranquility wash over me.
I wanted a ranch on the lake, some animals, and peace and quiet. I received all three, plus an unplanned starring role in a scary HOA story that ended happily.
People still question me about that day.
“Did you feel scared?” they say. “”When they came onto your land like that?””
I tell them the truth.
“Of course,” I answer. “For about five seconds. Then I remembered that I had two things they didn’t.
“What is that?” they always ask.
“An understanding of property law,” I say. “And a ram called Carl.”
They laugh. I laugh with them.
But there’s a serious lesson I always remember: people in small positions will try to make their fears your problem. They’ll change your life to fit their worries if you let them.
Sometimes, the only way to stop them is to stand up straight, shut your gate, pick up your phone, and let a four-foot-tall wrecking ball with horns break their shins and their false sense of power.
And after the dust has settled and the grass has been cleaned of compost, you sit back down in your rocking chair, fill your glass again, and keep living the life they tried to take from you.
That’s the best revenge you’ll ever get in the end.
THE END!
