Duke, my golden retriever ,with the confidence of a border collie and the attention span of a biscuit, decided he was sheriff of the barnyard the morning the pig discovered the compost pile. He arrested the pig with a single dramatic bark, chased a suspicious squirrel into a haystack (where the squirrel turned around and gave him a pep talk), and then took a victory nap on a bale — tail twitching like a metronome of justice. Mid-nap, he dream-barked, which somehow signaled a conspiracy: the hens staged a synchronized egg heist, the goat tried to smuggle a loaf of bread under her chin, and a suspiciously clean duck waltzed away with my keys.

When I woke Duke with the promise of bacon-flavored justice, he sprang into action — mostly by tripping over his own paws and snuffling out the loot with heroic, slobbery efficiency. We instituted a new rule: all contraband must pass Duke’s sniff-test (and his approval stamp, a soggy pawprint). It worked, until Duke found out the duck was hoarding my socks and promptly brokered a peace treaty in exchange for a lifetime supply of squeaky toys. The farm’s new motto? If you want order, appoint a dog; if you want diplomacy, appoint Duke — he’s terrible at paperwork but excellent at negotiations involving snacks.