From Bubba’s journal:

Dawn found me crawling under the feed-shed door like someone in a spy movie, except my sidekick was a disgruntled rooster and the villain had four legs and an ungainly sense of entitlement. Daisy, bless her beard, had jimmied the latch like a tiny, determined locksmith and was mid-chew when I burst in. The hens had taken full advantage — think tiny napkins, a buffet line, and one hen standing on a bale wearing my sunglasses like she was the maître d’. There was feed everywhere, feathers like confetti, and Daisy looking at me as if to say, “Technically, the latch is a suggestion.”

After the great poultry gala I accepted that traditional shame and stern looks do not, in fact, keep goats honest. So I tried something more… inventive. I flipped the latch so it required two hands and a twist, clipped a bright carabiner on the loop (goats are terrible at carabinetics), and hung a squeaky bell on the latch — mostly to embarrass the thief if she tried again. The first time Daisy nudged it, she got a chorus of clucks, a bell solo, and a very indignant dust-up with the rooster. She has not attempted a heist since.

The real victory, though, was psychological: I learned goats respect bureaucracy. Labeling the new carabiner “Authorized Personnel Only” seemed unnecessary until Daisy actually paused, inspected the tag, chewed thoughtfully on a legal-looking corner, and walked away as if she’d been out-negotiated. The hens? They’re now on the payroll — gratis corn for acting as my surveillance team — and Daisy has, until further notice, sworn off undercover locksmithing.