Bleats, Barks, and Broken Boundaries

Love is in the air.

It’s mating season in the village.

Yes, I know. That sounds… weird. But it’s exactly what it sounds like. Every living, breathing, barking, bleating, mooing thing has caught the fever. And the funniest-or — perhaps cruelest—part? It coincides perfectly with planting season. Of course. So now, everywhere you look, seeds are being planted. Crops. Offspring. Legacies. Everything.Dogs. Cows. Sheep. Probably even the frogs and the ants if we paid attention long enough. It just so happens that this annual explosion of hormones perfectly coincides with another important cycle: planting season. For crops.

So whether you’re sowing maize or sowing your wild oats, apparently this is the time to do it. All seeds, as they say, are being planted.

I stay on a small farm — a quiet piece of ancestral land surrounded by nothing but fields, trees, the occasional screaming animal, and… relatives. Because this is the village, and everyone around is a cousin, uncle, or some form of bloodline I haven’t quite figured out yet. Our farms are separated by barbed wire fences, which are mostly symbolic. The animals don’t care. When the hormones hit, no fence, moral boundary, or sense of decency can stop them.

Let’s start with the dogs. My pride and headache.

I have three. Chilli is the only male — half German Shepherd, half mystery. He’s tall, lean, powerful-looking — the kind of dog you’d expect to be guarding prominent figures. When he walks, he does it with authority, like he owns the village. Then there’s Tucker. Not to be confused with Tucker the Second. Tucker (the First) allegedly has Doberman roots, but somewhere along the bloodline, those genetics were aggressively diluted. Today, he looks like a brown village mutt who would lose a fight with a stubborn goat. And then there’s Tucker the Second — our main character. The lady of the hour. The source of all this week’s chaos.

She’s on heat. And in the dog world, that’s not a private affair. It’s a festival. For about two weeks, every male dog from neighboring homes — and possibly a few who crossed counties — gathers around, forming an unruly pack that growls, howls, and fights for their place in line. The noise is relentless. The brawls are brutal. And the public indecency? Unapologetic.

I’ve seen them in broad daylight, right next to the kitchen door, locked together like furry magnets. They’ve dug under fences, destroyed my maize seedlings, even tried jumping through windows. One morning, I found Chilli staring into the horizon like he’d seen the horrors of war — fresh scratch on his face, and pride somewhere left in the compost pit.

Then came Bocha.

No one knows who owns Bocha. No one wants to own Bocha. But like a toxic ex with location-sharing still on, he shows up every time a female goes on heat. Bocha doesn’t ask. He moves in. He’s not just bold — he’s criminal. Literally. Bocha has eaten sheep. Chicken. Possibly a shoe or two. He’s killed two of my rams in the past, turning my poor ewe into a widow. Twice.

He slinks in and out like a spy on a mission, constantly alert because, well, he’s wanted by everyone. Not wanted like “aww cute,” more like “if I find that dog I’m going to kill him.” He’s scrappy, built like a thief, and somehow always manages to dodge the stones, sticks, and shouted insults thrown at him daily. Bocha has no shame. He fights off other dogs, including Chilli, and then mates like he’s starring in an underground documentary titled Love in the Dust.

Then there’s the cat.

She has no name. In the village, cats are not pets — they are colleagues. Co-workers. Independent contractors with a strict “do not touch me” policy. But this one… this one chose me. Out of everyone, she tolerates only me. She doesn’t purr loudly or follow me around like a Chilli or Tucker (both of them). No. Her love is quieter. Cooler. A flick of the tail as she brushes past my leg. A sudden appearance on the windowsill when I’m alone. A blink in my direction from a shadowed corner.

She’s fed, of course — she gets her milk and her leftovers. But make no mistake, she hunts. Oh, she hunts. Rats, snakes, lizards… I once saw her dragging what looked like a half-grown mole out from under a cupboard, eyes like burning coals, completely unfazed.

She’s mostly invisible during the day. You’ll forget she exists — until a sudden scream from the chicken coop or the sound of tiny bones snapping reminds you who really runs security around here.

But lately… she’s been acting strange. Staring into the night. Twitching her ears. Leaving for long stretches and returning with a smug look, like a soldier returning from a classified mission. Because yes — it’s mating season for her too.

But unlike the dogs, the cats do not perform for us. They wait until nightfall, when the village slips into a deceptive silence.

Then — chaos.

The sounds begin. Horrible, ungodly sounds that do not belong to any creature you’ve ever seen by daylight. Screeches. Howls. Growls layered over wails, echoing through the compound like something is being exorcised in the hedges. You’d think the devil had come to take a soul. I once woke up and genuinely considered lighting a candle and praying. Just in case.

And yet, by morning, there’s no sign of anything. No cats. No tracks. No fur. Just an unsettling quiet, and that look she gives me as she strolls in like she didn’t just spend the night summoning ancient spirits under the granary.

If the dogs are raucous and vulgar, the cats are pure theatre — macabre, silent, and unsettlingly efficient.

Now shift scenes. Soft grass, morning mist, the baa-ing of a sheep named Dee.

Dee is the only sheep I have now. She’s also in heat. And while the dog world is overflowing with suitors, poor Dee has no one. Her son, Ogot, is too young — and using him is out of the question. We do not support inbreeding on this farm.

So what does Dee do? She bleats. Constantly. Loudly. Dramatically. She bleats while tied to a tree. She bleats while chewing grass. She bleats at passing chickens. My grandma heard the bleating and casually said, “Ah, she’s just on heat.” Once, I untied her hoping she’d calm down. She took off like she’d seen her soulmate on the horizon. Probably went looking for a rogue ram behind some bushes. I considered posting a missing sheep ad: “Single ewe, emotionally available, seeks tall, dark, handsome ram for a seasonal fling. Must enjoy long walks and headbutts.”

If you think the drama ends with cats, dogs and sheep, you haven’t met the cow.

This lady doesn’t moo. She screams. Like a banshee. At night. When the world is quiet and the moon is out, she begins her haunting melody of lust. I once lay in bed wondering whether it was a cow or the ghost of a betrayed ancestor. One night, desperate and furious, I walked through the darkness to my uncle’s home to borrow a bull. I arrived panting, bull in tow, ready to end the madness.

She looks at the bull. Blinks. Snorts. Then turns away with the kind of casual disinterest that felt personal. The bull stood there, confused, maybe a little embarrassed. I tried everything — nudging them closer, whispering sweet encouragements like some kind of bovine matchmaker — but nothing worked. She just wasn’t into him. Maybe he wasn’t her type. Maybe she didn’t like his posture, or thought his horns were overcompensating. Apparently, she’d already mated with a different bull two days earlier. And cows? They only do it once per heat. Once. I stood there, under the moonlight, furious and confused, next to a very disappointed bull. The betrayal cut deep.

Now picture all of this. Chilli howling. Bocha growling, mid-brawl, defending a love that isn’t even exclusive. Tucker the Second getting publicly loved up. My unnamed cat letting out guttural, bone-chilling screeches that sound nothing short of demonic. Dee bleating like a broken trumpet. The cow singing the blues. And me? Trying to get some sleep on a once-decent mattress — firm, well-made, but now slightly sunken in the middle like it’s tired of my life choices too — under a solid iron-sheet roof that amplifies every bark, bleat, and moan like nature’s own surround sound system. At this point, my dreams are just soundtracks of mating calls.

And just when I think I’ve heard it all, my mum — clearly fed up with the circus outside — decides she’s had enough. Her door creaks open with authority. She stomps past my room, muttering under her breath, and reaches for The Stick — the one we keep near the door for self-defense, in case of anything serious. Not tonight. Tonight, it’s for reclaiming her peace.

She charges outside, waving it in the air, and the dogs scatter like thieves. Then, with perfect dramatic timing, she storms back in, stops by my door, and without even looking at me, mutters (in Luo), “Right now I should be having grandchildren chasing away these stray animals for me… but instead, I have this one here wasting my time.”

She then heads to her room. But that line? That line was a targeted missile.

So I stay on my farm, where nature has zero chill. When it’s time, it’s time. The animals have more active dating lives than I do. The fences are pointless. Hormones are stronger than steel. Even the cow has standards. The village soundscape is a symphony of desire, chaos, and betrayal. And somehow, I’m the only creature not reproducing.

Maybe it’s time I took the hint.

From Dee. From the cow. From my mum.

Maybe it’s time to plant a few seeds of my own.

Until then, I’ll be here, in the madness, trying to grow maize, avoid emotional manipulation, and keep Bocha from eating the few animals I have left.