I named my first farm “Bedlam Farm” after the Bethlehem Asylum in London, which the public came to call “Bedlem” Hospital because of the chaos around the hospital, where hundreds of London residents  gathered on weekends to throw tomatoes and rocks at the patients there.

It was, they said, bedlam.

There was a crossing in my little hamlet of West Hebron, N.Y., that was very quiet these days but was once so busy there were several hotels at the main intersection of the town with another road.

My life was chaotic and insane at the time – I was pretty insane and probably still am – and the name perfectly reflect my life and my grappling with the first farm I had ever set foot on in my life. I just happened to own it and write five books there and live there by myself with dogs, sheep and donkeys.

Bedlam didn’t say half of it.

So now I have a new dog, I am calling him Bedlam Bud. Some days, he is sweet and quiet, some days, his remaining testosterone starts bubbling up and life if havoc here.

This morning, he ran out and ran off a bunch of birds who were nibbling bugs 50 feet away. Then he ran into the barn, ate chicken droppings, and jumped high up on a bale of hay, which he promptly peed on.

“Why do you need to see on our hay?,” I said, “it costs $5 a bale.” He didn’t respond.

I wasn’t even done shouting at him for the bird assault when he was peeing on our hay. He came tearing out – he is quite responsive eventually – and ran up to the fence and started barking furiously at the donkeys until I yelled at him to stop.

Then he tore under the gate and into the pasture where he scared the wits out of Giselle, who was lying down and chewing her cud. She hopped up fast as Bud dive-bombed her and then ran around the block.

I called to him to come down to the rear pasture with me, and he did, leaping upon a huge mound of donkey droppings. More shouting. With Bud, you don’t have to shout long or loud, one or two yells with do it, and he cheerfully comes, and then looks for another target. Yelling doesn’t bother him a flick.

He took one more shot at the sheep and then tore out of the pasture and under the fence, and did five or six runs around the car, for reasons that were not clear to me.

He was happy to see two chickens pecking away a few yards away and buzzed right between them, sending them off clucking and indignant. They did not, however, run a way. Bud is losing some of his menace.

Then he saw the two barn cats dozing on the porch bench built by Ed Gulley and before I could open my mouth, he was sitting alongside of them, a little surprised that they hadn’t fled.

There was a stare down, but Bud has met his match with the barn cats, they have seen worse than him, and are not easily impressed. They just stared at him in a “we dare you” sort of way, and refused to move. The barn cats can take care of themselves.

Then I shouted at him to come, which he did.

I haven’t yelled at Bud for a week, but I yelled at him a dozen times this morning, and he was having hell of a time all throughout.  I brought him into the house, gave him something to chew on, then told Maria all of the things he had done, all the trouble he had gotten into in just seconds.

Bud is not aggressive, he never harms his targets or nips or growls at them. He is either claiming his turf or just having fun. He absolutely loves it when I am shouting at  him, and I hate to shout at dogs, but I also need to defend the other animals on the farm. And the funny thing is, I think the animals are getting used to him.

I get more upset than they do.

We should call him “Bedlam Bud,” I said.

Maria just smiled and looked at me. “You just really love that dog, she said laughing as I sputtered and cursed.”

I guess it’s true, he reminds me of me. He is completely unpredictable, he loves to do what he is not supposed to do, he means no real harm, and has a genius for getting into trouble.