There is one more animal story about the 1960s and the Ledyard farm where I did some growing up. There were eight siblings in my family, and we all lived in a rather small farmhouse with just four bedrooms. So when the whole family was at home, 10 people slept under one roof. When city relatives appeared for summertime visits, also with seven, eight or nine siblings, there could be as many as 20 people sleeping in the old farmhouse, albeit on the floor, in the attic, in tents outdoors or even in open chests of drawers. In the early years, there was an outhouse, and it was an operation which I'd rather forget, as my next brother and I got to empty the box routinely. That was quickly replaced by a flush toilet, and it was and is the only one in that house today.

We all thought it was normal to do so on the farm and fun. And it was.

My very maternal mother protected her brood like a lioness, and was also prone to take in strays, or wounded birds, animals and other kids. So, in addition to her children, she had a menagerie of pets and farm animals for many years. At one point in the 1960s, we had three dogs, 14 cats, a gaggle of Pekin and Muscovy ducks, two sheep, a hog, two milking cows, a full chicken house and five guinea hens.

Her idea of a farm was to have many animals, a huge garden to patrol, weed and can vegetables from, milk from some cows and eggs from the chickens.

But this is background for the story of the living alarm system at that farmhouse. Here is the stage setup.

One of the Pekin ducks survived for years and lived under the famous front porch. He clambered out to welcome each live person coming to the front door. The guinea hens lived for years around the house, never inside, but roosted on the peak of the roof over the front door. Only one or two cats ever lived inside, because the three dogs slept in the first floor back bedroom with my mother or under the kitchen table. There was always an uneasy peace between them, but it worked. Woe unto anyone trying to break into that domicile.

So you are of legal age, have your own car and have been out touring the local establishments with a few friends. It's an August evening, on a weekend, so there is a houseful of relatives and family. It's maybe two in the morning, the moon is full and the night is warm. As you coast down Sherwood Road, the headlights go out one hundred yards from the driveway, and you silently roll around the curve over the bridge on the ditch and come to a crunching stop in the driveway. You slide the door open as quietly as possible, but it clicks ever so softly. Not softly enough for the duck under the porch.

At the first rustling and quack from the duck, all five guinea hens open up in chorus. Everyone sleeping in the house comes off the bed, or the floor, horizontally, about six inches. Now the dogs all chime in, and we have a full anvil chorus going in the house.

Dogs barking, duck quacking and guinea hens going berserk on the roof.

I was a pariah for quite a while, but it never cured my tendency to travel to watering holes at night. I just didn't come home quite as much after that.

William Dugan is former supervisor for the town of Ledyard