It was Mom's voice. Welcome to the country: there were goats in the backyard. Recently, a herd of goats from a neighbor has been getting into Mom and Dad's yard, eating weeds and whatever else. They started in on the "whatever else," meaning landscape plants especially planted by Dad. These plants look...sad now. So if the goats get up near the house and thus the landscaping, we have to yell to get them away.
I was drifting off when this last happened, then plenty awake because of the needed yelling. Mom called up that the goats were right behind the house, and she was shooing them away. I joined her in sort-of-herding the goats, walking outside myself and using the more booming version of my voice, until they were in a far corner of the yard.
Then I realized I didn't know exactly where they'd come from. Where do I herd them to now?
Mom walked out as well, and that's good because she knew which way the goats needed to go now: down a slope to a ravine (and past where Dad was doing fence work to, you know, KEEP THEM OUT FROM NOW ON IF AT ALL POSSIBLE). We kept up the yelling and the clapping until they got to a low spot in the ravine and squeezed through a hole that I could barely see under the fence, and headed back to a flatland behind this place where they can graze alongside cows. (Welcome to the country, there are cows.) And Dad set to work to figuring out how to block that hole, too.
I'm not Babe the Gallant Pig yet, but I wasn't planning to be.