... goat
Kate wants a goat. At least she used to. I suspect the part of her she left at home, with her old textbooks and comfy pajamas, still does. We thought about it for a while. Thought about how excited she might be on the morning of her birthday to wake up to a hairy chinned pygmy in the back yard. But we were not sure Sally the slobber dog would adjust. And we were not sure our yard would survive. But in my mind I see a little YouTube video of a winter afternoon, when the sun is washing over 16 inches of snow in the back yard. Sal, our faithfully apathetic Basset, has tunneled her path through the white jungle, as usual. Her low lying belly plows through the powder in what looks like a mini-luge. From overhead it must seem like there is an ant farm at 844 Emerald Oaks Court. Sally is trailed by the fleet footed wonder goat, who stirs up the smooth tunnel so that it becomes deeper and deeper each time they take a turn. I see Sal trying to butt heads with the goat, whom Kate would have given some random name like Floyd or something. In the summer Floyd runs in circles around Sal and confuses her, so she scrambles over to her dog house and tries to curl up under the tree as close to the trunk as possible so that there is no way Floyd can get through. She lays her chin on the ground, her paws under the flappy folds of her jowls, and raises her eyebrows, glancing at Floyd as he chomps on an old shoe. Her right eyebrow jumps up and lowers, as if to say “Whatever”, then she closes her weepy eyelids and starts to snore. Floyd, meanwhile, drops the shoe and sticks his scruffy silver head through the rungs of the fence and eats away a perfectly good newly blooming peony. Bye-bye, Floyd. I just cannot fathom the aromatic combination of Sally the Slobber Dog and Floyd the Crazy Pygmy Goat, anyway! (Though I guess I could live with it if I could have Kate back.)
Kate wants a goat. At least she used to. I suspect the part of her she left at home, with her old textbooks and comfy pajamas, still does. We thought about it for a while. Thought about how excited she might be on the morning of her birthday to wake up to a hairy chinned pygmy in the back yard. But we were not sure Sally the slobber dog would adjust. And we were not sure our yard would survive. But in my mind I see a little YouTube video of a winter afternoon, when the sun is washing over 16 inches of snow in the back yard. Sal, our faithfully apathetic Basset, has tunneled her path through the white jungle, as usual. Her low lying belly plows through the powder in what looks like a mini-luge. From overhead it must seem like there is an ant farm at 844 Emerald Oaks Court. Sally is trailed by the fleet footed wonder goat, who stirs up the smooth tunnel so that it becomes deeper and deeper each time they take a turn. I see Sal trying to butt heads with the goat, whom Kate would have given some random name like Floyd or something. In the summer Floyd runs in circles around Sal and confuses her, so she scrambles over to her dog house and tries to curl up under the tree as close to the trunk as possible so that there is no way Floyd can get through. She lays her chin on the ground, her paws under the flappy folds of her jowls, and raises her eyebrows, glancing at Floyd as he chomps on an old shoe. Her right eyebrow jumps up and lowers, as if to say “Whatever”, then she closes her weepy eyelids and starts to snore. Floyd, meanwhile, drops the shoe and sticks his scruffy silver head through the rungs of the fence and eats away a perfectly good newly blooming peony. Bye-bye, Floyd. I just cannot fathom the aromatic combination of Sally the Slobber Dog and Floyd the Crazy Pygmy Goat, anyway! (Though I guess I could live with it if I could have Kate back.)