The pups and I hit the Dog Park yesterday, right as the sun was starting to set over the Missouri. It was cold — 30 degrees and falling — but heart-stoppingly beautiful, the snow-covered park stretched out beneath a buttery-gray sky. Best of all were the muffled sounds of dogs racing past on packed snow. Jillie the border collie got her run in and Chachi, the husky mix, got some face time with one of his favorite humans — i.e., the woman whose pockets smelled as if they might contain treats.

 

We were celebrating my return home after a week spent with family in Tennessee. I work upstairs in our house in Montana, so when I leave town the dogs really feel the difference. I have to confess, part of me enjoys an occasional break from the pack, the chance not to feel compelled to interrupt work every couple of hours or so to play a round of fetch or tug. At my parents’ in Kingsport, I got my animal fix by hanging out some with my dad’s three goats: a golden-eyed normal-sized goat and two pygmy goats he bought a couple of months ago. The smaller goats were still too skittish to come near, but the bigger goat followed my dad and I along the edge of the barn, cocked her head sideways as my dad scooped out a cupful of feed and, later, stood still as I petted her and my dad curried-combed her coat.

 

Goats strike me as perfectly pleasant pets. They’re low maintenance but good-natured and responsive. If we lived out in the country I’d want some for myself. Sorry, Jillie, but something tells me you would not be able to herd goats.