Ever since I watched “Temple,” HBO’s biopic of Temple Grandin, which debuted Feb. 6, I haven’t been able to get her out of my mind. Grandin is the autistic professor of animal science at Colorado State who has revolutionized the slaughterhouse industry by introducing techniques designed to make the final stop for cattle and pigs more humane. Actress Claire Danes captures brilliantly the stubborn, misunderstood teenage Grandin and takes her through college and into the early stages of her career. It’s mesmerizing to see how she is able to conclude that a curved chute keeps cattle calm as they enter a processing plant, and how installing metal steps down into a “dip tank” can reduce drownings, just two of the many steps she has devised. Half of all slaughterhouses in the United States now implement some of Grandin’s ideas, and it’s her insistence that animals produced for food be treated with respect that makes her one of my heroes.

 

I met Grandin six years ago at an American Meat Institute conference in Kansas City. She was lined up to give several talks and, decked out in her modern-day Calamity Jane garb, she was clearly enjoying the limelight. Since then she has written two New York Times bestsellers: “Animals in Translation” and “Animals Make Us Human.” My only beef with her, no pun intended, is that while much of her writing focuses on dogs, Grandin has had little to say about the evils of puppy mills–the most pernicious of cash crops. If she were willing to take on large-volume breeders she could do a world of good, because a lot these breeders are farmers and farmers respect her. Temple, for all the good you’ve accomplished, your work is not done.

 

Meanwhile, HBO is still airing the film, so catch “Temple” if you can. Rent it on Netflix a few months from now if you have to. It’s that good.

 

 

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.