Last night in Dreamland we were driving west, and we stopped in a wonderful small town. Its name was carved on an obelisk in the town center. I don’t recall it now. But I do recall that as soon as we’d stopped the car and I’d hopped out, there was the most wonderful goat. I stroked its head. After a spell it hopped up onto a small seat or pedestal or perhaps into a slightly recessed niche, as though it were a commuter settling in for a shoe shine in the train station. I went over and stroked its head some more.
Last night in Dreamland we were driving west, and we stopped in a wonderful small town. Its name was carved on an obelisk in the town center. I don’t recall it now. But I do recall that as soon as we’d stopped the car and I’d hopped out, there was the most wonderful goat. I stroked its head. After a spell it hopped up onto a small seat or pedestal or perhaps into a slightly recessed niche, as though it were a commuter settling in for a shoe shine in the train station. I went over and stroked its head some more.
I love the way real goats seem so unreal.
Aren’t their eyes glorious? (I know that Andrew doesn’t like them, and I imagine many people don’t, but I sure do.)