When we moved out here to the beautiful Trinity Alps region, I had no idea that we’d raise goats. They’re lawnmowers and pets, though we’re about to borrow a milker for awhile to test drive the idea of having our own… Anyway, I just finished helping my partner Rachel load up a goat to take to the vet. He’s probably got a bad tooth.

Now, in this quiet house, I have another 1,500 words I’ve promised to deliver for the next novel. I can’t stop thinking about that goat (his name’s Stormy Wether). His distress was evident and heartbreaking; in his mind, any time he’s in the back of the truck he’s due for a long, twisty ride to get poked, prodded, and (likely) knocked out for a tooth extraction. If only we could talk to him.