Portrait of the Goat as Casual Sage

Sparkle Plenty basked in sunshine on the back hill, no doubt chewed at grass, whatever the world laid before her— as is the way with goats.

Mrs. Knott painted her portrait, an unusual happening for a goat, and now Sparkle Plenty gazes from her contented place at me, at my desk.

Her black paint eyes announce a placid wisdom as if in acceptance of the death which will follow the loves and pangs and pleasures of her existence.

What Sparkle Plenty knew stayed inside her small goat brain— about a daily warmth that fell on her coat, about the sweetness of the new lawn, about the gentle hands that scratched the wish behind her ear.