We needed a shower. And an opportunity to finally settle a long-standing debate: in Celebrity Deathmatch Corgi vs. Llama, who would win? So we cruised across the Vermont border into New Hampshire to the farm of P's longtime family friends, who are in possession of both showers and llamas. P. has told me countless stories about visiting the farm when he was a wee lad, and as we explored the old cow barn and the nooks and crannies of the ells and sheds, I could just imagine a ten-year-old, tow-headed P. jumping from a rope swing into heaps of loose hay. I not-so-subtly coveted the resident chickens, and as we pulled the Scamp out of the driveway, sorry to leave but eastward-bound, we were given two eggs as a parting gift. That night we built a little campfire somewhere in southern New Hampshire, finished off the wine and fried up the farm eggs. The Scamp still smelled like hay. Like New England, like summer. I fell asleep dreaming of Rhode Island reds, barred rocks and banties.
And oh, corgi vs. llama was a draw; Mac has herding skills and cunning, but llamas have serious attitude and scimitar-like hooves and we intervened before they made a trampled snausage out of him. Totally the best day of his little corgyn summer though. I've never seen an old dog so happy.