Way North of Boston

“I sha’n’t be gone long…”

Robert Frost, “The Pasture,” opening poem to _North of Boston_

Last night was not a great night to be a Boston sports fan, so it’s a good day to focus on a dog and its very present-tense presence. We’re here, at latitude 58, able to momentarily forget about the dashed hopes that earn Boston fans all that grit, and celebrate another day here in the crappiest month of the year in boreal paradise.

My little Cedar-calf is beyond “tottering,” and starting to outright run, just for fun. But she’s not all that sophisticated yet, as a few clips below suggest. And like Frost’s farmer (or “fahmah” as he might have called himself, and as our gym teacher, Mr. Rose, routinely called us in high school), I’ve got some chores to do before I–get this–leave our little girl for the weekend. (I’m going out to see my man boy, Tim, in Walla Walla.)

Cedar has a great sitter, Jordan, who I know will love her up, and there certainly will be some licking (and biting, sorry, Jordan!) but I’m sort of petrified. She is so young. Would you come, too?

Two images and a few morning moments below.