Goats.

I believe I said we live in a small New England town...well, I should have said we live on a mountain outside a small New England town, a fact that was brought home to me today when, on the way home from the school bus, Bart and I encounted a lovely man and his young son walking their goats. He came up and stuck out a friendly hand.
"I'm Doug," he said.
"I'm home-schooled!" caroled the son, by way of greeting.

Honestly, I probably could have guessed.

What makes this all the better is that my five-year-old son was not at all impressed by the goats. He's seen goats, after all. Also cows, and he's gathered eggs at another friends,before the foxes got those chickens and the truth is he's more thrilled by the friend he had last year, the one with the dilapidated camper parked in front of his family's trailer.

It's a very small town. It's either a great and charming way to grow up, or just one of the many things he'll have to discuss with his therapist when he moves back to New York.