This post originally appeared on a blog site called "Rescue Dog Tales." He came with the name Pony-Pony. For obvious reasons, we changed it—quickly. But we didn’t go with my son’s suggestion: Brownie. To the child who’d named the goldfish with big eyes, Eyes, and the one with a gold cap, Hat… well, you get the picture. Instead, we admired the overgrown mane of this plain Jane equine and equated it with our favorite vintage animated cartoon character. Shaggy it was. Shaggy was

His name was Clyde. And yes, he came with a Bonnie. That should have been the first indication of trouble. Or a big red flag. But I believe when you ask for something in this world, you receive it. My problem is, I always think I know what the answer should look like. There I go thinking again. So when I first heard of Clyde, I had one of those inexplicable hits—that jolt of intuition that says, “I got a feeling…” And I did. That I was his last resort. He was rescued. From a

On the surface he’s not much to look at: plain Jane, average mover, too big to be cute, too short to look sturdy. He didn’t even have a name

This blog also appeared as a guest post on Dragon Intuitive, Feb. 18, 2013. I have a goat. He’s a boy. I named him Billy. I know how unoriginal that is. He’s also a professional eater. As I sit here on the creek bank, listening to the forest while babble flows freely through my head, he hovers near, chomping on the thorniest, pokiest, vilest of weeds with incisors made of hardened steel. Frankly, I think he’s in heaven. Hell, he was made for this. In stark contrast to his bla