I could become the crazy dog man of these parts. Have eight, maybe twelve dogs that crowded around me wherever I went, a parade of tails and floppy ears whenever I opened the back door. Then maybe I’d take up writing. Out in the middle of nowhere, grizzled, I could be one of those serious writers who used ten different words for grass. I would let my hair grow, write, chop the wood, feed the dogs. The days would fill themselves, really.
