That's my baby

Arpad, Great Pyrenees security chief at Goat Rope Farm, in warmer times, with a friend. Or part of one.

One of the things I admire about Arpad and the whole Great Pyrenees breed is that they are like the ideal martial artist, protective but not the least aggressive, potentially as dangerous as a gun at close range but generally unaware of and unconcerned about the fact and not in the least inclined to show it.

Most of the time, Arpad is a genial goof and occasional low thief. If we had fair elections on our dead end holler road, he's be a shoo-in for mayor.

His supreme coolness often manifests itself when we go on a 5 to 6 mile loop walk along neighboring ridges. Up at the top, there are a couple of mean Rottweilers who bark at us and threaten to attack.

Arpad generally places himself casually between us and them but considers them so far beneath him that he makes no eye contact and does not acknowledge their existence in any way. Until, that is, he gets to the end of their territory, at which point he generally leaves a massive if fragrant calling car.

The Pod abides.