There is a musky smell, warm and welcoming, like the smell of damp dog. The hoof prints leave a breadcrumb trail to see where the wandering goats have hidden. Tiny cloven feet, so dainty they grip on to steep slopes, trip trap along the rocky mountain side.

He stands watching them through his steamy spectacles.  The ferocious biting wind sears his aged skin, his wiry black beard protects much of his face, as condensation blisters as he breathes, sticking like tiny diamond droplets amongst the black carotin stalks. His gaze carefully counts the goats he can see; his connection with his dog is as tight as a content woman's wedding band. 

Joey listened,  his puzzled head cocked from side to side softly as his whiskery master contemplates. He is ready, connected, full of anticipation,  his master puts his hand to the gate, Joey stands, poised, it is time to start. He shakes with anticipation, his tail moves only through the breeze, dog and master connected. Ready. 

The silent whistle cuts through the air and Joey runs, focused, fresh and free. He goes forth into a battle with those goats, controlled by old Dick, his master for so long.  He knew just what to do. Clockwork was too jerky to describe the synchronised connection, smooth as cream he whipped around gathering the horned demons. They tried to buck and kick but nothing as quick as Joey could be caught by them.

Dazzled, bewildered and bemused the herded crowd gathered bleating with disgust at their entrapment. Jostling together the flock waited nervously to see the outcome. There was no escape through the fence; outside the cunning canine caged them. 

Dick's smile rose, his lips appearing beneath the wilderness of whiskers, he brushed his hand over his chin. Displaced diamonds dropped as smiled and patted his faithful friends head.