Or melk, as they say in Utah County

Every day a little old man in an old gold volvo pulls up to the house across the street from my office. He hobbles up to the front door - he's a pretty fast hobbler - and picks up two canning bottles of off-color milk from the lady who lives there. I've wondered what it was for. But I had also wondered about the hay in their backyard... Laura suspects goats. This morning the lady wasn't there. So, bewildered, he left, only to drive by again about three minutes later, peering at the house trying to figure out if she'd come home. He parked in front of the house and there he waited, cradling his little poodle in a blanket in his lap. He waited, and waited, it was sad. I wanted to run across the street and give him some goat's milk so he could go home.