Westcliffe is a small town in Colorado nestled at the base of a towering peak. It is quant, quiet, and eclectic. It's Main Street houses two little coffee shops, a general store, some antique shops, a wood work store, an unbeatable burger shack, and an Amish bakery. The people are simple and sweet. Not the sort of simple which confines them to the narrow judgment of a small-town mindset, but the simple of enjoying each moment the day brings. Every Wednesday the small square is filled with the tables and tents of the Farmer’s Market selling the best jams and jellies, produce and pastries. I approach the market with empty bag in hand and something tasty in mind. I explore the herbs and produce. I decide on some peaches from a man whose companion was a tea cup poodle laying in a doggie bed on the table guarding the peaches, or so I assumed. “What’s his name?” I ask. “Brutus,” the man responds. “He’s a watch dog.” “Guarding your peaches, I see.” “No, no,” the man quickly