Weekends mean yard work. Oh, not for me. Grass and weeds are beneath me, and I only notice what is blooming because Sigyn enjoys flowers and drags me around, pointing and exclaiming. No, I leave the chores to the human female. I recline in the cool indoors while she struggles and sweats, and when she comes in dripping and covered with grass stains, I twitch my cape away from her sullying touch and make “you smell bad” faces.
But never let it be said that I don’t do my part. See? I have helpfully adjusted one of the wheels on the lawn-cutting machine. It is now a half-notch higher than the other three, which will make for poor steering and some eye-catching stripes in the turf. (Need I add that I’ve frozen it in place so that it would take a blow from Mjolnir to put it right?) Job done! Where is my ice-cold lemonade?