Another byproduct of recent rains is rampant growth of the lawn. The human female is out with the mower, trying to whack it back. The whole operation is the sort of noisy-sweaty-grunty activity that I endeavor to avoid.
Nonetheless, she has tried to press me (Me! Rightful ruler of Asgard and future King of Midgard!) into service to pull the long runners of St. Augustine that snake out over the sidewalk every time she relaxes her horto-tonsorial vigilance.
I won’t do it! I won’t! As much fun as it is to rip things up, I will not be her lawn lackey. No, I shall leave off the minute her attention is elsewhere and turn my hand to blighting the turf with grubs or a delightful little malady known as Take-all Patch.
Sigyn, of course, is exempt from manual labor and is engrossed in admiring the wild morning-glories that have sprung up in the humans’ wretched and otherwise-boring flower beds.
Astute viewers will note that I have gifted the leaves with spider mites. One of these days, the human female will learn that she can’t push me around.