If I stand, carefully still, I can actually watch the grass grow. It seems like just Sunday that I spent two hours hacking it back.
And now it stares at me, menacingly. Growing taller. Gaining strength.
Moments ago, at the reaction to a loud popping sound, I twirled to see a dandelion materialize on the lawn. It bobbed its head at me. And winked.
Cedar the dog jumped to action — rushing and barking, losing her little doggie mind.
Before she could get too far, another one popped up. And then another crept from the soil, zombie-like, a malicious look in its lion eye. Two more surfaced, wrapping around Cedar’s front paws and slowly pulling her down. The grass seemed to just grow itself over her.
Letting her fend for herself, I backed my way slowly inside. There will be other dogs, I suppose.
This past weekend of grunting yardwork, I fear, is but a small hint of things to come.
This weekend, I may need to use the machete. The flame-thrower. The last of my physical reserves.
But I won’t back down, friends. I’ll continue to fight.
If not for the dog, then at least for you. Maybe for me.
But mostly for my wife.
Who, after all, seems to actually like yardwork. And seems to think that I enjoy it too.
Wish me luck. Wish me at least a little success.
And God’s speed.
May your lawn die the death that it truly deserves.
* * *
From my front parlour window, I could hear a young girl walking and singing her way down the street.
“Mommy had a baby and her head popped off.”
I glanced out to see her flicking the flowerhead off of a dandelion stem. In zeal.
Perhaps it is this type of folkloric weed malice that has caused for the dandelion invasion.