Mowed the lawn today, because it needed it. Not convinced at all that I needed it. But the guy that mows the lawn for our neighbors rode by and stuck out his tongue, so I suppose it was time.
I am still feeling more than a little beat up from last weekend’s adventures, mind you. At least I can stand up and sit down down without sounding like I spent the night being tortured by ninjas, and that’s progress, but lifting and bending are still not the best ideas. That’s OK for mowing, though, because I can push and walk with the best of them. Unless that’s what the neighbor’s guy was suggesting …
The problem is in the removal of the clippings. Our new mower has a giant bag on the bag of the thing, designed to catch each singular blade of grass, lest it somehow sully the neighborhood’s image. I can do the full lawn in four bags, which means stopping the engine, bending over, disengaging the bag, hefting it up and wrestling the giant maw into an uncooperative garbage bag. Then there is the lifting by the strap on the back of the bag, and the shaking and pouring and dislodging of lawn litter.
All of these things hurt.
And it was turning warm today, too.
But I got the job done. I drove around two nearby neighborhoods to seek out the neighbor’s lawn man and return his rhetorical fire.
Or I would have, if I hadn’t thought I’d lost the cat. When I walked back through the garage I noticed the interior door wasn’t latched. And so now the fears begin. Allie is strictly an inside creature, having lost her predator and adventuring instincts long ago. When we do take her out she finds the spot of dirt nearest the door and rolls in it. This cat is a dog trapped in a cat’s body, I’m convinced. Her being outside for any length of time, though, won’t end well and now I’ve invited her to the big bad world because I was taunted outside by a lawn man.
Quick sweep through the house: nothing. Hustle through the yard: nothing. Through the house again, calling her name again: still no cat. Outside once more. Did she get through the neighbor’s fence? No cat. Down the street, with no luck. I text The Yankee, feeling like a total jerk. She’s on her way home anyway and her car passes me as I walk up the other side of the street looking. Still nothing.
I walk back to my driveway as she walks outside.
“She’s asleep in the dining room.”
Dreaming of chasing squirrels, no doubt. Good cat.
