Usually I’m
chomping at the bit to get outside and get the garden tidied up in advance of
spring bloom. But without having had a winter this year to store up a reservoir
of yearning for yardwork, my enthusiasm has been lukewarm at best. With
temperatures rising into the 60s today, ample sunshine, no wind, and a
workaholic week behind me, it’s time.
Find the gloves,
find the rake, find the hedge clipper—a job that involves rummaging through
yard implements left higgledy piggledy all around the garage last fall—and
venture out to begin job one: cutting down the ornamental grasses. My goal for
the day: the bed of prairie dropseed bordering the swimming pool.
Don the gloves,
heft the clipper, commence to shear off the tuffets of skinny buff-toned dry
grass blades to admit the sunlight that will stimulate new growth. I’m soon
aware of a furry presence nearby bearing a frisbee, meaningfully dropped next
to me. Rocky’s not about to waste this beautiful day sitting around.
Okay, Rocky, I’ll
throw the frisbee for you. I reach for the green fabric circle with the black
rope edging but am met with a pounce and a firm gripping of teeth. Apparently,
throw-and-catch is not the game he wants to play. Keep-away and tug-o-war are
more like it. Okay, Rocky. I grip the frisbee with both hands and tug and pull
and shake back and forth, to delighted mini growlings from my 20-pound opponent.
Oh, my aching back! Rocky, I don’t want to play this game. Drop it, and I’ll
throw the frisbee. Drop it!
I manage to wrest
the disc away from the teeth and throw it as far as I can—it lands in a tree!
Put down the clipper, wander over to the tree, reach high to dislodge the frisbee.
Throw again, a nice long arc, and the disc lands in the periwinkle under the
crabapples. Zip! Rocky’s flying after it.
Back to clipping,
circling each plant to cut off the long strands and leave a short stubbly
mound. This is a massed planting of dropseed, and I have fifteen of them to
give a haircut. Clip and clip and…Rocky’s back! I grab the frisbee for another
throw. Still not the game Rocky wants to play. He clamps down on the other
side. I lift him right off the ground, both of us refusing to let go. Oh my
aching back! It goes on like this about ten times, and I’ve only sheared three
dropseed, moving half as fast as planned. But I can’t deny the pooch. What kind
of a beautiful spring day would he have if I locked him in the house so I could
get some work done?
Eventually Rocky
tires of frisbee and wanders off. Clip, clip, clip…But lo! He’s discovered
something in the nearby Japanese juniper. He stares meaningfully at the
shrubbery, then keeps looking back at me, a clear sign he wants my help.
What have you
found, Rocky? I lift the evergreen boughs and have a look around—why it’s the
ballie! Rocky’s favorite little orange ball with the blue swirl; must have been
out all winter. I lift the tiny rubber orb from the entangling branches and
Rocky jumps up and down in anticipation of a good run. I heave the ball as far
as I can, and zip! He’s after it.
Back to clipping…
No such luck. Seconds later he’s back and drops the ballie meaningfully at his
feet and, with his nose, nudges it in my direction. Okay Rocky, here we go! Another
long throw and tiny paws scampering away in the same direction. Back with the
ball again. Throw again. Back again. Throw in another direction. Fooled him; Rocky
runs the wrong way. So now it’s time for the game of yup-nope. I yell yup if he
heads in the direction of the ball, nope if he heads any other direction. When
he approaches it I yell There it is! There it is! You got it! Usually he spots
it and pounces. But sometimes, including this time, he passes right by the ball
again and again despite my yelling. So, put down the clipper and go and point
to exactly where the ball lies, pick it up myself, and throw again.
After the next
throw, Rocky doesn’t reappear, so I resume my grooming project. Clip, clip, clip…bundling
trimmings, raking, carrying basketsfull to the compost bin, finally making some
progress.
Presently, from the
other side of the gazebo, a sharp bark of frustration. What now, Rocky? Did the
ballie get stuck in the shrubbery again? Yup, he’s sitting before a stand of
Pacific juniper looking meaningfully at it and then back at me, again and again,
little pink tongue hanging out. I walk the short distance to lift the branches
and find the prize.
A couple of final
throws—I’m all in—and Rocky reappears…with the frisbee! Aaaarrrrrrgh!
No wonder I’m
exhausted! Happily, my prairie dropseed project is complete, no thanks to my demanding
garden companion.
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