![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
We have a rental property where we live: a tiny, picturesque, white, 1930's remodeled cottage which sits on enough yard to play an NFL sanctioned game of (American) football. We could put 3 more of our house into our yard.
It's delightful! We're way back from the road. We can hold a bbq and a volleyball game and a karaoke tent and some camping tents along with a picnic table. You can throw a frisbee and not have to worry about hitting the neighbor.Though I DREAM of hitting the neighbor. Repeatedly. With the frisbee. In my fist. The grass is thick and luscious. The kind of thing fairy princesses sleep on deep in the forest if there's no moss as if there's enough LIGHT to support thick-ass grass deep in the 'sun-kissed dappled glens.' No basic botany skills at ALL for fairytale writers. D minus.
It's an awesome lawn.
It's also so thick it chokes our electric lawnmower like a little bitch.
So we borrowed one from Kevin's parents. It's a gas-powered. It's got a red case and some big numbers printed on its engine label. It has black metal grips and two kill switches. Its motor turns the back wheels for you. It is the rottweiler of push mowers.
The lawn choked it.
So I've confirmed it's off and I start pulling grass clumps out of the mower blower-chute. I get mud! Mud?! Why mud? The lawn is dry. No matter how fancy the mower is, it would be madness to match it head to head against a WET version of my lawn. There's more trapped under there, so I flip the lawnmower on its side.
The whole underneath is caked with thick, brown mud under a layer of fresh grass. Sheesh! Kevin's parents must have taken this thing off-roading. I briefly consider hiking back to the house for a proper mud-scraping tool, but why be a pussy, right? A little dirt never hurt anyone.
I dig right in, fingernails raking huge chunks of it out of the underside of the machine. It's just CAKED on there. And right around the second handful, it occurs to me that mud should not still be moist. They haven't used this thing in a while, right?
With a big clump of brown stuff in my hand, under my fingernails, and squishing between my fingers, it hits me.
They own 5 dogs.
It's delightful! We're way back from the road. We can hold a bbq and a volleyball game and a karaoke tent and some camping tents along with a picnic table. You can throw a frisbee and not have to worry about hitting the neighbor.
It's an awesome lawn.
It's also so thick it chokes our electric lawnmower like a little bitch.
So we borrowed one from Kevin's parents. It's a gas-powered. It's got a red case and some big numbers printed on its engine label. It has black metal grips and two kill switches. Its motor turns the back wheels for you. It is the rottweiler of push mowers.
The lawn choked it.
So I've confirmed it's off and I start pulling grass clumps out of the mower blower-chute. I get mud! Mud?! Why mud? The lawn is dry. No matter how fancy the mower is, it would be madness to match it head to head against a WET version of my lawn. There's more trapped under there, so I flip the lawnmower on its side.
The whole underneath is caked with thick, brown mud under a layer of fresh grass. Sheesh! Kevin's parents must have taken this thing off-roading. I briefly consider hiking back to the house for a proper mud-scraping tool, but why be a pussy, right? A little dirt never hurt anyone.
I dig right in, fingernails raking huge chunks of it out of the underside of the machine. It's just CAKED on there. And right around the second handful, it occurs to me that mud should not still be moist. They haven't used this thing in a while, right?
With a big clump of brown stuff in my hand, under my fingernails, and squishing between my fingers, it hits me.
They own 5 dogs.
nauseated
There are 2 Letters from home. (Post a letter from home.)