As sad as it sounds, I love to mow grass. Don’t judge me. I don’t judge those of you who get your nether-regions waxed.
You know who you are.
Sorry, that was a little judgmental, wasn’t it?
So, the grass in my backyard was about hip-deep. Poor Laila-dog was practically getting lost in the jungle just going out there to conduct her business transactions.
She’ll be so happy, I told myself. With the grass down below her eye line, she’ll frolic and play. She might even party like it’s 1999.
With that in mind, I was motivated. I picked up the poop (the prerequisite to cutting our grass and my least favorite chore…I can handle the sun-hardened ones, but those other, fresher samples make me gag…like brussels sprouts), and mowed the grass, all the time telling myself what a good thing I was doing.
I got my heart rate up and even broke a good sweat. And I only ate one sprinkler head with the mower blade. I couldn’t get the Weed Eater to crank, but I was okay with that.
When I got done, I stood back, like any proud Hen, and clucked to my Diva chick about how nice the yard looked and how much Laila-dog was going to enjoy rolling on the freshly cut, carpet-like lawn. We both breathed deeply of the strong cut-grass scent.
Excitedly, I went to the garage where I had temporarily stashed LD and released her to the backyard.
This is what she immediately did.
Look at her. Layin’ there like a big, ole killin’ hog.
She didn’t even make it to my sweet smelling grass before she passed out.
Oddly, it makes me feel a little like taking a nap myself.