As you may recall, I've been spotting gophers on the grounds, digging into their burrows and otherwise giving them a bad time. There were two places along the front path where they'd made inroads and by digging down to the point where I could get my head pretty far down, I furthered my intimidation.
This morning I noticed new mounds of dirt and new signs of digging, which I promptly addressed. So what if my nose got a caking of dirt! It was all part of the teamwork I try to engage around here.
So what do I discover when Boss and I are headed out to lunch at the Xanadu Bakery? There in the driveway is that dreadful white truck belonging to R. The Gopher Man, lettered on the sides and oh, please, lettered on the back: Let The Gopher Man Bust Their Furry Buns. Gimme a break!
And sure enough, there is R. with his apparatus, messing with my digging, taking credit for the discovery, no doubt slathering at the thought of the bill he's going to send for services rendered.
I know, I know; he needs to get established in the marketplace, too, and I should be more tolerant.
But I'm not.
He wears one of those duck-billed caps and, now that you mention it, walks with a bit of a waddle.
I know, I know: argument ad hominem.
I'll get over it.
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