A day for the dog that cleaned house

I’ve made good on the “Jumpstart to Summer” theme. At this moment, I am more tired than the most tired person on the planet, but I feel like a million bucks.
I sucked the marrow out of a three-day weekend, and every used-up muscle and aching joint is a reminder that I love living a whole life—even if my million bucks feels run over by a truck.
I had my first experience this weekend in being of assistance in the launch of a certain sailboat; now back to the lake for the season, including raising of the mast. I can add “Little Miss Mast Helper” to my list of essential skills.
I also made good on a couple of big chores I had on my list here in my neck of the woods, including digging a new 12 sq. ft. addition to my garden and cleaning up yet another pile of old junk iron—cast off from yesteryear when this place was a working farm.
There isn’t enough room in the back of a half-ton for what I dug out from alongside the barn during this latest, and dare I say final, mission to neaten up this farmyard so that it reflects my chi.
It’s taken me nearly seven years to get to this point and yet something tells me the process is likely to continue.
I love my grandparents, however I am now convinced there may be hoarding DNA in my gene pool (chances are good, though, that I rewired the inherency with my land-clearing drive).
I’ve discovered that digging a garden is a great way to solve the problems of the world, lash out at personal beefs, and fold up head laundry that has been strewn about in discarded, unorganized piles.
During the hours it took me to kick in the shovel, remove the sod, and haul it away, I dealt with the ridiculous price of gasoline, Monsanto’s seed monopoly, Toronto’s mayoral crisis, and last, but not least, hashed out a plan to repair the road to town, which has slumped into a below-grade donkey trail out here.
In a heightened moment of self-empowered problem-solving, I marched across the yard from the garden to the tool shed to find a pitchfork and, upon stepping into the building, came face-to-face with a fat, buck-toothed, ugly groundhog.
Both alphas were bug-eyed for a moment—surprised and unsure of who was more dangerous. The groundhog’s bullish nature led to me to it, too, had just finished digging a hole somewhere and had become incensed by the unfixed problems of the world and was in the shed looking for the same pitchfork.
We glared at each other for a moment, then both of us made a beeline for the back corner of the shed where the pitchfork stood. I shouted, “This is my shed, get out!”
The groundhog fired back a chortle of teeth-gnashing sounds somewhere around my feet as it scurried under the shelving and out of sight.
I grabbed the pitchfork and did a 180-degree turnabout, expecting to meet the rodent of my worst nightmare standing on its hind legs and holding the “Sawzall.”
Instead, the loser made a fast dash for the door and was gone in a flash of fuzzy tail.
I now suspect I have an unwelcome guest living under the tool shed.
I wish you were here “Dot.” I need you for that dog vs. varmint “Jumpstart to Summer” sideshow.

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