The great escape

This morning early I decided to cut more weeds. I could walk without too much pain when I got up, so make hay before the sun shines. (I took a small liberty with the adage.)

Momo and Pogo watched the slaughter of all those notorious pairs (thistle and bindweed) from behind the screen door and yelled at me to let them come join me. They promised to help, be good, etc.

I can drift off to another world when I cut weeds and I must have traveled light years away this morning. My back was to the door when I realized the fussing had ceased and probably a good while ago. I glance over my shoulder and see Momo moseying across the patio, stopping to take a sniff at every little bit of debris.

"Momo," I yell, "what are you doing? Get in that house." Of course, he chose to ignore me, so I had to get up from the ground, wait for my legs to work again and then open the screen wider and say again, "Get in that house. Bad boy!"

I shut the screen door and went to the kitchen to do Tyvaso. When I went back to the bedroom, the screen door was open again and Momo AND Pogo were sniffing the bag of weeds on the patio. I told them to get in the house. Momo, who by now knows I mean business, went back into the house. Pogo on the other hand, continued to sniff, so I brought him inside.

I shut the glass door and put on the lock.

Momo sits moaning and tries to open the door. Maybe Houdini would be a better moniker for him.

Thistle and bindweed have a symbiotic relationship. Go to the base of the thistle to find the main root of the bindweed. I guess the thorns protect the bindweed. Thistles stand tall with huge tap roots; bindweeds start new offshoots via underground runners. Bindweed must be the Boston Strangler of the weed world. Nothing survives its ruthlessness, except its buddy thistle. The killer even attacked the bird spa, wrapping itself tightly around all four legs.

This gardening thing is fun, Dude.

Later.