Dear Kid,

Some people can pull weeds without getting dirty. Mom isn’t one of them.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Last night, Mom came home with a Determined Attitude. She was Determined to do some weeding, which was fine with me because I got to go Out. I figured we’d just be out for a little bit because it was time for my dinner.

Since Mom-wanting-to-weed is a pretty rare event, Dad came outside with us. According to Mom, we have more weeds per square foot than any other home in Ohio and she decided she’d rather be in second place.

Mom attacked the weeds with all the grace of a rampaging hippo. She dug out dirt. She dug out worms (which are boring). She dug out rocks (which are even more boring). She even dug out a bunch of weeds. I lay down in the grass to watch the events and wait for dinner.

Then she started in on a Really Big Weed. She gave it A Look which should have withered it, but weeds aren’t known for being particularly smart and it stayed leafy green. She used a bunch of Bad Words and a lot of dirt went flying.

Dad told her it was a tree. Mom said it was a weed. Then she gave Dad A Look. Dad should have withered (or at least stopped talking).

Dad: You know its root system goes down at least a foot or two right? You’re not going to be able to get it out with a hand trowel.

Oh, Dad, Dad. Not the right thing to say. I stayed safely on the grass watching the rest of the world and wondering when someone was going to feed me.

Mom continued to dig.

I have pointed out in the past that We Are Not Supposed to Dig, but apparently there are different rules for weeds.

After a while, Mom said: Do you think this is important?

Dad: That’s a scary sounding question. What is it?
Mom: I have no idea.
Dad: Is it metal? Leather?
Mom: Not metal. Don’t think it’s leather.
Dad: Well don’t hurt yourself with it. It’s not important whether it comes out of the ground

Oh, Dad, Dad. Not the right thing to say.

Mom gave the Thing a Look. The Thing wasn’t that smart, because it didn’t do anything. Then she started digging again.

After a long, long time (my tummy was rumbling really loudly—I could hardly hear myself think about dinner), Dad walked over to where Mom was still digging.

Dad: Would you like some help?
Mom: Yes, please

Dad smashed through the rest of the root system and the tree weed fell down. The Thing stayed in the ground (it didn’t sniff like anything interesting). And I finally got dinner.

Mom went off muttering that the only good reason to deal with weeds is to get a blog topic but she was too tired to write.

Dad pointed out that she had a lot of dirt on the back of her legs.

Oh, Dad, Dad. Not the right thing to say.

Love, Your Favorite Puppy

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