Farmer H has been pitching in to take up the slack during my convalescence. He has grilled our supper every night. He calls from work to see how I'm doing. He came downstairs to get me last night after a brief sortie to my dark basement lair. And later, I discovered he had washed the supper dishes. He's a prince among farmers.
That does not mean that Farmer H has not been up to his old shenanigans.
Last Thursday, Farmer H and The Pony were working on getting Poolio in shape for the summer season. They had already taken off his cover, skimmed him numerous times, cleaned out his filter, and started a well-water transfusion. Farmer H came down the basement steps to go out and check on Poolio, through his workshop to the back door. When he came back inside and started up the stairs, I noticed something amiss. It was NOT the simple fact that Farmer H was wearing only his tighty-whities and shoes.
"Hey! What's that on your feet?"
"I don't think those are your shoes."
"Yes they are. They're my Crocs."
"I don't think so."
"They're my Crocs."
"No. They're not. Why do you have to do this? Your Crocs are camouflage, and you wear the strap behind your heel. Those Crocs are blue. With no strap. You took my Crocs by the bookcase, didn't you? You are wearing my Crocs! Put them back."
"These aren't your Crocs." Farmer H continued stumping up the steps. I wish I had signaled The Pony to run and grab his ankle, and hold him in place while I went around him and pointed out the empty spot where my navy blue Crocs belonged. Alas, I was breathless and could not exercise my authority.
I don't know how he thinks he can get away with these things. Farmer H would make a terrible criminal.