I swear, Farmer H is going to drive me to drink.
This evening, while I was sitting on his front porch pew, playing with Puppy Jack, Farmer H decided that it was a good time to mow the yard. Never mind that after eating, Jack is taken to the yard by The Pony for pooping.
Farmer H fired up his riding mower. He made a trip across the front yard, right through prime pooping places, to the driveway right next to where The Pony's Ford Ranger is parked. And proceeded to drive over the gravel with the blade down. It sounded like a machine gun spitting bullets. Not only was he near The Pony's truck, but also right beside the carport, where his precious 1980 copper-colored Olds Toronado is parked. Sure, it has a cover over it. But last time I checked, inch-plus gravel does not turn away from a plastic sheet. The metal is still vulnerable under the thin blankie. Also, right next to the Toronado was Farmer H's ride, the TrailBlazer that used to belong to my mom.
Farmer H must have sensed my chagrin, because he drove off the driveway gravel and back across the prime pooping places, making a close turn by the yucca, and ended up right in front of my porch pew, with a sudden, dramatic POP as something shot out from under his mower deck.
I cringed. Threw up my arms and covered my face with my hands. I just retired, by cracky! No way am I going to be blinded by a T-bone gnawed smooth by my sweet, sweet Juno.
"How about you pay attention to what you're doing? I'm not wearing safety glasses! It's not going to hit YOU, it's going to hit ME! Can't you wait 10 minutes?"
"HM. Nothing is going to hit you."
"Didn't you HEAR that? And you probably wore 7 years worth of sharpness off your blades down there churning out rocks!"
"HM. I'm just mowing."
I don't know how this dual retirement thing is going to work out, come December. At least there will be a four-month mowing moratorium.