With autumn spiritually and with much anticipation, here (the weather begs to differ with its fits of humidity and extreme lashes of heat-waves), we decided to do some work in the back yard, re-green the grass-bed. So the whole yard is now dug up, awaiting my father’s gardening moment later this weekend.
Sparky, of course, being the over 70-year-old that he is , couldn’t care less and have yet to venture out into the mess, reserving his potty time to much more discrete and leveled ground. Little Benji (yes, we still call him that, because despite the massive fluff of ball that he resembles, he’s only 10 months old), on the contrary, is fascinated with this new terrain and has been scrummaging about, chasing unearthed beetles and closely nosing worms, and of course, triggering waves of outburst from my mom with his mud-ridden paws and dirt-drenched mouth. She literally would immediately grab the nearest possible towel and start scrubbing him down only to see Mr. Dirtbag reappear again, paw-printing on her kitchen’s window pane.
It’s entertainment to the purest, the dynamics between him and my mom. A vignette of mom’s market trip home:
” Mom pulls into the front gate, a defeathered chicken fresh from the butcher sulking in a nylon bag clutched to the side of her motorbike. The indomitable giant Benji races towards her from nowhere, lunges dauntlessly in, and rescues Princess Dead Chicken from the choking villain that is Sir Nylon Bag. And away goes our hero Benji, off into the sunset of my backyard, locking nozzle to beak with Princess Dead Chicken … Mom’s voice shouting ‘Nooooooo’ faintly fading out….” (July 26th)
With licks of love and wags of tail,
Sparky and Benji