Wise words, Messr. Loggins. May I call you “Kenny”? No? Well, nevermind, then. Your lyrics will do the trick all by their lonesome.
Vermin. Grammie’s Gazebo has vermin. This little oasis, painstakingly handcrafted by Grampie, lovingly adorned with comfy outdoor furniture, cushy pillows, and wind chimes, has been conquered by a woodchuck. Could be more than one woodchuck, we just have only seen one. Could be a whole battalion, keeping a rigid watch schedule. But just one is bad enough.
Here is a “before” picture, taken this morning B.V. (before vermin) —
Later in the afternoon, my mother (“Grammie” to my children) calmly informed me that a woodchuck had quietly sidled up next to her as she lay prone on the cushy couch. By my calculations, the beaver stood only a foot away on his haunches. Could have been there for 20 minutes. Just watching Grammie as she was absorbed reading about the aftermath of Melania’s oh-so-impressive speech. Grammie had to clap her hands loudly to get the chubby critter to budge.
This is not good. The natural order of things in the Gazebo environs, I fear, has been upset. A breach in food chain etiquette has occurred from which we may not recover. I, for one, will no longer frequent Grammie’s Gazebo Zoo until I am assured the coast is clear. Grampie’s latest, new toy — a whirling drone — suddenly has a clear, paramilitary purpose: Rooting out the enemy so that we can enjoy a goddammed styrofoam cup of Dunkn Donuts and Melania’s speech on the iPad in peace.
But I fear those carefree days are long gone, and the trouble has only just begun.