Ruined Love

There is a spot of dirt on my floor and I can't get rid of it. If I sweep it up it returns tommorow. If I wash it away it reappears. If I pick it up and trot it outside, it will trot itself back in by dawn. I swear I've picked it up a hundred times and it has reappeared one hundred and one times. I better get the broom. Why do I tollerate such a thing?

I have a yard in the same state. It is the source of the dirt. Once it was an emerald carpet of green. One could trot across that lawn barefoot and carefree. It stretched from fence to fence broken only by a few bird feeders and halting at the garage. Now it is loosing a war and the green has retreated. Fully half the yard is not hard packed dirt. There are holes and the fence is wearing through in places. Even tree roots have been exposed and shredded. A stone path to the garage was the only solution to weather the rain which turns the yard into a muddy quagmire.

The cause is well known. I am aflicted with love, for a dog. He began as a little black shadow timidy exploring the yard. That was two years before the slobbering, tongue dangling beast invaded whose every step, in his mad dash across the yard, digs up clumps of dirt, the last of the grass, roots or flowers like a race horse on the track. Perhaps I shouldn't throw that ball. Perhaps I should not have trained him to find me afterwards. Perhaps I should not run and hide while he is chasing the ball. Perhaps, but he loves the game.

I'm sure all you dog owners out there appreciate the joy of a digger, chewer, ball chaser and grass-shredding sprinter. Good luck cleaning up the dirt and looking longingly at the manicured lawns of your neighbors as you trot across your baren wasteland with a shovel and a bag.

 Mark Charke