Tuesday, May 31, 2011
I've been trying to spend a little more time in the yard, so it's not just a wasteland behind my house where my dogs defecate and attack each other. Taking a turn through my grounds, I noticed at least two baseballs, this one chewed up by dog teeth. Which makes it official: every block has one house where, when you knock baseballs over the fence, they stay there forever and you go home to supper early. You're impressed at the hitting power it takes to whack the ball that far, but disappointed because every home run means you have to scrounge up another ball for tomorrow -- and there's no way in hell you're going to knock on the door to ask if you can have the ball back because the people inside are a little scary and they have a huge mean dog that eats boys.
Apparently, my house is that house.