There is nothing more exciting than the thought of spring. The reality of spring is something else entirely.
I do not mean to sound ungrateful because I am grateful (very grateful) that winter has loosened its icy, cold grips on our soft bits. However, of all the jobs that exist for a homeowner, spring jobs are the worse.
Dog owners everywhere, while gazing out in sheer wonder at the amount of horribleness that awaits them in the spring, consider, if only for a moment, to give their beloved family pets away.
"If we didn't have a dog," they think, briefly, before grabbing the rubber gloves, plastic bags and shovel, "I wouldn't have to do this." Then, clean up complete, you stand victorious and proud, shovel in hand when your precious pooch marches past you and your smugness to mar the formerly cleaned-up yard.
Your dog, usually a good dog, looks at your over her shoulder while doing her business, giving you a look. The look that says, "I hate you and I don't care that you filled an obscene amount of plastic bags filled with my offerings. I will do what I want, when I want and wherever the urge takes me."
Then, she limps (because she's quite aged) up the stairs to bark at the back door, even though the door is open (she can't see that it's open because she's also a bit blind). Resigned, you grab a fresh bag and head over to the spot she just left.
And so it continues. I mean, I was talking about a friend's dog.
Not ours.
Ours wouldn't do that.
Another spring job that makes you yearn for winter's harrowing grasp, is finding the soggy mat of half-mulched leaves covering what little lawn you have that is not dog stained and wrecked by the repetitive strain of children playing.The individual leaves, so pretty in the fall, have been assimilated by the Borg and are now moving as one."We are Borg," cry the leaves as you hack at them with your ineffective rake.
Managing to separate a small section of the leaven brethren, you release all pretense of class, by discarding your rubber gloves and picking up the leaves by the handful, you shove them into the wheelbarrow, which promptly falls over.
"Resistance is futile," says a tiny, leafy voice.
Taking a deep breathe (and perhaps swearing, very quietly to yourself), you carefully put the less-than-helpful rake away before going back inside to have a bath.
You are quite chilled (because it started to rain/snow) and think to yourself that a tidy yard is perhaps overrated and that winter wasn't so bad.
