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The grass in my back yard, for the first time since I brought Gracie and Buster home, is cut, mown, short. The details of how this came to be (and why it was not true previously) are unnecessarily complex and probably not of interest to anyone else; but the consequences might be.
As the summer progressed, Gracie was misbehaving in the house more and more often, and I suspect that the cause was an unwillingness to go out into grass which was taller than she is. (Granted, that's not very high....) Buster is much better behaved, but even when I took them out to romp he generally asked to go back in fairly soon.
Now, though.... Gracie is in and out constantly; this morning I braved the near-100F temperatures for a brief romp, and I was ready to go in before Gracie was. (Buster and I went in anyway, and after a few minutes I heard her tiny feet skittering on the garage floor and the doggie steps, on her way in.) Buster is lying outside even now (almost 4PM), looking perfectly content to rest on the piles of mown grass. (I still don't know why dogs love mown grass so. Murphy used to eat clumps of it when he got the chance, and Buster rolls in the piles ecstatically.)
So. It took some trouble, some worry and cash to get here, but I think life chez Stoutfellow is happier for at least two of its denizens - and if for them, then for me.
As the summer progressed, Gracie was misbehaving in the house more and more often, and I suspect that the cause was an unwillingness to go out into grass which was taller than she is. (Granted, that's not very high....) Buster is much better behaved, but even when I took them out to romp he generally asked to go back in fairly soon.
Now, though.... Gracie is in and out constantly; this morning I braved the near-100F temperatures for a brief romp, and I was ready to go in before Gracie was. (Buster and I went in anyway, and after a few minutes I heard her tiny feet skittering on the garage floor and the doggie steps, on her way in.) Buster is lying outside even now (almost 4PM), looking perfectly content to rest on the piles of mown grass. (I still don't know why dogs love mown grass so. Murphy used to eat clumps of it when he got the chance, and Buster rolls in the piles ecstatically.)
So. It took some trouble, some worry and cash to get here, but I think life chez Stoutfellow is happier for at least two of its denizens - and if for them, then for me.
