Toby meets the Little Man in my Garden.

Very nice weather this weekend, and we finally got some rain, so the grass is starting to be a little less brown and a bit less crunchy.

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So Toby and I wandered in and out of the plants and along the bricks picking errant weeds and grass that’s weeded its way into the path or planting beds. I picked, he chewed.

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“That’s a good boy.” He likes to help, but he is actually always in the way. “Good ‘ole Toby!”
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“Aye, best weed in the South Farthing.” That was the little man who lives in my garden. He was hanging out under the weeping mulberry, playing mumblety-peg with William Shakespeare.

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“What?” I recognized the voice, but was confused by the words.
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“Why ya dunderpuddin’ brain; ya pooldel hugger! Ya said ‘ole Toby, din’t ya? It’s a smokable weed I say, from the South Farthing! Git wit it, dundlepoo!”

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Must be true, he would know,
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“Hey,” said I, “I thought you were going to let up on the weeds this year! Look at all these weeds.”

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“Well, ye booger…ye high flying squasher! Look at that beast! Ahgg! Get it back, I say. That black beast, that coco puff!”
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Toby was sniffing at the little man. Toby likes chewing on little things like the little man. Toby found a baby sparrow that had fallen from the bird house and was sniffing at it earlier in the month. He gummed it a little, just to get the general taste of baby sparrows, I think, but otherwise was pretty gentle. I investigated and got my ladder out, and a plastic bag to pick up the wee thing, then pushed it back into the birdhouse. If it lived I don’t know.

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“That’s a dark, crazed mammal with teeth, a hairy pooka bear from Hades! It has beady black eyes and drool!” The little man was actual coherent, in his panic.
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I pulled Toby back some. I could see where the little man was coming from, because seeing Toby coming at you from eye level can be a bit daunting…he is fast and his white teeth stand out pointedly from his black muzzle. “He’s just a puppy, he’s more curious than anything…he just wants to taste you a little bit.”

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“What, ahem, flabberty whacking moles and a toaster full of wheezes on you! A pox and red worm drool fits for the Toby monster! Honking wet poodleawhatzits! My bones!”
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“He’s a poochon, not a whatzits.”

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“####! More weeds! Willy, hand me the Burpee weed catalogue! Weeds all around!”
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Shoot, I guess I’d better keep Toby away form the William mulberry tree. I think I’ve got a long season of weed picking ahead of me…sigh.