Son of a bitch.
I ran out into the yard in my underwear and cursed that tiny animal out. He retreated to the fence where, I swear to god, he made a big show of eating my strawberry. Mmmm, so good! So juicy! Wouldn't you like one? Too bad it's in my belly and also covered in squirrel disease.
I know I got my yard certified by the Audubon Society and I love animals and all that, but lately I've had it with nature. Some critter recently ate every single blueberry on both bushes. The crows, in addition to being noisy as hell, like to divebomb me when I'm weeding. I keep finding neighborhood cats lurking in the back, which would be fine if they would eat the crows (circle of life and all that); instead, they just poop in my beds. My yard is not a goddamn gas station, guys. You can't just use the restroom and leave.
The boy found water pellet rifles online and offered to try his hand at controlling the crows. I won't let him . . . yet. Because last night I successfully harvested a bowl of strawberries and they tasted like victory.
Score one: Heather.
