Eventually, I ran out of excuses to avoid the Saturday chores and announced to my internal colleagues that we were heading outside to repair the bricks around the flowerbeds, mow the lawn, pick up after Sally (what Bagman calls the brown Easter Egg Hunt), lay down pine straw, and clean and refill the bird feeder.
Pulling on an old sweater and work shoes, I watched Bagman grunt in disgust, escape to his room and shut the door. I expected to lose Bagman’s help since he hates yardwork, but just as I was about to go through the porch, I noticed
This worried me because I need
In any case, I needed
Then I heard the crash of some small piece of furniture as Bagman must have thrown it against the door, followed by a string of unrepeatable adjectives followed by the word “yardwork.” Then
“Right,” I muttered. I hadn’t really noticed. It was work, it was done, and I never looked back at the results. Dragging my sore back inside to take a shower, I also did not notice the birds swooping down in graceful arcs to twitter their grateful, soprano chorus around the feeder.