I'll Never Be A Gardener

 

As I mentioned before, the man encourages me to join him in the garden prior to my bedtime. He wants me to pee outside so I won't need to go during the night. Now I'm aware of the concept, I won't play ball for anything less than a half Wagg training treat. That's also my price for agreeing to play with a ball. Retrieving should never be its own reward. 

But I digress.

Tonight, he was scuffing stones from the slabs in an effort to remove temptation from me when he spied a leafy shadow. Kicking it aside, he didn't realise it was a slug. At which point was a slug became entirely appropriate. He slimed his slippers up big time. Even I wouldn't touch them, which is saying something. Normally, I'm happy lifting them from the kitchen and taking them to the living room. Not under command, you understand. This is for my pleasure only.   

Slugs are one of the few things I won't eat in the garden (or anywhere else for that matter). I prefer my snacks less slimy. I'll eat spiders and beetles and grass and leaves and twigs. I love anything wooden, the fresher the better. Sometimes I don't even wait for them to fall from the bush. I'll gnaw away until the branch is chewed through. This annoys the woman. She summons me back into the house but doesn't give me into trouble. She's read her puppy books and knows the value of positive reinforcement. I'm praised for returning.

So I do it again. 

Her temper remains calm for at least two returns after which she tells the man to deal with me. He becomes the bad guy or would be if he could keep a straight face. When he calls, I come running because I know he's going to give me a treat every time. 

What I want to know is: why is it when she removes the twigs it's called pruning but when I do it it's called vandalism? Is it because my shoogly teeth leave a ragged edge whereas her secateurs make a clean, sharp cut? 

I'll never be a gardener.