The backyard, which was getting close to needing mowing, looks this morning like a jungle for feet. You see, the dog – Oh, rats, I’ve done it again . . . referred to his majesty as “the dog” – goes out there and we do not want him to be sickened by chemicals. We spray nothing back there. If you want weeds removed, you need to pull them and I have to admit after fighting for a few minutes with roots and realizing the sheer magnitude of the task, I find myself thinking something about live and let live.

I could put a bounty on weeds – give my grandkids money for each little weed pelt they toss into a bucket but I have serious doubts it would work. And they are too old now to fall for the “We are going into battle against the enemy of flowers and grass; we will smite our enemies” scenario. I am not, however, and will probably wind up getting myself some tool about the length of a golf club which I can use to pop the invaders out.

Or I could put a cannister on my back with weed killer and spray each one individually with a personal vengeance. Yes, yes, I stand at Armageddon and I do battle for the Lord. Oh, the spray thing? Okay, we can keep the dog (drat, did it again) out of that part of the yard for a day or so.

I can see me – green cannister on my back . . . little metal wand with spray head in my hand. Maybe in the future, the moments spent in fighting the weeds will be immortalized in a statue of me standing steadfast against the creeping charlie.

Of course, a main consideration is that the yard is almost entirely weeds . . .