The Mexican stand-off...

That's what Myrtle calls it. I still say it is betrayal.

Yes,  I am writing again about Fearsome Beast.  He will not leave.  He refuses to find his own home.  Instead, the wretch insists on trespassing in mine.  In fact, he's nothing but a low-down, dirty squatter.

I never know where he will appear, but I know that he will.  There I am, stepping out the back door to tend to my needs, making my way down the steps, and looking all around.  A fellow ought to be able to just saunter over to a place that best fits his needs in his very own yard, right?

Wrong.

Fearsome Beast will suddenly appear.  One moment I am certain that I have chosen an empty spot save for a brown rock or a little statue, and the next I realize he is right in front of me, mere inches away.  Taunting me.

Do you think that is unfair of me to assail his actions?  I don't.  Seriously, the scumbag taunts me.  Me!  The rightful resident of the wonderful expanse of grass and plants and mulch and trees and stepping stones that makes up the outdoor oasis of our home.  I belong there; Fearsome Beast does not!  Yet I am the one who has to endure the constant strain of his presence.  And...well...the constant shame of losing the day's Mexican stand-off.

Oh, I have learned to chase that two-faced rat across and out of my yard.  But all my efforts never amount to a hill of beans.  Once safely on the other side of the fence, just a few feet away, Fearsome Beast takes up his stance and waits.  He knows.  He knows the awful truth.  It sears my very soul to admit this, but Fearsome Beast is the one who has true reign in the yard, not I.

No matter how long I try to outlast the devil, I fail.  He stares.  I paw at the ground, toss up mulch, pull  at the fence, climb up in the base of the lilac tree. and still he wins.  He wins because he knows the truth.  No matter how long I try to last in one of our contests, I will eventually have to go back inside and he will be free once more to reign over Outdoor. Every hair on his body shouts his confidence that the victory will be his, that it is only a matter of time.  Those beady black eyes bore into my being until I can bear my defeat no more.  I stand down first.  I look away first.  I back up, albeit slowly, first.  And I run away.  The loser once more.

If Myrtle really loved me, she would take her gun and add some Fearsome Beast to her cooking pot.  If Myrtle really loved me, she would patch up every hole in the fence so the miserable miscreant could not escape my wrath.  If Myrtle really loved me, she would block the entrance to his home beneath our porch and leave the fetid foe to freeze in the snow.

Instead, Myrtle chuckles and guffaws over my futile efforts to force my way through the fence so that I could wipe that smug smile off the stupid face of Fearsome Beast.  If I fail to give into her cajoling to just walk away and tend to my need, Myrtle will take matters out of my hand.  Showering me with kisses, she pulls me away from the fence and picks me up in her arms to walk over to a fresh spot of grass needing either water or fertilizer. She tells me to just ignore Fearsome Beast.  She tells that I am the one who is really the winner, because I am the one who spends his life reigning over Indoors, a land never too cold and never too hot, snuggled with Myrtle, covered with love, and fed nearly to my heart's content.  When I am particularly resistant to her efforts, when I ignore her sweet nothings, leap out of her arms, and race back over to the fence in one final futile attempt to avenge my honor and right this terrible wrong, Myrtle grows a tad frustrated with me and tells me that I need a bit of perspective.

Perspective?  What I need is a puppy momma who is a bit more supportive of her own beloved companion and less protective of that impudent lout.


This is my life with Myrtle.  Amos Adams signing off!