Denis Lehane: Graze-on mowers on the lawn
It all started the other night in bed, when my missus announced, “It won’t work. It’s simply too long, I just can’t face it.”
“Yerra, woman,” says I, “you’ve faced it 100 times before, drive on regardless, that’s my motto.”
“Not this time,” says she. And with that, she told me she was off to sleep.
“Well the Lord save us,” says I, “but what am I to do now?” and I left there scratching my old head. In the finish, I decided there was nothing for it but to tackle the job myself.
So bright and early on Monday morning, I pulled out my old lawn mower, and for the first time this year, attempted to cut the grass.
And sure enough, my missus was right. The grass was too long, the mower got bogged down almost immediately.
To do the job at all would be utter slavery. And I was in no condition for slavery, having been up late the previous night watching the golf live from Augusta, and worrying about poor old Phil Mickelson.
Yerra, for years now, I’ve been a fan of Phil, ever since I realised that Phil and me have a great deal in common.
Phil and me are both men, to begin with. And by the looks of things, neither of us are shy about running to the table when the spuds are rolled out. And of course, most similar of all, we both make our living off the land. The only difference here being that Phil uses a club, while I use a stick.
So naturally, I was glued to the set on Sunday night, watching Phil.
And whatever about him winning the game, what I was really concerned about was Phil’s safety.
You see, over the weekend, I heard a dreadful story about a golfer who had been bitten by an alligator.
“And where was he bitten?” you might ask.
Well, he was bitten in Australia.
This particular alligator was holed up in a pond, and when the golfer went to the edge of the pond to hit his ball, didn’t the old hoor come galloping out snapping all before him.
Of course, experts might suggest that it was probably a crocodile, and not an alligator. But does it really matter? His mouth was big and he was hungry, and that’s about all we need to know.
Anyhow, on account of the alligator, I was terrible worried on Sunday that one might leap out from a pond in Augusta and make a drive for Phil.
So as you can imagine, by Monday morning, I was in no fit condition to face my jungle of a lawn. I didn’t have the energy to cut the long grass, nor did I have the money to hire some fellow with a fancy ride-on. I was in a terrible state, for sure.
But then, just when all seemed lost, didn’t I have a mighty brainwave. Sure haven’t I the greatest of all lawnmowers on my farm, namely my 20 ewes.
And no sooner had the idea come into my head, than I was hunting my ewes onto the lawn, and they licking their lips with anticipation.
As you might expect, the sheep got down to work straight away, and their heads haven’t come up since. Sheep are a marvel really, when it comes to eating.
They are so good, in fact, ’tis how I’m now only laughing hysterically at all those who have to labour behind a lawnmower.
When you have sheep on the farm, long grass is never a problem.
