It's not really a garden, it's a weed patch. It's in the way-back, little-used side of the house, fenced and ignored.
A lot of fighting goes on in that patch, pulling up those adorable yellow flowers before they turn into the puffballs of dandelion doom. Nature vs. man. You can see there are a lot that need attending to.
Still, they are the only flowers in our garden. We haven't replaced the annuals that grace small pots on a steel etagére near the fence on the other side of the house. There were chive blossoms, but they're getting faded and tattered.
So we are a little flower-free, but the weather has improved and we're headed to the gardening store soon for seedlings. My limbic system is craving beauty.
Cranky was out there this morning, hacking wayward branches and pulling those nasty weeds. He developed such a hatred for the yellow flowers, we accidentally had a fight.
I went over to see how he was doing; to encourage him to quit for the day; to thank him for his hard work.
And then I said, "Pretty."
I wouldn't say he went feral on me. It was more like a neuro-disordered misunderstanding. Cranky was still in deep, reptilian-brain work mode, still with a hate on for those yellow flowers, totally confused why I would even use the word "pretty." I shouldn't have been insisting on a conversation at that moment. The man was covered with sweat and grime.
"I don't think they're pretty," he said. "I think they're the ugliest things on earth."
(The rest of the fight has been redacted so that the author will look good. -Ed.)