Yours Truly is sipping a Molson Canadian.
This is unusual, surely You know.
When it's time to sip it's usually Oban, a sauvignon blanc.
But I've been slicing down little trees, You see, and thoughts of a few random cold bottles of beer in the film-laden fridge beckoned.
The cat, Extra, has been most amused by my yardly antics. Mostly by my rushing the lawn mower over saplings. He sits up tall in amazement at my human undertakings, I don't think really comprehending why a collection of approximately forty young trees deserves to die.
I say, or will say, when back in the back yard, Extra, it's like this. You take down the occasional bird. I do not ask why. I, on the other hand, succumb to the trope of lawn smoothness and mow shit down. Comprends. He will amuse me, look interested, wander back to his cat bowl, tail high, as I shove the Murray brand mower here, there, everywhere. After the beer.

Break Love.