It is so hot here in the black hole just outside Harmony Grove, that Mr. Cleaver and I have called a truce.
A fan must be aimed in my direction at all times and I do not care for any physical exertion.
Therefore, I have not been over to make a hole in the dam in the last two days.
War is a silly reason to mess with heat stroke. Heat stroke can be fatal.
The last time I checked it out, three days ago, Mr. Cleaver was in the lead. He had the entire stone wall completely blocked and had even incorporated my sweet Sven's pier post that happened to float to the area into his project and he found another chunk of a stump and threw that in. Then he stole my triangle shaped hoe, the one that I leave on sight, and he buried it so well that it took me a while to find it under the muck.
Fortunately I was able to salvage my favorite weapon against beaver dam builders with only a minor amount of swearing, as the heat was only revving up at the time.
Since I cannot deal with weather made for a planet other than earth, there should be absolutely no reason for that guy to pack in anymore mud and he does not need to weave in one more stick. It is all good.
This is the perfect opportunity for he and his family of oversized rodents with large front teeth to lay low.
Although I do not plan to find out firsthand, it must be warm and sluggish under all the scum that is growing at warp speed on the surface of the pond.
If and when this weather breaks, tomorrow, I plan to investigate first thing.
I am confident that I will learn that my nemesis has been politely waiting for me to make the next move.
It is only fair after all.
It is my turn to spring a leak.
You see. This is a tit for tat war.
What fun would it be for tit, tit, tit, without any tat, tat, tats?
While it is true that at times Mr. Cleaver can be rude and not the best neighbor, breaking a truce would be considered criminal, would it not?
Since I have been trapped inside, I sent a paw print photo off to the FBI to see if it matches the one on file from the last condo association incident, where Mr. Cleaver and his then bride to be, were run out of town after damming up the cute fountain in the fifty-five and over community. The one with a huge sign that says, no swimming.
The sign is larger than the pond.
Yet they did not comply.
Anyway, I think the last few days of me sizzling inside this pan, rather than jumping into the fire, has been good for us.
We will both come back to the frontlines refreshed.
And that triangle hoe of mine better be right where I left it.
