Stealth and cunning

The target

Ben has a crazy large stash of balls in the Back Forty, usually stored on one of our faux ratan patio chairs to reduce the risk of being eaten by lawn mowers. How they are retrieved each evening, as Ben and my date relax before dinner, requires great stealth and cunning.

Ben retreats to the shady middle of the Back Forty, seemingly content to doze, snap at yellow jackets and study summer's newest scents and sounds as the shadows lengthen. BUT he's ever aware of the chair and its contents, casting increasingly surreptitious (so he thinks) but calculating looks toward his desired booty.

Finally, he slowly rises and casually pads over to the patio. Cleverly camouflaged by the spiderwort (or so he thinks), Ben strikes, daintily lifting his ball of choice through the arm of the chair.

Skanky Ball always goes first. Always.

Yes, Skanky Ball is STILL with us -- with more skank than ever. If that is humanly possible.

This is Round 2, Skanky Ball having already been appropriated in Round 1,
which looked remarkably like Round 2.

But Ben loves that ball -- well,  really, now just barely the sad remnants of a ball -- and no matter where it is in the cache, he will find and collect it first.

Before long, it's time for another sortie. Ben makes his studied, but casual approach, more often than not with Skanky Ball in mouth for moral support, almost to the edge of the patio, then deer hops back to the center of the yard, snorting and muttering indignantly. That's HIS version of a d.i.v.e.r.s.i.o.n.

Within minutes, though, he returns again to The Edge, crosses over, skulks behind the spiderwort, and Ball #3 disappears through the arm of the chair.

Terribly out of focus Action shot

Ben's not above a frontal attack. But he much prefers going commando and sneaking up from the rear.

Ummm. Do you MIND not staring?
I'm here to use all my
Stealth and Cunning to steal a ball, damnit.

Finally, with his fleet of tennis and soccer balls gathered around him in the Back Forty, Ben regally surveys his minions. Us and his damn balls. And we are humbled.

It is good to be king. 

Of Stealth and Cunning.

Skanky tennis ball love

Last Thursday, as the Amazing Ms and I parted ways up at the park, Mrs. Amazing M gifted Ben with a tennis ball. Not just "A Tennis Ball," but quite possibly one of the most distressed, discouraged, deranged tennis balls ever seen by man, woman or dog at Comstock.

It was virtually on its last legs (seams?). Whatever innards it had were long gone, thanks to a ginormous tear nearly circumnavigating its middle. In some spots, the felt was worn and matted, in others it was fuzzy and frayed, almost resembling a cheap day-glo green toupee.

It was love at first sight. Ben gently took the ball from Mrs. AM, froze and reverentially began to gnaw, ferreting out the ball's long -- and apparently violent -- history through taste and smell.

It made a very odd, hollowed "Skosh, skosh, skosh" type sound as it Ben rolled it around in his mouth. Very odd.

Ben refused to surrender the ball as we walked home, and we had to stop every now and then, while he rearranged his grip on it, testing for new sweet spots. Once in the backyard, he retreated to a far sunlight corner of the Back Forty, where he continued his ministrations till it was time to come inside.

The ball remained in the far sunlight corner of the Back Forty pending a Haz-Mat evaluation.

Fast forward a week. The ball and Ben are still one.

It's True Love. Skanky Tennis Ball-style.