G is for Grass.
Moby loves his wheat/catgrass. Always has. A low reactor to catnip, seems to think it smells alright, he brightens up for fresh grass. On the day we moved from Boston, Moby in his bag at my feet throughout the flight, a long hard day for a small furry creature, the only thing that got him out of the closet was fresh catgrass. And he was all, like, DUDE! I SO needed that!
All the stuff on the balcony is dormant and dry this time of year. Even the wheatgrass from the grocery store goes moldy quickly. But I keep getting some, intermittently. And Moby always gives the most amusing double take, sees me, sees the grass, AH! runs toward, faceplant into grass.
Grass when I was small was never a smooth lawn of green blades, but a patchy covering for dirt, spread liberally with dandelions and what was called plantain, and clover. I would look deeply into this jungle, and imagine myself as a tiny explorer, among the maple helicopters, twigs, half buried stones in the cool mud, ants and pillbugs and earthworms.
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