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In my heart of hearts I thought the most popular blog entry not completed that the baker's dozen of readers I have would like documented would be the 15 reasons the beloved Logos should not sacrifice her privacy by giving Alex Bell's invention a try out.

To be fair six of the reasons were along the lines of losing a grip on reality but the other nine were doozies.

The Lawnmower of Doom smirks. He knows he's the popular gimmick on this blog. Much like the Robot on Lost in Space or Sgt Garcia from Walt Disney's Zorro.

To begin then the latest struggle to maintain survival against a cruel and vindictive apparatus. I suspect its dislike of me is based on making it share garage space with four cats. Obviously the Doom Machine is in kahoots with my loyal(?) dog Onyx in its singlemindedness in providing up and coming hospital interns practice on raising the almost dead. Onyx pretends to play in the back yard while keeping me company. Yet how often must I lift his lease up and over the mower as he skips back and forth across the yard constantly putting the sticks I throw off to the side back in the next row to be devastated.

I generally wait for a day off from work to pursue this traumatic form of physical fitness regimen. My work schedule is such that I labored seven nights in a row before gaining the four days of freedom that occurs monthly in which I recharge the batteries and attempt to have a life that doesn't involve saying "The truck is on the way. Sorry about the wait."

For such an insignificant space of green I had waited a bit too long getting to neighborhood standards. This would be the first duel of the season and there are certain traditions that must be upheld.

First we see what Ruth the long suffering spouse is up to. Oh yes on the computer with Amy most likely discussing the manifold failures of husbands to keep the fires burning. She doesn't have to work today. Good she'll be here to applaud and encourage me in the first part of this non-covered by the rental agreement chore. The starting of Old Snappy (its current nickname--I'm always changing it.)

I never raise the garage door as I don't wish to hunt up four land roving cats. Instead I move it thru a very small kitchen area to the front living room and out the front door takes maybe a minute tops.

If you don't knock the pets water bowl askew.

One wet towel later and cooler water provided we are on the front porch checking the fuel tank. Yep almost empty but the Mrs. got some yesterday per my request.

To give some small insight to how the Mrs. operates (since she had all the money) she totally forgot that we have TWO plastic containers for gasoline in the garage kept empty for the winter season until my summer of discontent back by some cat boxes in a corner. She went out and got a THIRD container (probably with one of her numerous Meijer credit cards but that's another quibble) and has it ready.

One small problem. The built in hose cap won't come off. Doesn't turn, doesn't snap off, it sure doesn't pour. Problem solving Richie just switches with one of the other containers and we are back in business doing the total baptism of the sidewalk with the overspill. Called depth perception problems.

At this point based on years of experience Ruth withdraws (back to the box which she loves as much as I love Logos if that tells you anything) in order to avoid witnessing the pulling of the cord. The first startup of the season is always the hardest.

I prime the carburator. (If that's the precise term--not really sure.) Pull the handle down and hold in place with left hand to engage the gear and with right hand pull as hard as possible on this errant clothes line.

It needs to be confessed that lately I have trouble opening potato chip bags.

To no surprise there is not hint of a sound from Snappy to indicate he is pleased to be breathing fresh air. Two more pulls. Nothing. We seem to hear chuckles or it might be me muttering or nagging God about the difference between a want and a need. I've been guilty of both on a continuous prayer chain. Still nothing.

Then a miracle. A young lady walks by the house wearing some sort of uniform which reminded me of girl scouts. Definitely had a military looking beret on. Two things crossed my mind. A glance my way might inspire her to get her good deed over with by helping the old man get going on his labor of Hercules for the day. The other thought involved showing the young lady a manly act of strength and fire this baby up. And win a smile of affirmation that elder people still can make a noise.

Well she was PROBABLY checking me out with her peripheral vision! No right hand looking my way. Nor did the mower come to life. The only thing getting heated was my prayer life.

Ruth comes back to see how its going. With renewed vigor and a lie that everything is just fine the mower performs for her. Well of course it's going to embarass me when I'm doing my martyr routine. (Used to work more in the younger days.) A couple more tugs and we are started on the front yard in full glory.

There are two trees in the front yard. One is not a problem. The other makes up for it. It's more a wooden bush then a real tree but it's tall and gnarly. Last winter I attacked this stilted creature with clippers and thought I got offending low reaching branches out of my life. Not so. There is a limb I thought cut down in its prime but its cousin rose to seek revenge. Two attempts to poke an eye out has placed it near my list of things to do when I'm bored and want to cut peoples heads off in a safe imaginary environment. It achieves a small victory. I missed a small patch near the base of the tree surrounded by these busy extremities. Next time I vow.

Some passerby threw a used cigarette lighter under the bushy menace. We envision both me and the lawn mower of doom going down in flames together clutching each other and laughing manically as it hollers "I got you at last!" while I reply "But I took you with me!" I put the lighter in my pocket for disposal later as I channel James Bond saving the day by inches.

The front yard is done. Time for the next tradition. It's been hot and frankly I'm a bit out of breath (even though it's only been 20 minutes.) I call AAA Dispatch and ask for Tami. She is the de facto head of the Pall Bearer Committee that along with Sam, Brandy and Tonya shall lay my misused and under exercised carcass in the ground while the boys fight over who gets my comic collection. I was seriously thinking of goofing off and doing the back yard Friday.

As usual Tami does not take me seriously about putting the committee on alert or going off alert when she ruins the rest of my day.

"You know it's supposed to rain tomorrow."

Whining ensues. Semi-real.

"You can do it."

Curse all women. That unhallowed appeal to pride. Especially when it costs them nothing.

As I push the mower back through the house (there is a fence to the back yard and a key to the gate I've misplaced to keep Onyx where he belongs) I hook up said loyal parasite to his leash and get started.

The mower now starts as a good mower should. I start to relax.

Old Snappy whispers in tones only a dog can hear and suddenly Onyx runs back and forth in my way until I distract him with a stick tossed to the side. The grass is thicker in back and I discover atrophied muscles hurt coming back to life.

I get about three quarters done (about a half hour) when I hit a rough patch which clogs this ancient chewer of soil. Instead of shaking it out I let Snappy die (we are in race now to see who will expire the fastest.)

Time to get a drink and applause/sympathy from the spouse at my perseverance and dedication to the job at hand. Plus the heart is fluttering. We start working on how to milk this into oohs and ahhs without jeopardizing possible marriage benefits later if only my hand will stop shaking from the vibrations.

The house is empty. Except the older dog Zap who hates going outside these days and four cats looking like What do You want NOW?

No Ruth. The car is gone. She left me.

To die. She knows I mean she just KNOWS how fragile I am. My fluttering heart is taken over by the drama queen now. She probably expected Onyx to do a Lassie and apply CPR in a timely albeit rough manner. Or howl mournfully until the fire station across and slightly down the street came a running. Well. I love you indeed!!!

The wound to the pride that it's not all about me kicks in some much needed adrenline and the lawn is finished in ten minutes and I sit on the couch as self satisfied as any righteous Pharisee can be.

The adored one returns. I begin to disclaim her failure to be by my side and my successful survival against machine and canine.

And my reward??!!

"That's nice."

She disappears and I hear a keyboard clacking away.

Darn right I love comics more. Rodney Dangerfield was s-o-o-o- right.

Old Snappy has the last laugh. Less then two weeks have gone by and the yard needs it again. Worse then before.