A couple of months ago, we started having problems with our sprinklers. Because we live in what is basically the desert, this means that within one month most of our backyard was dead. Not that the grass was ever in great shape to start with, I suppose.
Anyway, we are slowly trying to put it back together, starting with two little patches of what has been dirt for a very long time but was at one point grass. For now, it is again.
“Do NOT,” my husband said, “under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES let the dogs on the sod for two weeks.”
And I tried, I really did. They didn’t tear a single piece up. And after two weeks of standing out in the rain and the cold shooing the dogs away from it, because of course despite the other hundreds of feet of foliage that little 20 square foot area of grass exerts an inexorable gravitational pull on all things dog, he then issued this directive: “Do NOT under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES let the dogs on the grass EVER.”
Which is, as you can imagine, a little tougher.
On Thanksgiving I was informed there was a pile of poop on the grass, which I thought about blaming on wild animals before remembering the backyard is all fenced in.
I can’t decide which one looks more guilty.
Husband is particularly picky on this since we’re possibly putting the house on the market next year. Nothing like a polka dot lawn to say, “buy me!”