01/09/2026
I am currently drying off my ceiling because my dog brought a rainstorm indoors.
Yesterday, looking at my sad, brown patch of lawn, I decided to buy a new oscillating sprinkler.
You know the kind. The yellow plastic bar that waves back and forth, making that rhythmic Ch-ch-ch-ch-thwip sound.
I set it up in the middle of the yard. I turned on the hose.
A beautiful fan of water began to arc across the grass.
It was peaceful. It was suburban.
Then, I let Moose out.
Moose stepped onto the patio. He stretched.
Then, a stray droplets of water hit his ear.
He froze.
He looked at the clear blue sky. No clouds.
He looked at the ground.
Then, he saw It.
The Yellow Snake. Hissing. Spitting. Waving at him.
Phase 1: The Stare Down
Moose approached the sprinkler with the stiff-legged gait of a gunslinger entering a saloon.
He stopped ten feet away.
The sprinkler waved left. The water missed him.
The sprinkler waved right. The water hit him squarely in the chest.
SPLAT.
Moose gasped.
He looked at his wet chest. He looked at the plastic bar.
“You dare? You dare spit on the Royal Coat?”
Phase 2: The Byte Fight
Moose decided that water was a solid object that could be murdered.
He began to snap at the stream.
CHOMP. He bit the air.
SNAP. He bit a droplet.
He was twisting his head back and forth, trying to catch the arc of water.
He looked like a T-Rex trying to eat a ghost.
He was getting soaked. His mascara was running (he has black eye patches). He was slipping in the mud he was creating.
But he would not yield.
“I will eat your ammunition, Snake! I will swallow your soul!”
The Climax: The Relocation
Then, Moose had a brilliant idea.
To stop the water, he must remove the source.
He lunged through the spray. (Dramatic slow motion: jowls flapping, water spraying everywhere).
He grabbed the yellow plastic sprinkler bar in his mouth.
Now, the hose was still attached. The water was still on.
Moose lifted his head.
The sprinkler was now spraying directly into his own face.
He sputtered. Pfft-Pfft.
But he didn't let go.
He turned toward the house.
He saw the back door was open.
He thought, “I must bring the trophy to the Mother. She will want this wet stick.”
"NO! MOOSE! DROP IT!" I screamed, running barefoot across the wet grass.
I was too slow.
Moose galloped into the kitchen.
The hose dragged behind him, knocking over a patio chair.
The sprinkler still in his mouth, still oscillating was now inside.
SWISH.
The water hit the refrigerator.
SWISH.
The water hit the pantry door.
SWISH.
Moose turned his head to look at me.
The water hit me. Full force. In the face.
He ran into the living room.
The hose ran out of slack.
JERK.
Moose came to a sudden halt. The sprinkler flew out of his mouth.
It landed on the rug.
It kept spraying.
Thwip-thwip-thwip.
It watered the sofa. It watered the TV. It watered the cat (who was sleeping and is now planning my murder).
The Aftermath
I dove for the sprinkler like a soldier jumping on a gr***de. I kinked the hose to stop the flow.
The living room dripped.
The rug squelched.
Moose stood there, soaking wet, dripping mud onto the hardwood.
He looked at the silent sprinkler in my hand.
He wagged his tail so hard he sprayed more water onto the walls.
“I caught it, Mother. I brought the rain inside. Now we can swim in the living room.”
He is currently wrapped in three beach towels, shivering not from cold, but from adrenaline.
I am contemplating buying artificial turf.
And a lock for the back door.
