BigB discovered my fledgling compost pile and was not happy.
“Are you feeding the animals?” he asked.
“No. I’m composting.” I replied.
“Maybe we should find a composting barrel or something.” Big B said, using that tone of voice I’ve come to despise; the tone that implies I’m engaged in behavior that 99.7% of the population would never consider.
“Something that’s not a pile of food on the ground.”, he added. (Snidely, in my opinion.)
“Maybe we could make it not such a big production.”, I said. “Maybe you could pretend you didn’t see the compost pile.”
“Listen, Chicken, you don’t have to get mad. But this isn’t the back woods of Maine where you were raised, you know? We have animals here.”
“Right.”, I said. “I forgot Maine doesn’t have any animals.”
(I can be snide, too, BigB. How’d ya like that, huh?)
“You know what I mean, Chicken.”
“What have you got against animals, BigB? Why do you care if they eat my compost pile? Is the big guy afwaid of a few bunnies and squiwwels, huh? Does he need his mommy?”
(Oh, I can rock snide, Buster. I’m, like, a co-founder of the Snide Dynasty. There are vases on exhibit in the Met depicting me in Egyptian dress being snide to Cleopatra, who totally deserved it, but she was cool, too, you know? But she couldn’t do snide like I do snide. I taught her snide and then she used it to get rid of her brothers and rule Egypt. So don’t try to out-snide me. I will bury you. I will bury you until I look reprehensible and crude. And it will all be your fault for being mean to animals.)
“I’m more worried about rats, Chicken.”
“Rats?” (Less snide now.)
“Yes. Remember them? Urban plague. Long tails?”
Listen. I’ve got nothing against rats. Rats have to eat, too. But not in my backyard. I’m officially conceding this argument to BigB. Let’s keep that our little secret.