Watering the plants

When I was a wee lil' feller, we lived up the road from my two maiden aunts (my mothers sisters). They are two of my favorite people in the world and I probably spent as much time down there as I did at home.

My aunt Pauline, who is the oldest sister, cannot abide dogs. This always bothered me, even as a lil' feller, because I am very much a dog person. When I was about five or six, one of the neighbors had a big old black lab that I loved to play with. He was a big friendly dog that loved kids, but he had one bad habit.

He loved whizzing on my aunts flowers.

One afternoon I was helping Pauline do something out in the yard when the dog (I cannot remember his name) came over to visit me. She shooed him away, because she didn't want to encourage him to come into her yard. She had a hoe or yard rake in her hand, so she whacked him on the hind end with it to help hurry him along (not hard, just a little tap), He went sulking off and just as he turned the corner of the little outbuilding behind the house, he stopped, hiked his leg and splattered a steaming yellow stream all over her flowers. Pauline yelled at him and picked up a rock and chucked it at him. ( She wasn't really mad, it takes a LOT to make her lose her temper)

I said "What'd y'do that for?"

"To keep him from ruining my flowers."

So I puffed out my little chest and with all the wisdom a five year old can muster, said "But I thought water helped plants grow?"

"Not that kind of water!"