I take him outside with me and leave spouse to clean up inside. He sits on the gravel in a pout. It's not so much a punishment as merely keeping him out of the way whilst spouse labours and manges the other two. The gravel is entertainment for him whilst I continue to plant the flower bed. He is a sensitive little soul at the best of times but is quite content with the gravel. Whilst it would be entertaining for me to have him 'help,' to do an activity together, I know that dealing with soil [translation = dirt] is well out of his comfort zone.
My elderly neighbour ambles over for a chat. She's a Texan who doesn't mince her words.
“Gee hon, that's looking gor gee us!”
“Thanks!” I mumble. She doesn't press me for additional words, as she knows that the surgery has left me speech impaired, which gives her a distinct advantage.
“Oh god! Not that darned stuff agin! Remind me, let me see the packet. I know it works it just makes my flesh crawl. Bonemeal, that's it!” she pulls a face of disgust being of a vegetarian persuasion. Junior pricks up his ears and leaps to our side, “Bone meal! Bone meal? It is lunch?”
“No yur mother puts it on the plants to make em grow.”
“But what it is dah bone meal?”
“Don ask hon. It's bones that have bin all ground down into a powder!” I watch his eyes grow as large as saucers in his rigid body that leans backwards. His brain processes this information. A little electrical current courses through his body just before he vomits on the path.
He has a great gag reflex.