Crab Grass

Yesterday evening while walking down my street I ran into my pal John. He pulled over in a royal blue car wearing a royal blue jacket. We had a catch-up chat. Then Lily pulled me ten feet into Oak Hill Cemetery. I was reluctant, but she needed to pee after waiting so patiently. Suddenly the cemetery caretaker drove in behind me, honking the horn of her vintage BMW. I jumped through my skin and turned around with my hand on my chest over my racing heart, expecting an apology. Her wire-rimmed rectangular half glasses were crooked, sliding down her nose. Lily had done her little dance - the dance that dogs do after they pee to scatter the scent molecules. The caretaker looked over her glasses in the direction of the grass and scolded me, saying "Now somebody's going to have to fix that!" "Really?" I said, sincerely. I went over to the spot to examine the damage and there were no deep scrapes, holes, or craters. Nothing in fact to differentiate Lily's dance spot from the abundance of weedy crab grass. I looked up and said "No need, we won't be back." Now I know why they call it crab grass.