I was out wandering around my little garden the other day and I waved my paw at our neighbour next door but he didn’t even look my way. Papa said that when he, papa, said “Bonjour” to that same neighbor, which everyone in France is supposed to say to anyone he or she meets, provided it is still daytime and you weren’t born in a barn, as mama says, the guy didn’t even respond.
It’s funny, because he does say “bonjour” to mama, but then, maybe he does have some manners somewhere. The fact is, he is pissed that we like our property lines to be clearly known, and I know for a fact that he would love to encroach on MY garden and MY parking area for MY car that takes me on great trips, and since he can’t, legally, he gets mad instead.
Mama is from Texas. Two things you should know about Texas:
1. Good fences make good neighbors. Period.
2. Don’t mess with Texas.
Which is maybe why he is actually cordial to mama—he doesn’t want her puttin’ on her six-guns and raising a ruckus when he starts trying to push territory over on ours. And I certainly don’t want him coming around here rubbing on everything to mark it for himself. Imagine!
We have our land, fair and square. And he has his (and it’s BIG), fair and square, and I certainly do NOT spray on his land. Well, I can’t spray anyway, but if I could, I wouldn’t.
We’ll work this all out one day when he cools off, no doubt, because contrary to John Wayne’s lines, “This town is actually big enough for both of us!”
And I’m not sure mama can even load a six-shooter. In fact, I don’t think she has one, but those Texans, they like to keep up the lore…
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