Topic: "Livin' is Easy?"(7)
August in the Shire is past-prime time, but every growing thing remains lush, if not laden. The butterfly garden, which Frodo enjoys but Sam abhors, awaits the arrival of the caterpillars that devour the passion flowers then, in turn, produce the butterflies that lay the eggs for next year's caterpillars. Young squirrels, seeking their first sexual encounters, frolic before the advent of parenthood. Tomatoes hang heavier and heavier on four different levels upon Frodo's vegetable successes of the current season. Noted it is however that so much activity takes place only in the early morn and after darkness draws a sheet over the landscape. The heat is intense, and the aging warrior is susceptible too, to the inherent danger therein.
Beau Neau McKitty has not been immune to the activity, but he finds a cool place to sleep for at least 22 out of every 24 hour cycle. Frodo and Sam recognize that he, too, may miss Fiona, and has not found it necessary to bring in quite so many "presents" since his canine friend moved into the shadows which corral the spirits of the Shire. Last evening however, was an exception, and the result brought a certain amount of joy to the doldrums of recent loss and severe temperatures.
Frodo was watching something, reading something, or perhaps removing belly button lint from the designated storage spot. Suddenly Sam shrieked, "Oh my God, he's got a snake." Since the description meant that the object had been carried in through the "dog door" and was now in the kitchen, Frodo felt compelled to spring into some level of action. Immediately he noted the multi-colored object flopping furiously and the flapping ferocity of the feline paws. The colors quickly identified the creature to be non-venomous, and careful attention, perhaps learned from Rudyard Kipling's pleading to his son to retain his composure, allowed Frodo to identify the object of so much attention as non-serpentine.
It was a butterfly. A beautiful yellow and black swallowtail to be sure, whose wings were still functioning, although a bit worse for wear. Frodo managed to gently capture the misidentified miscreant, and launch him toward another section of the gardens, not presently assigned to patrol by his feline associate.
Sam looked at Frodo and, in the best impersonation of Roseanne Roseannadana he had seen in quite some years, simply said "Never mind."
Frodo loves Sam.