I like the homefront to be orderly and well-maintained and was pleased to see the woman puff her way into paddock today, pushing the red mowing machine. She pulled a string that is somehow attached to it's innards and it growled to life. She plods up and down the fence line, trimming the grass that eludes the big mowers. Once she is thoroughly immersed in her task, I ease up close behind her and follow her every move. The only drawback is when she turns around to reverse course and crashes into me. It seems to give her quite a turn and she says "Sheaffer, would you please stop stalking me!" I retire, offended. but before she is halfway down the next side, I'm inexplicably drawn back and begin shadowing her closely and we repeat the whole procedure again.
My favourite mowers are the large green ones that can be ridden like a horse. They are distant relatives of the big field tractors and have fascinating mechanical systems concealed in their abdomens. Occasionally one has a medical crisis and becomes silent and motionless in our paddock. The humans peer into it's depths and go off to find something to revive it. This leaves me at leisure to examine the internal compartment thoroughly. There is a strange rubbery, oily hot smell and all sorts of belts and pulleys. I inhale deeply and conduct tests on various rubber parts with my teeth. I have to watch for the humans' return and pretend to be simply grazing nearby or there are shouts and recriminations hurled at me and then they blame each other for leaving the mower's vitals exposed to my ministrations.
Before these two green mowers we had a duo they called "The Sears Brothers". Ancient and smelly and made entirely of iron - no plastic bits at all. They had wonderfully filthy interiors and I spent many hours studying them. They also had soft yellow, squishy seats. I once began idly mouthing one of these and before I knew it, there I was in the middle of the paddock, surrounded by a sea of little yellow bits and lots of white rubbery stuff. I think it took the woman a full half hour to even begin expressing what she thought of my actions. All that was left of the seat was an iron skeleton. They put some towel arrangement on it but there were nasty mutterings cast my way and it was referred to as the "Sheaffer-ized seat" until the tractor died of old age a few years ago. They certainly can hold a grudge.