Occam's Secateurs

My parents built the road to the house. Not even a mule track existed to the 10 strema they trekked to and proclaimed good for their home.

The gates came years later when the white men followed and there wasn't enough buckshot to keep trespassers at bay.

I always said the south-west wilderness was prime land for planting good weed, but no, papa was a fuzz-fearing man and it stayed jungle.

Alors, my stunningly talented maman built her garden and with equal talent lost countless tools de jardin until one day, at a dinner party, I frivolously suggested we track down a retired drug-hunting dog, give it a good home, and whenever mum lost a spade or secateur, tell the hound "Go track!"

Laughter, so amusing, blah blah.

The other night I was demolishing a crate of Cuervo with pals when someone said,

"I know you.You're the hacienda that grows maryjane in the backyard and has killer hounds trained to step 'n' fetch retrieve your mother's gardening implements and rip the throat out of trespassers into your marijuana yard. How long you reckon you'll run that scheme?"

You couldn't invent this stuff.