Questionable Priorities

I was in the perfect garden. Perfect by my standards, that is: neat, tidy, old, and colorful. Lots of straight lines and sharp angles. Some (sluggards and hippy types) have recently made a great effort to sustain illogical ideas to the extent that slovenly, unkempt beds overflowing with plants of every variety should be considered gardens. It was unthinkable. The more a garden looks like nature, the less it counts as a garden. Gardens were mankind’s display of utmost control over the natural world. A good garden should demonstrate that even the plants obey us.

I had bent over to smell a perfectly-aligned shrub of red roses when I heard a discomforting rustling behind me. I turned around with all the decorum required by the situation (but not a drop more) and found myself face to face with a huge, shaggy wolf.

The creature was monstrous in its proportions and hideous in its apparent lack of grooming. It lunged towards me, teeth bared and snarling. As it ripped into me I was shocked by the extensively putrid odors emitted by its filthy fur. My limbs were quickly pulled off and strewn about the garden. The whole situation was extremely unpleasant.

The pain was impossible to bear, but I was even more devastated by the unsightly mess that now blemished one of my favorite parts of the garden. There was a great deal of blood splattered about the lawn and nearby plants, and (though I couldn’t tell for sure) it seemed that several of my organs had been scattered about as well. I could only hope that someone would come along quickly and clean up.