His little chest heaved and puffed.
Then he glared and dared to gush
a gnomish gibberish—similar to Swedish?
I blinked, and smiled, and tried not laugh.
My gnomish is worse than my Spanish.
But before I could offer that bread and coffee
he had taken the offensive
and chucked a radish at my head.
The grimy root caught me square in the jaw.
Nice aim, I thought, but maybe I should have
let the cat get the better of you.
After all, the last thing I need is
antagonistic garden folk
tearing up my lettuce.
plague last summer.
When I looked again towards the squash,
my visitor had vanished.
No line of demarcation—
just a couple broken vines.
It seemed to me he deliberately
trampled the tomatoes.
on the side of my best beefsteak.
Perhaps I should set out gnome-traps—
or at least some bread and coffee.
That evening, Mr. Pickles looked awfully
smug with his cat-self,
and later, in the corner by his food dish,
I found a tiny red felt hat.
[19]
G