Charming Domestic Scene: Electric Boundary

After six days of torrential rain the sun appeared yesterday, haltingly at first, peeping from behind long triangular wedges of gray and lapis which, sliding atop one another in a rapid shuffling motion, defeated the eye's attempt to find the sky. As the day wore on however sun's wan wan disc which lay so deeply ensconced began to blaze in patches of watery blue, and then the clouds, streaming up from the south, separated into long cottony furrows and the sun once again held sway.
I took the son to the beach and let him watch the surfers dropping into the big abrupt sections of gray glass. He climbed on the porous, encrusted rocks near the dunes, his little trouser seat wet with the seawater that had collected in their dents and pores. The sand was suddenly swarmed with tourists aggressively pursuing their long-delayed leisure, smearing one another with sun screen, throwing frisbees and balls, hurling their blubber into the molesting waves. My son grew bored, so we went to the the park, a shady, tree-sheltered place with tennis courts, basketball courts, swings, and slides. A pair of homeless men sat on the slides, absorbed in some earnest debate, their faithful bicycles wilting and dreaming against a nearby tree. Occasionally the men would pass a cup between them, savoring its contents, licking their lips, and under the heady influence of this elixir allowing their ragged voices to rise in passionate declaration. Then their summit was interrupted by my son's recreational shrieks and, with stares of blank disgust, they slowly dismounted the swings and wobbled off on their bicycles, leaving crinkling wrappers, empty cups, and a grimy cloth bundle on the swing set, a last memento of their debate. The anti-native Americans. Managing on every occasion, by dint of inculturation and ingenuity to produce some bit of trash. I wondered what it said about our society that even the lowest layer in our social strata pursued the production of waste with the same eagerness as the rest of us?

After my son went down for a nap I decided to bury the dog's electric wire. It is a simple but ingenious device consisting of a central transmitter into which a loop of wire is plugged and a collar which, encountering the radio signal sent along this loop of wire, will chirp in warning and then deliver an electrical shock from two metal posts. The dog, beside herself over the wildlife that had been evidencing in the wake of the rains, had already broken free twice and was hardly comporting herself with the dignity one might expect from a 10 year-old grand dame. Putting out the wire itself is no great trouble; it's getting the wire underground for the entire circumference of the yard that can be laborious and problematic. I drew a simple schematic, a simple plan describing the path the wire would take, and then it was time to get to work digging the two-inch trench into which the wire would go. I positioned my old, flat-bladed shovel against the sodden earth and pressed down with my foot. Nothing. I jumped a bit. Nothing. I jumped higher, landing violently on the top of the shovel, and was rewarded with the loud crunch of root. I'd forgotten that Florida grass is one big tangle of runners. Digging through this layer was like digging through a woven welcome mat. It would take one big push at a time, one shovel blade at a time. Two hours later, panting and dizzy, I was done with the trench. Then, crouching and sidling, I shoved the wire with my fingertips into the warm body of the earth, one small section at a time. When my legs gave out I would sit panting in the grass, watching the clouds slide and twist above me. I thought that if I worked hard enough I would get some peace, both within and without. I thought that if I could finish this task and demonstrate the working barrier to the dog, things would get better.