Zack and I were so proud of our corn patch. It grew up beautifully despite the odds, set back by a late start, a weedy early period, and a mere 5.5 hours of daily sun. We saw sweet ears of corn, perfectly formed; blackened silks to alert us to their ripened perfection. A priest visited, commenting on the privilege it would be to put water to the flame, pick ears of corn, and drop it in the pot to cook having lost not a single sugar to starch in the interim.
The next morning, our visions of greatness, hopes, dreams - they were dashed, chewed up, digested, gnawed away. The vile vermin of Heights alleyways! As if on cue, they were collectively possessed, compelled, all at once, to nibble and shred every last ear of sweet corn on every last stalk, leaving us absolutely nothing to enjoy but the wry commentary of Neighbors Randy and Mark.
Zack has taken up his pellet gun against the neighborhood squirrel population. It's genocide before us.
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