Fascinating... yet totally pointless

The Man has begun his yearly assault on the yard, and it would appear the yard has the upper hand this time around. The foliage has flourished to such an extent that even the Man's formidable whirling blades of death seize and contort in agony. For his part, the Man has spent the greater part of his campaign doubled over, sweat pouring from his brow, drawing on his last stores of strength and will to shake his fist emphatically at the greenery and mutter meaningless, unintelligible oaths between raspy gasps — “mothra-fogger” and “sun-nerva-bits” and the like.

Yesterday, finally beaten, the Man sank to his knees, clutched clumps of grass and weeds in his torn hands, and wept. Then, in what I understand to be an ancient custom among defeated warriors, he went inside and shaved his head.

Naturally, I observe these doings with interest. It is important for me to remain fully briefed on the status of my field of operation — every swing of the Man's blade, and every stalk that refuses to yield, alters the tactical layout of the area. So in the waning hours of the day, I did a close inspection of the pulpy carnage.

The Man had made a good fight of it. What might look to the untrained eye like a mad, unfocused assault was in fact quite a methodical engagement against a superior force. He had blazed several paths right through the middle of the yard, cutting well-placed swaths that divided the enemy's strength and left smaller pockets of resistance. It was while I was inspecting one of these mini-jungles that I came across one of the most baffling and intriguing sights of my many years.

Deep in the grass, I found one of the Rodent's dried-up piles, an all-too-familiar landmark. But on closer inspection, I found that the Rodent had somehow placed this particular pile directly on top of one of his fuzzy green balls. I do not mean that he had shat all over this ball — no indeed. Rather, he had managed to excrete directly upon the ball. Neatly. Symmetrically. What I was seeing was a geometrically perfect construction, a pyramid atop a sphere, aligned precisely along a vertical axis.

For a solid minute, I sat in amazement at the sheer craftsmanship of this feat. The control, the precision, the presence of mind it must have required. This is particularly impressive in the case of the Rodent, as I have observed that most of the time his front end seems blissfully unaware of what his rear end is up to.

After a moment, my awe gave way to utter bewilderment. Why? Why would he do this? What possible significance or meaning could there be in such an act? A cryptic warning? A cairn-like navigational aid? A religious totem? Or was this simply some bizarre objet d'art, akin to Fabio's leaf-and-petal murals?

Then it occurred to me: Maybe this was the Rodent's way of signaling ownership of the item. I have noted him inking neighborhood trees before, so perhaps this was just an insanely excessive means of claiming title to one of his treasures (a treasure, I should add, whose ownership has never been in dispute).

In any case, I dare say no one is going to want that ball now, Mr. Rodent. And good luck getting someone to throw it for you.