A Grudge in the Dirt

The morning sun cut through the garden foliage like venetian blinds. I made my way along the stone edging toward a tangle of dried hydrangea roots. That's where I ran into a rogue beetle—armored, six-legged, and stubborn as a dockworker. It wouldn't yield the right of way. I had to plant my knit feet in the mulch, grapple its slick carapace, and wrestle it into a defensive crouch. A quick shot of webbing anchored its hind legs to a fallen twig. A little street-level brawl keeps the joints from seizing up. Once the dust settled, the yard showed me some respect.