Moose Drool was the kind of moose who ignored all the natural plants in my garden and ate the new twigs and leaves off the expensive nursery tree, then rubbed his bulbous nose and peeling velvety antlers on the stub when he finished. I half expected him to turn and give a satisfying scratch to the other end, as well. Moose Drool was a lazy sort of moose who preferred his vegetation while standing not reaching high into tall branches, nor kneeling in downward facing moose. He had his favorite shrubs, pruned to his Bonsai perfection, needing only saliva-slickened tongue and teeth to enrich his palette. He also preferred his gourmet tastes served from fine pottery or upraised Bento boxes. He was a culinary snob when it came to plastic bowls, unless the presentation was immaculate and the contents delectable. Moose Drool arrived in the neighborhood with his mother who paraded him and his twin sister through the backyards and bushes teaching them all the browsing delicacies. Many of his ancestors had seduced the neighborhoods they circuited by napping in the yards of their patsies with their tiny, adorable offspring. Moose Drool learned fast which pots and places held treats. Now grown to full bull-hood, Moose Drool languidly strolled through our yard in a figure eight between and around the neighbor’s house. The early morning dew rested heavy on my neighbor’s flower garden. Moose Drool’s dark eyes pooled with deep nonchalance and his tear-dropped nostrils flared as he mowed down the yellow, purple, and pink blossoms. Forty feet away, I weeded the tree stub garden, but Moose Drool paid me no mind. Instead, some sound, smell, or intuition forced his long neck to turn away and fix his gaze upon my cabbage patch. “Don’t do IT!” I warned, brandishing my pruning shears. “Don’t go there, Moose Drool!” His large ears were just as indifferent to me as his eyes had been. The rhubarb of June came and went in pies and crisps. Sweet carrots grew into long orange legs, sometimes wrapping themselves in a sensual embrace. Beets, dripping with blood red juices at the slightest hint of a knife blade grew lush greens beside swiss chard and kale guarded by celery sentinels. Aromatic rosemary, oregano, parsley, and chives got a quick snip to freshen up stews and other meals. The neighbor saw me working in the garden and complimented its progress. “Thank you,” I responded. “It’s too bad about the cabbage, but the potatoes will take us into the winter.” “Have you seen that little bull moose, lately?” she asked. “No, not in a while,” I offered. “It just doesn’t seem like summer without seeing a moose in the yard,” she said opening her door, “and he was the type of moose that got on well with humans.” I agreed and turned languorously back to my pruning, but he was delicious.