The Great Rhubarb Robbery

 "What's that guy doing," Sydney asked, looking intently out our darkened window. THAT immediately captured her father's attention. "Is he in the rhubarb patch," Brad growled, springing into action. Shirtless, shoeless...he raced out, into the night with Sydney on his heels. "It's not like it's Mr. McGregor's garden out there," I mumbled and went to bed.

"First of all...I put on a shirt AND shoes before I went outside,"Brad said, by way of clarifying my blog. "And two, it wasn't about the rhubarb. There was a stranger, uninvited, on our property after dark."

"First of all," I said, wrestling control of my blog back, "it's my blog. If you want a say in my story, start your own blog. And two, did you or did you not call out to Peter Rabbit, What are you doing in my rhubarb patch? like you were Papa Bear? 

Brad sighed. "You and I both know that we transplanted that rhubarb from Gramps's garden."

I looked at my husband sternly. "So it IS about the rhubarb." 

Dirt tire tracks leading away from the
scene of the crime.

Another sigh before a rare admission. "Yeah."

Determined to rescue his rhubarb, Brad fearlessly approached the vegetative villain who left his leafy loot, sprang into his car and raced away. Mourning his fallen friends, Brad gathered the slaughtered stalks in his arms and returned to the house. He awoke me with the news of our loss. 

To be fair, the Mosimans are rather sentimental about some of our plants. We treasure Gramps's rhubarb. We also have a jade plant that I was awarded upon receiving tenure and the entire family is convinced that, if the thing dies, I'll lose my job.

The repercussions of this incident are still rippling through the family. First of course, was denial. "People warn you," Sydney admitted, shivering, "but I honestly never thought it would happen to me." Brad, however, isn't interested in answers. "Oh...I have THE answer," he spat out, calculating the voltage of wire necessary to perhaps cripple but not kill future breaches. Apparently the critter cam will also be relocated as well. 

Sydney and Brad are also busy listing possible suspects, many of whom sport a Snidley Whiplash mustache.  "Perhaps we could transplant the rhubarb to a less prominent location," I suggested. My family was outraged at my proposal. "This is America," Brad declared, "my rhubarb won't run."

"First of all," Brad said, "I NEVER said that..."