I just wanted to warn you that I might be in a spot of bother with the law, so if I disappear off the face of the earth, you’ll know to check the paper for a news story – or watch Jerry Springer. I’m sure it will turn up on one of them.

It all started when Sir – my dear sweet husband – found himself with what I term as “too much time on his hands.”

Oh, it started innocently enough. He was a good little soldier around the house while he was in idle mode. Dishes were taken care of, laundry was done, and the wherewithal for dinner was purchased.

He’s even taken to feeding our visiting ducks without even being asked. Yes, dear reader, our mallards have returned to us, and I’m thrilled to report that the vanguards of the flock, the matriarch and patriarch of our web-footed friends still lead the charge. Howard and Gladys are a charming couple, and when they land, they immediately come running – well, waddling – up onto the deck and to the back door, waiting for Sir to come out, sit on the step, and feed them some bread as well. A duck does not evidently live on seed alone.

A memo obviously went up on the avian noticeboard about our pantry being open for the season, and who knew that our two unwanted guests from last year could read?

Stanley and Stella – our want-to-be resident Canada geese (or storks as Sir would have it) also come to the seed pile as well. Sir is ever-watchful to make sure they’re not made to feel remotely welcome.

Armed with the garden hose set on “jet,” he now lies in wait on the deck, crouched down in his chair so he feels he is invisible to the dopey birds. Waiting to see “the whites of their eyes” – if geese indeed have such a thing – he then whoops out his fowl war cry and goes charging off with his version of a firehose pelting water out at full blast.

No amount of my telling him that they are water birds deters him from his quest. Naturally the geese look at him with that rather vacant look geese get, and they then just sort of amble off till he stops, but sure enough return later to try again. I swear one day they’re going to lift up their wings and ask for soap, a shower cap and a towel to complete their ablutions.

In his quest to rid us of undesirables, he’s now declared war on all ants, the squirrels, and some unknown beastie who has burrowed under our house.

I swear he’s become a cross between Steve Irwin and the Orkin Man, with a bit of the Caddyshack version of Bill Murray thrown in.

But he’s gone too far, in my book. And this is where the potential tragedy lies. Getting ready to bring the meat in from the grill, I snapped. I confess, your honor, that I did indeed stab him with the meat thermometer.

You’ll be pleased to know, however, that he’s medium well.

– Annie Dear lives in Lee’s Summit. Email her at anniedearkc@hotmail.com.