The little boys who live next door are forever throwing their balls over into our yard, and our girls are forever throwing them back over the fence. The boys decided this is a fun game, and started intentionally hitting tennis balls over the fence with a racquet, some of which have cleared the house, but most have collected in our courtyard.
At first, our dog thought mana was falling from the sky. He'd run around the yard, his little Lhasa jaw unhinged, carrying each ball back to his dog house, but then it got to be overwhelming. Even a dog has his limits, and though he's never seen Hoarders, he could sense this was going to lead to An Issue if he didn't draw the line.
The boys, however, have no such boundary. The balls keep coming.
The girls stopped throwing them back long ago.
And so our courtyard has taken on the appearance of Wimbledon sans ball boy.
Once in a while, one of the girls will throw a ball for the dog, and he'll jog off the grab it, sit down, and stare back at the child. She'll pick up another and throw that one. The cycle repeats. Ad infinitum. Truly. AD INFINITUM. ALL OF THE TENNIS BALLS. We have them. Also, one very confused dog.