“My name is JP.” The handwriting–or rather hand printing–was clearly adolescent male. “My drone flew into your yard. It has 4 red propellers. Can you please return it?” He helpfully provided his address, a block away.
Lots to do after returning home from five days at Christmas, unpack the bags, carry in the suitcases, rev up the laundry machine. And all of this after nine hours of elbow-jabbing traffic on Interstate-5. (Thanks for doing most of the driving, Ariel.)
I looked around the yard. Nothing.
I don’t even know what a drone looks like. But figured if I stumbled on anything with four red propellers, that might well be it.
Lots of leaves and garden detritus. Lots of mail. Nothing with any red propellers.
But the next morning Greta pranced up to the door proudly with a device about half the size of her body. It clearly used to have four propellers, but now has three. One chewed on a good bit and off kilter.
Greta was none too happy to forfeit her prize, but I figured the boy would be happy to have it back, even after being loved by a couple of puppies.
Always wondered what it would be like to have boys.
Now I know.