While crossing my small living room floor, slinky apple in hand, drooling over the smell of a fresh crisp Washington apple, I experienced the worst form of unexpected torture. The comparison would be a blind-folded person who is expected to walk across a room full of prickly needles facing heads-up. Goat-heads are the worst form of torture known to this small compound. “ahhhOUCH! dratit!!” I dropped my apple on the floor, the cat pounced on it, and I pulled the goat head out of my socked-foot, gingerly tripping to the waste basket. Round number two. Thinking I had fared the worst, I gaily continued on with apple (washed) in hand, and just as I lay hand on the door knob, another one stabbed the same dumb foot. And I thought, “hey, it happened, I’ll write about it.” And so I did. I sit, feet out straight, so no goat-head that grew legs could come attack me, and right now, I am thoroughly enjoying this slinky apple. Except just as I put the period on the end of that last sentence, the cat jumped up from the floor, pounced on my apple, and dragged it away.