Anthropomorphize much?

I sit at my desk, shuddering, as genocide occurs all about me. Outside. Arboreal genocide.

Yes, once again I've had to hire "experts" to prune back the all too abundant foliage of the Pacific Northwest. Tree limbs have been providing bridges for squirrels and other varmints to traipse across onto my rooftop and -- potentially -- into my attic. The two trees growing in the parking strip have totally blocked my view of the street, and vice versa. A tiny holly bush, once prettily ornamental, has somehow grown -- like Topsy -- into a 25 foot prickly monster that now impinges on my driveway; it's developed roots, moreover, that threaten to dislodge boulders and permit my front lawn to slide down onto the sidewallk.

It had to be done. It should have been done earlier.

Still, I cringe. I grit my teeth as I hear power tools cutting into the living flesh of these beautiful plants. My trees. To some, my landscaping might seem malignant: a cancer gradually surrounding and tightening a chokehold on my house. An organic vise that seeks to squeeze the structure to death, and me within it. But to me, my trees are friendly protectors -- perhaps a bit too rambunctious, like a sheep dog with too much hair, one that bounds about, jumping up on the guests -- but essentially loving and devoted. And I have returned their affection how? By hiring assassins to cut off their limbs. And in the case of the holly tree, to actually "put it to sleep" or -- to call a spade a spade -- brutally execute it.

I listen now to the tearing and slicing of the power tools. Soon will come the chipping, as my friends' bodies and limbs are fed through the chipper, swiftly ground into cellulosic hamburger.

My house will look 100 percent better when the crew leaves. But at what expense? At what loss to my own self-respect -- to my self-image as a kind and moral man? It's such an old story, isn't it? Especially here in the Northwest. Man's inhumanity to tree.

You always hurt the ones you love.