When pretty flowers go bad

The ranch has been truly blessed by the summer monsoons. My acres of brown dirt have become a verdant meadow, 

covered with plants and grasses and wildflowers the likes of which I have never seen.

"If it's green, it's good," I say, with only a few exceptions. Meet this summer's major exception:  

This delicate, happy, little yellow flower...

...is now turning into an evil, sharp, dog-paw piercing fruit, which will dry and become the bane of Smooch's existence.

Out here we call them goatheads. My dearly beloved Willie takes great umbrage at the comparison.

There's a bumper crop of the stuff this year, and I spent the better part of the weekend 

yanking it out of the back yard and the paths where Smooch and I walk.

The yellow flowers make it relatively easy to spot amongst all the other green stuff, but I will admit 

to being totally overwhelmed by the task. There's no way I can make a dent in getting rid of it all. 

I'll do the best I can, but I've already warned Smooch that she may have to wear shoes on our walks this fall. 

Worst case, I'll get her a stroller.