Petunias and Prophecy

Agnes peered over her reading glasses at the garden gnome. It had just finished explaining, in a voice remarkably akin to a disgruntled parliament of owls, that it was, in fact, an interdimensional scout, and that humanity's temporal expiry date was, regrettably, fast approaching. "Is that so?" Agnes mused, tapping a finger against her chin. "Because, while I appreciate the heads-up regarding universal collapse, did you perhaps notice if Mr. Henderson's cat made off with my prize-winning fuchsias again? Or, more pressingly, where I put my secateurs? These petunias are looking dreadfully leggy." The gnome blinked its ceramic eyes. "Your, uh, secateurs?" it squeaked, its voice losing some of its cosmic authority. Agnes nodded. "Precisely. One can't very well save the cosmos if one's herbaceous borders are in disarray, can one? It just wouldn't do." The gnome sighed, a sound that oddly resembled the deflation of a very small, very old balloon. "No, Agnes," it finally managed, its voice devoid of interdimensional gravitas. "I did not."