Sign Right Here

My furry friend, so cute and so astoundingly destructive, has vacated, leaving no trace of corpsey carcass odors under my shed. I am glad for that, because reading about murderous removal options rattled my Buddhist adjacent inner compass nearly out of operational balance. Just as it seemed all less lethal options were doomed to fail, something caused Chompy Von Chompenstein to wave a little white flag. Sonic spikes, maybe? Those may have been worth the money after all, and I am leaving them in place, learning to embrace the noise as worthwhile. My stubborn persistence itself may have been a factor, but the leading candidate for final blow status might be the toilet bowl lozenge I tossed under the shed and then sprayed with ammonia. This putrid chemical reaction was an act of desperation, and perhaps it did the trick. We will never know, as this is not a TV show and thus, there will be no tearful exit interview. Wouldn’t that be great though? I would put even more money in the sweaty upturned palm of Amazon Prime if I could witness a groundhog exit interview!

All but one of the gnawed plants survived, and I have cleaned their rough edges, trimming broken stems, moderating hasty sawtooth haircuts with the neat snip of pruners. Robust evidence of new growth is calming and encouraging. The main salad bar, an area initially intended to host medicinal plants, has now been replanted with a “things groundhogs don’t like to eat” theme. These are wonderfully strong smelling Marigolds, Appalachian Mountain Mint, Lavender, and Hyssop. I replaced the Comfrey with Wild Quinine, which is untested, but promising, and slightly exotic. I also pruned the ten foot tall Pokeweed that I am inviting to grow like a feature plant, and this overall combination of wild natives and tamed cultivars in my yard brings the non purist in me a great feeling of delight.

At this moment, my garden has become a form of primary relationship. True to form, I am investing heavily while expecting uninterrupted goodness in return. I certainly know better than to fall into such a trap. The last five years of my life especially could be considered “know better” boot camp, but like all humans I am prone to losing sight of hard lessons.  To expect destruction to give me a pass is leaning into part foible, part outright arrogance. More misery is added to the mix when I hope that my adaptation to loss will somehow yield rewards, as though enduring life’s insults gives me a favored customer coupon that can be applied as a hedge against more of the same.

I see the error in hindsight, right next to visions of me, fiercely traipsing my garden like Boudica with a super soaker, engaged in raw unselfconscious levels of territorial battle. As my mother-in-law was fond of saying, it is what it is. For this particular moment, a certain victory can be detected as the dust clears, and all is calm. The jungle is nigh, which comes in July, when the mountains of Western North Carolina offer up this beautiful broad rolling topography to an unstoppable force of green. If I am lucky, my garden will be loud with blooms of Zinnia, Rudbeckia, and several shades of Coneflower.

In these last days of June, I will get a few more plants in the ground, and relocate the surviving bits Comfrey down by the street, where it can be up for grabs yet far from permanent shelter, available for some errant nomadic nibbling. Then, I will step back, fall in love once again with the fireflies, and encourage my good fortune to sign a contract with the lush overkill of summer. “It’s a drunk with life situation” the contract may state, “a gregarious mirror to recognize or deny, which also allows for being pragmatic.” Sign right here.

Furry Putin

If you’re ever missing the malignant narcissist you used to love, or feeling altogether frisky in the self-flagellation department, here’s how to attract a ground hog to your garden: Plant a lot of borage, comfrey, brown eyed Susans, sunflowers, and asters.

Then, sit back and let it rip!

Until I find a way to successfully remove Furry Putin, aka Fu^kface, from my yard, most of the newly established garden I have planted, sweating and toiling for months while imagining increased pollinators and future enjoyment, is likely to be fair game. I have acquired hundreds of plants over the past two years, digging holes in the clay, amending the soil, tending them lovingly, and they were beginning to flourish. Now, when I stroll forth with my morning coffee, I observe what looks like the result of a rogue lawn mower having taken a nasty spin through the plant beds. Raggedly gnawed two inch nubs are visually disturbing, but they are at least a form of merciful permission to reestablish growth, probably to ensure ongoing availability of food.

I survey the losses each day, noting which babies have been sacrificed to the hunger games, and remain hopeful that the mint, marigolds, daylillies, penstemon, and hyssop will hold out until Mr. Wildlife Management Specialist returns my call, or even better arrives for humane furry dictator removal.

Meanwhile, the area under my shed has morphed into a foul smelling toxic wasteland strewn with mothballs and Irish Spring soap. The birds, butterflies and bees once attracted to my garden are now largely giving these fumes a pass, and I cannot blame them. Furry Putin, on the other hand, flashed me his Irish Spring tat, or maybe that was his middle finger, whilst chuckling ruthlessly at my attempts to nail him with a super-soaker full of habanero infused ammonia. This has been an embattled week, my friends, and I briefly lost my sense of humor. If you know me at all, you will understand that as a concerning sign, wherein the shape I normally inhabit has been bent out of recognition.

As I plan for the introduction of eight or nine hundred additional marigolds, and wait for the arrival of expensive sonic spikes, I am reminded of mindful methods that assist in remaining unruffled in the face of external challenge. I realize with some sheepishness how small this challenge is compared to so many others faced by intrepid humans, and I am aware of the way all expectations can be a trap, which is perhaps especially true when attempting to curate nature. One can only hope that trap is of the Havahart persuasion, a cage for kind relocation of willful determination to a more realistic and nurturing surround.

As things progress, thus far without resolve, I am grateful for the increasing regulation of my nervous system, which seems organic, but at the same time eerily dependent on my beautiful veggie garden having remained thus far off limits. On the not so far horizon, I believe there is a long term solution. It will possess a deep booming bark, voluminous white fur, soulful eyes, and a protective will forged out of platinum. Currently, imaginary Great Pyrenees (#4) is the baby T-Rex I most likely will fall in love with, despite epic hard work, and a beloved resource it seems increasingly obvious I need to reestablish in this, my one wild and precious life.