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.