Furious Foos Fight Back

The most important thing to note in this blog is that I'm ok.

The second most important thing is that the Foos are clearly conspiring to kill me.

Basically, what I'm saying is that the following things may or may not have happened:

The Foos, in their rotten Foo-ness, may have decided to spend yesterday morning scampering in and out of the garden, into the flower beds, and all around the hosta, searching for and munching on any scrap of plant that hadn't been coated with the incredibly fetid Bunny-B-Gone.

It is also possible that, enraged beyond reason, I may have run over to chase them off...and I might have been wearing flip flops...and, in spite of my natural grace, I may have tripped and, ever so gracefully, fallen off the deck.

At this point the Foos DEFINITELY DID take advantage of my obvious incapacitation to scamper around the yard in what can only be described as an aggressively exultant manner, snacking on plants in a Foo Feeding Frenzy, stopping only long enough to shoot occasional glances in my direction and laugh at me behind their paws.

It is also possible that I am now, with the incredible agility and skill of a Ninja warrior, hobbling around with my poor left foot encased in a huge walking boot.

This, I'm sure, puts several questions in everyone's heads...

1. Am I ok?  Yes, mostly.  The doc thinks it's sprained not broken...a diagnosis I agree with since I consider myself something of an expert on broken ankles after the unfortunate Redbull Incident of 2002.

2. Am I in pain? Yes, my foot hurts.

3. Have I gotten my revenge on the Foos for their ferocious foraging? Not yet. I've been dreaming of new and possibly violent ways to keep them out of the garden but I have been unable to implement them because, as I may have mentioned, my foot hurts.

4. Am I at all concerned that we are almost out of milk, coffee, and dog food and am thus planning a quick trip to the store? No, my foot hurts.

5. Will I be making dinner in the foreseeable future? Only if I can do it from my chair because my foot hurts.

So the long and the short of it is that the Foos have won yet another battle in our ongoing war for control of the garden. I have been removed from the battlefield, bloody but unbowed and I am determined to triumph in the end....though not today because my foot hurts.

Bunny Foo-Foo and Who Flung Poo

A lot of people have been asking about the possum problem. I’m pleased to report that it has been solved. There’s not an epic tale involved in this solution; he’s just not living under the porch anymore. This could be because possums, according to the National Humane Society, don’t stay the same place very long. But I like to think it’s due to my vigilant efforts of constantly spraying water into any crevice a possum could be hiding, shining light into said crevice and stomping around the porch in front of the backdoor like I was trying to break through.

This is the evil, unnamed squirrel leaning
over the fence, gauging when he can
make a run at the feeders.

But please don’t think that just because we didn’t have to fight the possum as much as I had originally feared that this spring has been free from fighting. We’ve had a shocking number of wildlife battles in the last month or so. First this is the first of these is very common: the squirrel Who has decided his life’s mission is to empty my birdfeeders as quickly as animally possible.

His newest trick is to climb up to the supposedly squirrel-proof suet feeder, hang on it upside down, grab suet chunks with his grubby little paws, and shove them in his grubby little mouth. My newest trick is to sneak out while he’s doing it, try to turn on the water without him seeing, then spray the hose in his general direction while shouting at the top of my lungs.

It hasn’t exactly been a success.

Even worse are the bunnies.

If you ever watched Buffy the Vampire Slayer, you might remember how Anya, the former vengeance demon, thought bunnies were terrifying and even dressed as a big white bunny for Halloween because it was the scariest thing she could think of.

And then you probably laughed at Anya.

Newsflash: ANYA WAS RIGHT.

Oh sure, they look cute with their fluffy tails, their floppy ears and twitchy little noses…but this is all a disguise to cover up their evil hearts.

Bunny Foo-Foo

It wasn’t so bad last year when we only had one of the demons living under the far side of the deck. 

We chuckled at its antics, carefully shooed it away before we let the dogs outside, and even named it Bunny Foo-Foo after the children’s song…and just like that, we were lured into Bunny Foo Foo’s evil web.

Because this year, there is a new Foo in town. In fact, there are two new Foo.

Little Foo

Mini Foo

This, if you’d like to see photographic evidence of their evil hearts, is Mini Foo having a chew.

Which, in a nutshell, encapsulates the problem with bunnies: they are EVIL EATERS OF ENVIRONMENTAL ORNAMENTS!

Or, in slightly clearer terms, they eat everything!

They nibble on my nasturtiums, lunch on my lilies, hunger for my hosta, snack on my snapdragons…they especially love the huge number of native plants I’ve put out, like coneflowers and blanket flowers, but that didn’t quite work from an alliterative standpoint.

In any case, I have tried everything with these ridiculous rabbits.

I put cayenne pepper on all the plants – please notice how red the hosta is in the picture above while Mini Foo blissfully has a chew.

I covered the little seedlings with planters every night and uncovered them every morning…the bunnies bravely brunched on the blooms and buds.

I attempted to bribe the bunnies with delicious carrots and lettuce left in an enticing pile far from the flower gardens. The bunnies treated this as an amuse bouche, chowing it down then heading back to 

the flowers to fill up.

I even resorted to reason, explaining to the Foo Family that they were perpetuating the worst kind of bunny stereotypes, giving a bad name to bunnies everywhere, and should consider how they ould improve bunnies’ standing in the gardening world.

But these are the most self-involved, socially irresponsible bunnies imaginable…proven by the fact that that very night they responded by eating EVERY SINGLE ONE of my Stargazer Lilies.

To say I didn’t handle this well is an understatement of EPIC proportions.

Let’s jump over the histrionics that occurred when I discovered the carnage and fast forward to my furious rant to Opie a little later when I vowed that I would get those bunnies to leave our yard if it was the last thing I ever did and that they didn’t know what they were in for because I was going to give them the “possum treatment!”

Opie allowed as how he had no idea what I was talking about but that it sounded impressive.

First, I bought this highly recommended (and environmentally friendly!) bunny repellent and doused the plants with it…which, honestly, smells so foul, it’s possible that it will also keep humans and dogs from spending too much time in the yard…not helped by the fact that I also added a thick layer of cayenne pepper and garlic to the perimeter of each garden as a double whammy of protection.

But that wasn’t the possum treatment…the possum treatment means making their little bunny abode under the deck as uncomfortable as possible. I spray water under the deck from all angles every night, shine bright lights under the deck to illuminate their hidey hole, and stomp back and forth like a toddler having a tantrum.

Then, in a disgusting show of desperation, I actually scooped up some of the “dog dirt” from the yard and tossed it under the far side of the deck into the bunnies’ abode.

It’s interesting to note that, when I told Opie this part the story, he stared at me in what I thought was a shocked silence for a long minute. Only to realize that he was instead relishing the chance to make a joke he may have been saving since the second grade.

“This finally answers the question.” he said in an almost reverent tone. “Who flung Poo? It was you. You flung Poo!”

I don’t like to think this was the happiest moment of his life but it wouldn’t exactly stun me to learn it was in the top 10.

In any case, that is what quarantine has reduced us to: poop jokes and animal abuse. Hope the rest of you are holding up better…but if you have any sure-fire rabbit repellent tips, let me know!

Not the Wisest Wabbit in the Warren

You know what SHOULD be better than a snake in the yard?

A bunny.

You know what, oddly, ISN’T better than a snake in the yard?

A bunny.

You know why?

The Bub:

Here’s what happened:

This morning I went out to check on the flowers that I planted on the outside of our fence when I saw, right smack in the middle of the flowers, a bunny:

A cute little baby bunny reminiscent of the bunnies I used to get in my yard back in St. Louis when all they had to fear was a fat Chihuahua with a bad heart. The kind of bunny we never get in our yard here because woodland animals far and wide point their paws at our fence and talk in hushed whispers about the squirderer behind the walls.

Unfortunately, this bunny either didn’t get the memo or he is not the wisest wabbit in the warren.

It is interesting to note that "wabbit" is NOT a typo. I’m just a helpless slave to alliteration…but I digress…

The point is, the bunny decided that our yard is eight kinds of awesome and sometime this morning wandered his way inside.

Which I didn’t realize until I opened the door to let The Bub outside.

Luckily, the lawn guy had just mowed so Bubba was intent on running out and rolling in as much dried grass as caninely possible and he didn’t immediately notice the bunny.

Unluckily, the lawn guy had just mowed so Bubba—clearly still miffed that I hadn’t let him out earlier to eat the lawn guy—decided to pretend he couldn’t hear me calling his name and ordering him back into the house.

Seriously, he is turning into the worst lying liar of a dog.

Anyway, that’s when I decided to unpack the big guns and run out to the yard while offering him a treat. And the stupid bunny says to himself "Treat? I could go for a treat.” And hops closer.

Which is when Bubba saw him.

I will now pause and let you imagine all the things that could go horribly wrong with that scenario.

Now try to imagine Bub and I engaged in a little game called “Bunny Ball.” In which Bubba is tearing around the yard after the bunny and I—clearly playing defense—am flinging myself between him and the bunny, screaming his name, cursing and literally physically blocking him at every turn.

How I did this in flip-flops without breaking a leg is a mystery for the ages.

Meanwhile the stupid bunny didn’t realize that he wasn’t just playing ball, he WAS the ball, and instead of looking for a way to escape was scampering around the yard like the dumbest bunny to ever draw breath.

And it was only through the divine intervention of some guardian angel of bunnies that I somehow managed to grab The Bub around the waist and wrestle him in the house.

I went back outside and tried to convince the bunny that he is, in the eyes of big dogs everywhere, food. And he should scurry along for safer pastures.

The bunny was unimpressed.

Then I tried to explain to the bunny that not only was the carrot section of the garden a poor hiding place but also reinforced the worst bunny stereotypes and that in the interest of species sensitivity, he should go somewhere else.

Unfortunately, that particular bunny is incredibly self-involved and could not care less about species stereotypes.

I even went so far as to get the hose and spray the bunny with a little water…I mean, I didn’t put it on jet because it really is a tiny bunny and I didn’t want to practically waterboard it after all the trouble I went to to rescue it from Bubba but come on! Even a little water should have sent any reasonable bunny packing.

Not this bunny.

This stupid bunny decided he had discovered the best bunny bath of all times and is EVEN NOW still in the garden.

And in case you think I’m exaggerating the ridiculous overconfidence of the bunny in question, please note that I have not only sent a picture of the bunny in the garden, I have included a picture of the bunny GROOMING ITSELF even AFTER it was chased all over the yard by the Bub.

So, I had to come in to work, the bunny is still in the garden and Bubba is not speaking to me.

Like A Plague of Locusts

The ladybugs are here!!

How, you might be wondering, are 500 ladybugs transported to the wilds of Oklahoma?

In a surprisingly small package that was shipped overnight and filled with helpful instructions like "release over several days” and “store in the refrigerator until released.” They also suggested that, to keep the ladybugs from immediately flying away, one should spray them with a mixture of white soda and water. Apparently, this temporarily “glues” their wings shut.

Which just seems cruel.

Of course, in retrospect, stuffing 500 ladybugs in a little sack inside a box and shipping them across the country seems a little cruel too but that’s a whole other discussion.

In any case, the instructions also suggested that releasing them at night would help keep them in the yard and that seemed like the best plan, except for one slight problem: Round Three of the Stanley Cup Playoffs.

A fact that game up when, just before dusk, I got out the bag o' bugs and shook them enticingly in Opie’s face. “You’re going to help me, aren't you?” I asked.

Opie hemmed and hawed and finally hinted that ladybug disbursement seemed like a 1 person job. 

"The Blues are playing to tonight." He added.

“But I need you! One person has to stick a hand down and separate the lily stalks as close to the ground as possible while the other person dumps the ladybugs out. And," I went on before he could protest, "no, I can't push the lilies with one hand and dump the ladybugs with the other. Because this has been a very snaky spring and what if there's a snake in there and I TOUCH IT? We'd have to move."

And then we started playing this really fun game in which we both just keep repeating the same sentence, stressing a different word each time, like the only reason we can't come to a consensus is poor emphasis.

"The BLUES are playing tonight."

"We'd have to MOVE."

"The Blues are playing TONIGHT."

"We'd HAVE to move."

Eventually, though, we ran out of words and I quickly said "And it's not going to take that long."

I might also have mentioned that the Blues’ playoff performance has been a little frustrating and when Opie starts yelling at the television, our slightly neurotic Bubba decides it's the scariest thing that has ever happened. At which point, he feels the only reasonable course of action is flinging his big old self onto my lap to comfort me.

It, oddly, isn’t at all comforting. But that didn't stop me from speculating about how he would react if I were outside scattering ladybugs and he had to face the peril alone.

Clearly, logic is my strong suit.

In any case, a few minutes later my trusty assistant and I headed out to teach those aphids a little something about messing with the lilies of a crazy woman.

And I learned a little something about how difficult it is to bend 500 ladybugs to your will. I shook them, I poured them, I held the bag of them open and encouraged them to saunter out onto the plants…and some of them did.  But some of them seemed really determined to scamper out of the bag and climb up my sleeve.

“They’re all over me! I can feel them all over me!” I shouted and immediately began flinging myself about in the world famous “I Think I Have A Bug On Me" dance.

Someday, the neighbors are going to film the insane antics in our backyard and I’m either going to become an instant YouTube star or I’m going to be involuntarily committed to a mental institution.

Or both.

It is in these moments that Opie proves himself a true hero. Instead of shouting things like "All I want to do is watch the stupid hockey game, is that too much to ask?" he muttered calming words, inspected my back and assured me that I was not, in fact, a wriggling tower of bugs

And if you're feeling sorry for him right now, you should think about poor Bubba who was snuggled up on the couch next to me while I started typing the beginning of this blog and a ladybug crawled across the computer screen. 

If you think he gets upset at a man screaming at the hockey game, you should see his reaction when a woman (sure an entire swarm of bugs had somehow hitched a ride into the house) runs upstairs screaming and rips off all her clothes.

It's not pretty for a lot of reasons.

But the long and the short of it is this: ladybugs are brutal! In the next few days, they swarmed those nasty aphids like one of the plagues of Egypt while I ran around encouraging them like a slightly hysterical cheerleader.

I especially loved this guy who ate his way up the stalk of the lily then settled his fat little self down into the bud.

I know you probably shouldn't pick favorites but I did.

In less than a week,  they have eaten their way through thousands of aphids and the garden has been saved so  I can start stuffing the house full of flower arrangements with reckless abandon.

So, to recap in a slightly shorter fashion, the ladybugs are amazing, I feel vindicated about saving the garden and the environment in one fell swoop but the Blues are not in the Stanley Cup finals and we may need years of therapy for Bubba.

Aphid Armageddon

We have aphids.

APHIDS!

This is a tragedy and a travesty and an emergency of epic proportions!

Which, again, might seem a little over the top but the thing is I’ve pretty obsessed with my garden.  I spend hours out there with the dogs every day in the spring and summer, fussing over the plants, weeding, mulching, composting, and satisfying my inner need to nurture. In winter months, when gardening is on hiatus, that need manifests itself in insane hours perusing Petfinder and sending Opie emails about getting more dogs.

If we didn’t have the garden, there’s a pretty good chance we would end up about 1 dog away from a really frightening episode of animal hoarders.

I have long suspected that this, more than anything, is the reason Opie got me a green house.

But I digress…

I was talking about aphids.

I discovered them the other day when I went out to the garden and realized that the lilies (which I have planted all around the vegetable garden as companion plants to draw bees and butterflies) were looking a little brown and saggy--unusual for spring. I took a closer look and saw this:

And then I took a closer look and saw this:

 And then, driven by some sick sense of horrid fascination, I got even closer and saw this:

Disgusting, right? I’m not too proud to say I jumped back and shrieked like the aphids were going to fling themselves off the lilies and attach themselves to my helpless body, sucking the lifeblood from me like evil insect vampires.

At this point, Sassy and Bubba came running over to see what all the ruckus was about and, of course, to add to the ruckus by jumping and barking at the top of their ridiculous lungs.  I suggested that they could be more useful if they would grub down and EAT the aphids but they were completely uncooperative.

Seriously, these dogs are so selfish.

In any case, I’m sure there are a ton of different things I could spray to get rid of aphids but I’m kind of a tree-hugging hippie so I immediately began researching the best NATURAL way to get rid of aphids.

A surprising number of sources assured me that all I really needed to do was spray the infected plants with a good burst of water.  The aphids would be knocked senseless, flung from the plants in an epic flood, and peace would be restored.

So I tried that...but the aphids were relatively unimpressed. In fact, I’m pretty sure I saw them laughing and splashing in the spray like it was a day at the beach.

Jerks.

And then I read about ladybugs.  I mean, I already KNEW about ladybugs—they’re little, they’re cute, they’re good luck—and I knew they were good for the garden but I didn’t realize that, to aphids, they are like some horror movie killing machines. A developing ladybug larvae can eat something like 400 aphids and an adult ladybug can eat 5000 aphids in its lifetime.

Doesn't look at all like a horror movie monster, does it?

 “Etymological warfare!" I shouted to the dogs.  "That's what this situation calls for!"

The dogs were, of course, very confused by this pronouncement...possibly because I had said etymological instead of entomological. And they just couldn't see how studying words was going to affect the aphids' enjoyment of the lilies.

"Bugs!" I clarified. "We need bugs to fight bugs!"

It is interesting to note that all the guides I found said that the best way to draw ladybugs to the yard is to provide them a food source (the disgusting aphids) and plenty of pollen producing plants.

Which, based on the infestation level, means that we should have literal clouds of ladybugs hovering around the lilies like one of the plagues of Egypt.

But we don’t.  I mean, we have a few, maybe 10 or 15, but nowhere near enough to get the aphids under control.

"You know, that field by the park always has a lot of ladybugs in it," I told Opie later that night.

"Are you telling me you want to STEAL ladybugs from the park?" He countered.

"I really consider it relocating more than stealing," I assured him. "Besides, we pay taxes and that's a community park so they're community ladybugs. I'm a part of this community so essentially those are MY ladybugs too."

Believe it or not, he was unswayed by this argument.

"I guess you just don't care if the lilies DIE," I said. "And don't think they'll stop there! They're going to trash our tomatoes! Pulverize our peppers! Brutalize our beans!  It’ll be Armageddon!"

Opie's ability to stay calm in the face of drama is one of the cornerstones of our relationship.

"You know you can order them online, right!" he asked. "I just texted my friend Tom and he got a bunch from some place called High Sierra Ladybugs."

Which is way less exciting than a covert ladybug relocation mission. So, the long and the short of it is, 500 ladybugs are being delivered to the house this week and I am already dreaming of a horrible aphid massacre…and if you think releasing 500 ladybugs is going to occur in this house without drama, then you don't know me at all.

Stay tuned.

Motivation to Move

We have to move.

I understand that this may seem sudden but once I have relayed the events of my day to you all, I think you will agree that it is time to drop everything and start researching realtors.

Here's what happened:

After a few days of rain, today was finally clear and since the ground is very soft at the moment, I decided that this would be the perfect time to go out and transplant this enormous shasta daisy that is taking over the rock garden. After moving it, I went back to smooth everything over etc. Unfortunately, while doing this I accidentally flipped over a rock and guess what was under it?

Another freaking snake, that's what!

One of those small snakes that for a hopeful minute I thought might just be the King Kong Godzilla Monster of earthworms but then, just like our last snake adventure, realized it was all coiled up, snake-like and evil.

And, of course, it had six inch fangs that were dripping blood and venom in copious amounts.

At this point, I screamed a very offensive curse word loudly enough that I'm pretty sure they could hear me at the church down the street.

My normal reaction would, obviously, be to run shrieking into the house....but Bubba was outside with me.  And because my life is one giant catastrophic coincidence after another, it was at this exact moment that a stray dog decided to meander up and bark at the dog next door.  Which means that Bubba ran over in a frenzy, jumping all over the exact same garden that had just given rise to the serpent from hell.

Therefore, I couldn't run inside because:

A. The snake could go slinking and sliming and slithering to some other spot in the yard, just waiting to jump out and attack another time.

B. I'm a firm believer in "No Dog Left Behind" and, since there is no calming Bubba when there is a stray dog in the vicinity and he was jumping around in a manner that just begged an evil predator to notice and attack, I knew I wouldn't get him in the house with me.

But I also couldn't just go into a frenzy of my own and started chopping the snake to pieces with my shovel like some whacked out snake serial killer because that's bad for my karma..

So, fueled by adrenaline and maternal instinct for the ridiculous dog next to me, I scooped up a huge shovelful of dirt with the snake on top, scurried to the other gate like a maniac, ran out to the front and flung the dirt and snake and rocks and whatnot into the street.

I'm not too proud to say I was crying and screaming all the curse words I've ever heard as I was running.

What the neighbors thought of this display is anyone's guess...but I suspect their opinion of me is none too flattering.

In summary, I have become the lunatic of the neighborhood, our rock garden is, apparently, a teeming hotbed of serpent activity, and I don't think I can live in these kind of conditions.

Firsts This Spring

I can’t believe I haven’t posted yet about the fabulous new camera lens Opie got me for Christmas. 

It’s a lens for extreme close ups and portraits; in professional photography jargon it’s best described as “very zoom-y” and “wicked cool!”

I hope that’s not too technical for you lay people.

In any case, we’ve taken it on a few of our morning hikes/walks and the pics it takes are simply amazing…as evidenced by this picture I like to call Duck Berries:

(Duck Berries...hope that's not too abstract for you non-English teachers!)

But, best of all, I was able to capture some awesome shots of a few firsts of the spring.

Like the first toad of spring who was hiding in the garden:

And the first iris of spring that popped up a few weeks ago.

I did not, obviously, capture a picture of the first snake of spring that slithered sneakily out from under a rock a few days ago because it is very difficult to take good pictures while running away screaming.

Opie maintains that this is “over-reacting” and that “you’re going to see snakes outside” and that “it’s a tiny little snake, you should be able to deal with a tiny little snake.”

Which just goes to show you that, once again, Opie is very lucky my fear of snakes is only topped by my fear of prison.

Though, I will admit, it was a small snake.  And while I didn’t get my own pic, I found a representative pic on Google images:

Small but obviously an inherently vicious creature that would kill you as soon as look at you!

It is interesting to note that, when telling our friends Fred and Susan about our snake adventures, Susan mentioned that she had found a snake in their pantry a while ago (It is further interesting to note that I was sitting within FEET of the alleged pantry when this revelation was made.  The fact that I didn’t immediately dash from the home is a testament to my strength of character). In any case, snake in the pantry is the clearest argument for moving I have ever heard, even if this is their dream house that they designed and had built.

So, in summary, the new camera lens is awesome, snakes are evil, Susan is one of the bravest women alive and if we get a snake in this house we’re putting it on the market within the hour.

Rocks, Rocks and More Rocks

I found a rock in the garden.

And, if you don't know me and/or have never read this blog before, you are probably thinking "Wow! That has to be the most inane blog beginning of all time. What's next, a discussion of her grocery list?"

But if you know me at all, you know that this seemingly boring announcement was really the catalyst for drama that only a complete neurotic can appreciate.

Here's what happened:

I went out to the garden to pull out the last of the broccoli and Brussels Sprout plants. Then, because that section of the garden hasn't done very well this summer, I decided to dig a compost trench and spend the winter enriching the soil.

Except I hit a rock.

And not just any rock, but a Flintstones style, mammoth sized boulder that I couldn’t even lift and had to instead roll out of the hole.

“Holy crap, I told the dogs as I took a picture of the boulder. "That's the biggest freaking rock I've ever seen!"

The dogs, I'm pleased to report, were suitably impressed and immediately suggested that we celebrate by toasting the rock with dog treats and then peeing on it.

Unfortunately for them, I don’t like dog treats and I almost never urinate in public. Besides, I was already asking myself the fatal question:

“I wonder how many other massive rocks are down there?!”

Which means that THIS is the pit that Opie came home to at the end of the day:

Not to mention a knee-high pile of massive rocks.

“The question is NOT how come things sometimes didn't grow well in our garden,” I told him.  “The question is how did ANYTHING grow in our garden?!”

And he mentioned that he thought the real question was “What are you going to do with all these rocks now?”

But my friend Eric had recently clued me in to the environmental importance of native landscaping so I already had a plan. “I’m going to put in a rock garden.”  I said.

It is interesting to note that, years ago, Eric was also the one who opened my eyes to the environmental importance of composting so, essentially, this is all his fault.

But I digress…suffice it to say that Operation Clean Up the Garden has turned into Operation Obsessively Dig For Rocks.

“You’re not going to dig up the entire yard, are you?” Opie asked.

“Our grass grows back really fast,” I said noncommittally.

So now, I go out almost every day, shovel in hand, and just start digging away…stopping only to treat Opie to texts like:

“I found a roller!” (which is a rock so big it has be be rolled instead of carried).

Or

“Don’t walk too close to the garden tonight.  We may have a little landslide situation and I don’t want you falling in a hole.”

Or, once

“Holy crap, I just found a smashed pair of child’s glasses.  What if there’s A KID buried in the yard?  I think I need to go lie down.”

Opie—who probably spends most of his days wondering how he got so lucky to snag me—tends not to respond but even he has to admit that the amount of rocks I have excavated is mind-boggling.

In just 2 months, I have put in 2 rock gardens AND I’ve started to landscape the entire perimeter of our yard with the rocks.

Seriously, check this out:

 

 

I mean, not to toot my own horn but I think it’s kind of amazing.

The only problem is this:

I have an obsessive personality AND I just hit a shelf of rock.

About 3 feet down, so far it’s over 4 feet long and I still haven’t found the sides of it. And it has been suggested to me that perhaps it would be best to leave well enough alone, that perhaps if I could actually remove this shelf of rock it would affect the structural integrity of the yard…and I certainly don’t want a sink hole…

But I can’t help myself.  I can just feel the rock down there, mocking me, and I smell a challenge. I can't bring myself to fill in the hole because, you never know, I might be able to break through.

I admit it, I might need to go to Rock Diggers Anonymous.

In any case, this is why I've been so bad at updating my blog this summer: I've had rocks in my head.

To summarize: I found a rock in the garden, obsession is a scary thing, and if our house somehow falls into a sink hole I'm totally blaming Eric.

Mole Control

While I can certainly appreciate the damage moles do the lawn, I can’t help but feel Bub’s constant efforts to keep their population under control are slightly less than helpful.

If I could get him to dig like this in the garden, planting would be a lot easier.

A Serial Squirderer

You know what’s more upsetting than coming out to your newly planted garden and realizing that squirrels or other vermin are chomping it down to the roots?

When your loveable, over-loyal dog decides that he should fix this situation by indulging in wholesale squirrel slaughter.

It’s even worse when your loveable, over-loyal dog decides to shield you from his wholesale squirrel slaughter by burying the evidence in the aforementioned garden.

That’s right. Bubba killed ANOTHER squirrel and buried it in the garden.

Which I didn’t realize until I was out weeding and I hit the squirrel with the tiller.

And if you think that was upsetting for me, imagine how poor Opie felt when I ran into the house screaming.

Apparently, shrieks about murder and death and bodies in the garden do not make for a peaceful morning.

It is interesting to note that following this up with the instruction “Check the tiller for blood!” is not the best way to ease the tension.

In any case, you would think that this would be enough squirrel slaughter for one week but noooooooo! 

Today, Bubba got another one.

He didn’t bury this one in the garden, though, probably because I caught him while he was still deep in the “dead things make the best toys” phase and happened upon him while he was still running around the yard, flinging it in the air.

I did NOT take this well.

I also didn’t take it well when Bubba saw me and decided that I, too, would love nothing more than gallivanting around the yard with a dead squirrel and he came charging up to the porch to share his prize with me.

I won’t detail my inappropriate language and reaction to this situation but suffice it to say that it is something of a miracle that the neighbors didn’t call the police.

Oddly, though, when I finally got Bub to drop the squirrel and come in the house then texted Opie at work about what should obviously be considered an emergency, he did NOT offer to come home and immediately begin carcass removal.

Seriously, some people are so self-involved.

Luckily, there was just enough vodka in the freezer to get me through the intervening hours.

So, to recap, Bubba is a serial squirderer, Opie doesn’t understand what constitutes a real emergency, and vodka is awesome.

 

Wanted for Serial Squirder