This spring, I did what every optimistic gardener does: I planted hope in the form of tender, innocent seedlings. With careful precision, I arranged rows of Black-Eyed Susan’s, Purple Cone Flowers, Lupine, and Shasta Daisies, each one a promise of cut flowers and happy blogs. This took the better part of a day two weeks ago. The gardens looked stellar.
And then… the squirrel moved in. Disaster came with tiny little teeth that mowed down my hopes and dreams. All that remained of the Zebrina were tiny little stems. As for the Yarrow, they were plucked from the ground with no sign that they The Aster’s survived, but only remain because they were planted in higher boxes.
You’d think he’d show up in polite, bushy-tailed fashion and nibble respectfully, taking one bite and moving along. No. He wasn’t an average squirrel, but a hardened, seasoned, flower-pillaging marauder who recognized our garden as an all-you-can-eat buffet. If it had thumbs, it would have given it a 5-star review with several enthusiastic tail flicks for good measure.
Teasing us from a variety of mysterious holes, he never buried any acorns. He simply flamed the grudge I have against him. Ready to give up and have a flower-less yard, HHH shamed me a bit. Was I going to let a little rodent win this war??? Was I that weak??? Where was my fighting spirit? All excellent questions that renewed my quest for success.
So far, we’ve invested alot in this years floral crop. There are the heirloom seeds, because no one wants genetically modified anything. Organic fertilizer to boost bloom production. Mulch of the highest quality. Peat pots, specially sprouting soil, and hours and hours of love to get these babies to grow under new lights necessary to grow fabulous plants.
After THE incident, one more expense nearly gutted me. A trip west to replace all the flowers on their way to blooming. There’s a direct relationship between filling the back of an SUV and an empty wallet.
One thing that can’t be replaced is the stretched and aching muscles used during one afternoon of seedling planting. Gardening, in theory, is good exercise. In reality, it’s a series of yoga poses invented by a sadist. I performed the “downward dig,” the “wheelbarrow shuffle,” and my personal favorite, “accidental knee-in-mulch scream.” By Sunday evening, I was the one with the heating pad. That day had been so happy and relaxing, with a dedicated bed for each type of flower. When finished, it was a thing of beauty, even if I’d need a few days to recover.
And for what? For a squirrel to treat my plot like a Vegas buffet and leave behind nothing but tiny footprints and tiny little stems.
Gardening books don’t cover this. They talk about “pest control” like it’s a minor inconvenience. This is not a pest. This is war. When there is a war, the warrior must have a gun. We have two. That squirrel is going down. Don’t worry. I’ll dedicate a blog to him when he’s gone.
Please, just try to humor me by agreeing with a few key points.
- Squirrels are not cute. They are agents of chaos in adorable fur coats. Don’t be fooled.
- Gardening is not alway relaxing. It’s a tragic comedy in three acts: Hope, Devastation, Replanting.
- Flowers are necessary for a happy life. Therefore, we will absolutely do this again next year.
Why?
Because maybe, just maybe, this time we’ll outsmart the squirrel and there won’t be another. Hope is the first seed you plant, and stubbornness is the compost that helps it grow.
More tomorrow.
