Household Rebellion, Chatterbox vs Garlic

Wounded yet carrying on

Midafternoon, I heard a bit of a kitty kommotion from the general direction of the guest bedroom which has been pressed into double duty as an afternoon sunroom. Stood up from my desk and came around, across the hall and toward the noise. There stood Chatterbox, backing away from the windowsill as best she could while balancing on a side chair.

One of the three garlic seedlings lay on the ground beneath the windowsill, gasping for breath, trapped beneath an avalanche of Miracle Gro potting soil, and – sadly – the pot itself. I sensed very little signs of life.

“So – what happened..?” me.

Silence from both Chatterbox and the garlic seedling. Chatterbox was choked by guilt, and the garlic was too wounded to respond.

I picked up the vict- er.. plant, and gently pushed it back into position in the potting soil gathered from the (of course it’s pale beige…) carpet. A bit of liquid, a careful trimming of nigh-severed limbs, and this brave soldier, martyr to the cause, returned to its previous post. I moved the chair away from the temptation of the windowsill, retrieved the big ugly loud vacuum monster (Chatterbox’s words, not mine) from its closet, and cleaned up the potting soil mess.

A few minutes later, I peeked around the corner, just to see if the garlic was showing any signs of life. No change, but Chatterbox had taken up vigil on the guest bed, glaring balefully in the direction of the snitch– er.. garlic.

I picked up the severed garlic stem and held it beneath her nose. She sniffed, perked up, and bit into it with vigor. Then just as vigorously, she stopped biting at it and wrinkled her nose in disgust.

Sometimes a cat’s gotta do what a cat’s gotta do. But somehow I think that’s the last time she’s gotta do garlic.

 

We’re Hunting Wabbits

Snowshoe Hare / Lièvre d´Amérique

Adorable even while devouring your herb garden

Escrow closed this afternoon, after a long weekend of stress, nail-biting, hyper-imaginative panic attacks (what happens if they don’t close on time? do we lose the house? will we have to start house-hunting all over? are we out a gazillion bucks in closing costs?!).

Our real estate broker and I collapsed in relief against the butcher block island in the middle of the kitchen, toasting each other with imaginary Chablis in imaginary stemware. I paused and gazed out over a couple of acres of empty desert –

– and spied the first rabbit.

Oh, yes. Apparently rabbits are quite populous in this new neighborhood – a pest I hadn’t included  in my garden daydreams, since we’ve lived next to a major highway for 25-plus years. But now, up the desert hillside as we are, little fuzzy-eared new-plant-chomping varmints are going to be a very real gardening challenge.

Visions of meandering, bedecked in my Katharine Hepburn garden hat and gloves,  through a small field of budding flowers and vegetables popped like soap bubbles, leaving behind a residue that looked a lot like blobs of hastily planted chicken wire.

I wonder if they’d be scared away by a coyote replica …