I talk to my plants. (And, no, before you ask, I am not taking this gardening thing too seriously! nuh-uh! who said that..? Broccoli McCauliflower?)
This started as a whimsical post, at least while it was in my head and then when I was doodling the sign in Photoshop – until suddenly it wasn’t really all that funny, as I replayed my morning check-on-the-garden rounds – and realized that I had carried on a running dialog between Chatterbox and myself, interspersed with comments and questions to the pot-dwellers themselves. Wups.
I can easily excuse myself talking to Chatterbox. She talks back, with purrs, whistles, chirps, yelps, trills and the occasional ear-bending MREOOWW (cat for LET MET OUT). She’s part cat, part parrot, part escape artist and part service dog. She doesn’t know she’s a cat, and that’s ok.