Last summer, I put in a pretty plant in my tipped pot and watch it bloom and pour out of the pot just as meant to.
This summer, I move the hose away, choose not to water it and
watch it shrivel away and die.
Life is strange like that. Life makes us do strange things. Sometimes,
for something to live, something must die…
My dog likes to follow me around as I potter about in the
yard. Stick her nose in the herbs, sniff the tomatoes as I pluck them, chase
the squirrel, only to be tormented as the squirrel perches on the fence and
mocks the silly dog, and of course, she is absolutely beside herself in
excitement when I cut a zucchini. A little
yip, some excited circles around herself, a few jumps to reach the vegetable in
my hand. This dog loves zucchini.
Last month, during her explorations, she surveys the tipped
pot. When suddenly she leaps back and runs as fast as her short legs can carry
her, all the way to the other side of the yard. Zoomies ensue and I wonder what
got into her. Crazy dog, I shake my head dismissively and continue with my
work.
Later, as I water the plant in the tipped pot, a bird flaps
out furiously, mad at being disturbed. Oops, sorry I say to it, I didn’t know
you were resting in there.
The next day, the same thing happens again, and I move the
hose away from the plant. I notice the dog is wary of the tipped pot. I decide
to explore. I peer inside to see a tiny nest, constructed neatly and industriously.
I marvel at the beauty and hard work of the bird, now
perched on the fence, squeaking madly. I gather that in bird language, these can
only amount to expletives. Step away, you crazy woman… and that water…
%$#@%#%...
The dog on the other hand, eyes the tipped pot warily as I
approach it, following cautiously, making sure to hide and stay behind me. My
big, brave, guard dog. Sigh…
After I’m done admiring the bird’s craftsmanship, reality strikes. My poor plant will have to die. This twisted tragedy of nature can put any Greek tragedy to shame – only one can live. One must live and the other must die.
I look at the bird in exasperation. Don’t you see all the many
possible spots here? I ask it. Perfect places for your perfect nest that
wouldn’t involve intentionally dehydrating and killing plants in a summer of
record high temperatures?
Stop flapping and screeching, I tell the bird. Your future
chickees are safe here. The hose will not come anywhere near the pot. As for
the dog, I don’t know quite what you did, but she won’t be poking her nose in
the pot either. But again, you seem to have taken care of that already.
You win, you annoying bird. So, stop squawking. There will
be other plants in that tipped pot’s future. You build the best nest possible
in my tipped pot and take good care of those future chickees.
Life is strange like that. Something must die… and sometimes
you choose what it will be…
And sometimes, despite the wistful twinge at the sight of
the dried-up plant, there is a the joy for that which you allowed to live.
