When you must choose… what must die…

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.