Lesson 3 - Get a Dog

That's Woody. He's a natural born plant killer. Don't get me wrong. He doesn't set out to kill plants. He takes no pleasure in their demise. They just get in his way. When we moved into our house. There was a green lawn in the backyard. Now it's dirt. What happened? Woody. He needed the space for running, after all. Then there's the corn stalks (yes, I'm growing corn. CORN!!) Except a couple are bent over because Woody sometimes walks over them to get his ball when it bounces into the garden (I just prop them back up, maybe they'll straighten some day). And then there's the beautiful Matilda I bought from an Australian grower. Matilda was my first big girl plant purchase since I didn't buy it at Home Depot. Woody trampled it no doubt trying to get to the bush next to it that houses his arch nemesis, lizard (see lesson 4).

But most notable is the small bush that grew in the corner of the yard. It was perfect for me. It didn't need water or any special care. And every year, it bloomed with the most beautiful flowers. I remember the day clearly. I wasn't actually home when it happened. My friend Erin brought her pit bull, Dakota, over to visit Woody for the evening. I received a text message, "You are going to be so mad."

First of all, friends, don't begin a conversation that way. Ever heard of a compliment sandwich? Every bit of bad news should follow this format: Something good...bad news...and something good. Example, "You have a great smile...but there's a big piece of food in your teeth...but it gives your smile a little extra spice today." Bad news needs a fluffer, if you will. Something to soften the blow, a bit of friendly preparation to lubricate the bad news. And anyway, how am I supposed to respond to "You are going to be so mad?"

But I digress. I stared at my phone, images of a fire or a mess of astronomical proportions swirled in my head. Knowing the dogs were playing, I figured it had something to do with the backyard. "You know that bush in the corner..." her next text began, but the rest is hazy because everything at that point just got blurry. Now, I'm no stranger to dead plants, but this one was different. It was a reminder that plants indeed can live, and produce flowers, and give me warm fuzzies. It was a promise of good things to come, of the hope of better days in my garden. But its days were numbered, just like every other plant in my yard. And its day of reckoning came without warning, in the form of a carrot colored canine who just wants to run and play and eat lizards.

And run he does, says the dirt that used to be a lawn. And play he does, say the cornstalks to the ground (because that's the direction they're facing). And eat lizards he does, says Matilda (in an australian accent). And what does the plant from the back corner of the yard say? I'll never know. It will forever remain nameless, voiceless, and of course, dead.