There’s simply no end to them.
The maple seedlings tout their brassy green leaves in the lawn; onions burrow deep within my shrubs. I must dig up the poor things up to pull out the offenders from below. Catmint peeks out from the most inaccessible nooks and crannies, ready to make a hundred more.
These plantlings are implacable. Rain delights them; they’ll sprout overnight. If it’s dry they’ll hunt for a drippy faucet. Their plan is simple: sip from drips and grow like crazy.
Perhaps the trio sense that poisons aren’t allowed here. Every plant in my good earth would be affected. So, the only thing left is to pounce-and-pull, pounce-and-pull, all day long. My hands and knees ache. My temper frays.
Here’s the thing; when I extract, I’d better get it all. If I leave one bit of a stem, or miss a deeply buried onion bulb- and some are truly tiny- another villain will re-grow almost immediately. (Fortunately, the onions are dumb enough to form pure white roots, making them much easier to locate amid the dark roots of well-mannered plants.)
There are times when I want to scream. Yesterday I caught myself throwing my trowel in exasperation, flipped out over a weed, for heaven’s sake!
Then, I remembered Emma-dog. She exemplifies calm, patience, and quiet persistence.
Emma’s a rescued rottwiler/shepard mix who experienced world-class cruelty during her first 18 months on this earth. I’ve written about her frequently. My dear friends, Les and Sarah, and their large, loving family, have restored Emma’s faith in people.
Recently Les batted a tennis ball for her to pursue, from far out in the meadow, at their country home. (Emma is passionately fond of tennis balls. She usually has a frayed, exhausted one in her mouth. I love to watch her resting in her home, with a ball nestled between her paws. She’ll nudge the tattered orb with paw or nose as she lounges in her family’s living room. Her ears will perk as it rolls slightly, and I swear, if it should ever move without her touching it I’d be unsurprised, knowing the mobility had come from that intense mental focus…)
Anyway, Les whacked the ball with an old tennis racket; she eagerly raced after it, following its trajectory.
And then- it just disappeared.
Another thing about Emma. She will patiently hunt for a flung tennis ball until it’s found. No matter how long it takes. She did that now. Les knew where it had landed- in the crotch of a tree, about six feet above the ground. He remained well away from her to watch as Emma grid-searched every inch of the small area where she, too, knew it had to be. She could smell it. Still, there was no ball anywhere.
Puzzled, she finally sat, her head down, in concentrated thought.
Balls fly: balls always land on the ground.
I know it’s here.
But it’s not.
So... if it’s not on the ground, then…
She looked up, into a fully leafed tree. Scanned branches---THERE. Her ears perked; she grinned. After studying the situation for a minute she rose on her hind legs, and, balancing perfectly, walked along for a good length, front paws folded in, head up, eyeing it intently until she was directly under the spot. Still on her hind legs she reached up- up- strrretched one front leg and paw way up there---contact! She delicately maneuvered it out with a claw. It fell to earth with a satisfying plop. Dropping to all fours she scooped it up and trotted back to Les. The search, discovery, and her remarkable solution had taken fifteen minutes.
Patient, clever, even-tempered Emma never gives up.
There’s a lesson, here…