I’m a fair weather gardener, which means I only work in the garden on warm, clear days – like today. I thought I could just slip my little shovel into the soft soil, lift, plop in a bulb and voila, we’ll have summer gladiolas!
The ground was hard as a rock. I got my pick. Sarge (our year old, 100+ pounds of exuberant German Shepherd) was on my heels. “What’re we doing? Huh? Huh? I wanna play. Look! I’ve got a ball! Throw the ball! Throw the ball!” Ignoring him, I swung the pick and buried the pointed end deep into the ground. Sarge jumped three feet in the air and ran. He wisely remained at a safe distance until I had “prepared the soil”.
Back he came, tennis ball in his mouth. “Time to play! Time to play!!” He danced around me, scattering the bulbs I was trying to plant. It was hot by this time, or rather I was hot after my labor. Rather than make the neat rows I intended, I buried the bulbs where they landed. The seeds, so carefully laid out, had been stirred and scattered by the four legged beast now holding two tennis balls in his mouth.
I guess our garden will have a “natural” look.
All I had to do now was apply water.
Sarge wanted to be right in the spray. I tried shooting over his head. He jumped up and down like a kid on a pogo stick. He went for the nozzle, but the spray is too strong. I zigged, he zagged. His attention was so tightly bound to the spray, I gave him a taste of what it’s like to be on a carnival ride. I ran him in circles until he staggered and his eyes were rolling. I sent him chasing the spray to one end of the yard and then the other. Back and forth, back and forth, he went. He wanted a drink. So I gave him one. Full blast. He loved it! “Yeah! Yeah! More! More!”
By this time, we were both wet. Unfortunately, the buried bulbs and scattered seeds were dry.
I’m inside now, dry and warm. Sarge, still soaked, is sprawled on the deck, panting from his work-out, surveying his domain with a doggy grin. I can almost hear him plotting his revenge. “Ha ha. As soon as she’s not looking, I’m going out there and dig up every one of those bulbs she buried…”
I may be “planting” plastic flowers next year.