Musings on wild life: February 1.18

Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit!

That, as you may remember, was my mother’s incantation on the first of every month. I’m not sure why except for the twelve rabbits’ feet involved.

I am not enamored of rabbits, as you know if you’ve read my blog for a while. They are the garden’s Visigoths and nothing can withstand their onslaught. Here, in the wee hours of one winter morning, by the light of the lamppost, I spotted one of their kind. It was huge. And obviously reconnoitering. Duly noted, you furry pig!

I am equally not enamored of Canadian geese, as you also know from my blog. They, however, are enamored of this retention pond. Why Mother Nature, who came up with the song of the lark and the wren, invented the honk of the goose is explainable only in terms of her caustic sense of humor.

Then, of course, the ants. Oh, they keep on a-comin’. At first in my desk. Now along the baseboard and up through the furnace vent in the dining room. Yesterday I was out in the cold mud dousing the side of my new house with Home Defense. In January? Really?

Having lived in California, I know about ants, which there put earthquakes to shame in terms of intimidation. They come like an undertow and pull you to your knees.

But this is Indiana, which, though definitely ant-ridden, usually doesn’t let the little rotters out mid-winter.

And have you ever noticed how observing ants can make you itch?

Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit, dear reader!

 

Connections: May 25.17

It’s a two-rabbit morning

the clover fresh and sweet

crisped by morning rain

the neighbors can’t compete.

My back yard’s never treated

as lawn, it’s a disgrace

but as alfresco salad

it’s a four-star eating place.

So I allow them peaceful dining

so grossly appetited

until they eye my garden

when they are promptly disinvited.

Connections

Connections: May 21.17

What’s in a back yard?

A little grass, a little sun

a little bit of garden

a little bit of fun

a haven for the rabbits

where dandelions bloom

the fresh-aired open-concept

original family room

where games and make-believe

work and play combine

but victim of aesthetics:

I miss the old clothesline.

Connections

Connections: February 1.17

Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit!

my mother used to say

the first of every month

to keep bad luck away.

Did she teach me superstition?

Never. Not a trace.

But I’m going to say it anyway

you know — just in case.

Rabbit, rabbit, rabbit, dear reader!

And thanks again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives,

Vernon Hill Gallery.

Connections

Connections: July 7

You may recall, dear reader,

I’ve skirmished and I’ve battled

against these long-eared monsters

until I am quite addled.

My back yard smells like garlic

the air of phlox destroyed

yet he can sit and stare at me

as though he’s the one annoyed.

My once pacific spirit

from violence aloof

now sees this toothy glutton

as earmuffs on the hoof.

Connections

Connections: May 23

How very thoughtful

how kind of them

as sign of thanks

to leave me the stem.

Connections

Connections: May 13

What? Me superstitious?

Perish the thought.

But on Friday 13

I do what I ought:

I offer a rabbit’s foot

good luck may it bring

matter of fact

you can have the whole thing.

These bottomless pits

eating machines

obliterate gardens

from lilies to beans.

I cannot imagine

sorrier truck

than this fluffy-tailed pestilence

brings any good luck.

Thanks again to the S.W. Berg Photo Archives.

Connections

Hare pollution

Look — there! The monster maw! The original daily beast!

What do you mean you can’t see him? He’s there just right of center. Surely you can’t miss those in-your-face ears sticking up in the middle of the clover patch. Again and again he starts my day taunting me with those ears. “Here I am!” he advertises, knowing full well his four feet can move a lot faster than my two.

Still can’t see him? How about a close-up?

No, not the c-word! Cute does not apply! Voracious, yes. Destructive, yes. Pestilent, yes. Not cute.

Despite my bipedal disadvantage, I go out every morning, staggering under the weight of my coffee mug, bleary-eyed and bed-headed, determined to win possession of my own garden. My victories are transient.

This year there are three of them, one smaller than the other two. Papa, Mama and Junior? Chilling thought.

One was digging ferociously in the middle of the yard the other morning, stopping occasionally to shake the rain from his fur. Yes, digging in the gooey soaked Indiana clay. In the middle of my yard. Is Mama in a family way? Does she need a cozy nursery? NIMBY, rabbit!

I think I hear you, dear reader: You’re obsessing, Maureen! Get a grip! Of course I’m obsessing! Do you know how expensive plants are? Do you know that these four-legged bottomless pits eat their weight in ANYTHING every five minutes? Obsession is the only rational approach.

Aside from the expense, however, is the value of a garden. It means something. As my friend Will S. would say, he who steals my purse steals trash, but he who destroys my garden makes me poor indeed.

Farmer McGregor was not the villain.

Tobasco Road

It has been fiercely hot and humid here, with wind. A hot humid wind does nothing for my cowlicks, and working in a hot humid garden does nothing for my otherwise aristocratic bearing. Picture then, dear reader, a woman of a certain age (me), with a certain wilted, windblown and grimy aspect, sprinkling hot sauce and red pepper flakes over her front garden in the soft twilight of late May.

And what makes me risk the anxious whispers of my neighbors, who may well fear the weird sweaty old lady crouching down in her front garden with hot sauce?

Rabbits. Of course.

In the front, the lawn is treated and therefore — apparently — not yummy. So they go right for the flowers. I have watched the lilies in the front rise up and crown themselves with Pompadour buds only to see them reduced to naked forlorn stems the next morning, shamed in the dawn light. I have caught the cottontailed rotter trying to look innocent with an entire columbine blossom protruding from his mouth, temporarily stilled as he reflected on our relative sizes. Beast.

In the back, I grow edibles, so that grass is never treated and apparently IS yummy. I had not foreseen yumminess. Understand I would gladly provide lemon vinaigrette if all they wanted was the clover and other grassy savories. But they gluttonize their way to the garden, and then their noses pick up the siren scents of dill and dianthus. It is quite literally a short hop from delicious grass to scrumptious garden.

The dianthus was a white Edwardian frill with a garnet center. Gone. The dill my old-timey gossip. My lilies the Chartres of the landscape. Gone, gone.

Be warned, rabbits: the sweaty old lady with the hot sauce is not amused.

Carved in stone

Was this my first mistake? I called them Grandma Bunny and her grandbunnies, and thought they were cuter than Thumper.

But I might have been wrong. Maybe not so cute. Who knew rabbits could read?

There are two. Naturally. They interrupt my breakfast with their own. One has good instincts and runs when I appear, stalking in dew-slimed slippers, and armed with my morning coffee. (It is good to be afraid of me before I’ve had morning coffee.) The other stares at me until I get close enough for him to smell the coffee. Then he runs. But only far enough to make me walk more. And so incrementally I escort him to the fence, where he stops to throw a humph over his shoulder before he squeezes under and heads off to other smorgasbords.

I surmise he is the one who thinks he is invisible when he flattens himself into the grass. His mama forgot to teach him to pull in those ears. Seriously, rabbit, do you think I can’t see you?

One morning my rabbit check stunned me: they had disguised themselves. Obviously they were on to me.

But I was on to them. I replaced my apparently delectable painted daisy with a bristly rudbeckia. When I heard the loud puh-TOO-ey the next morning in the pre-dawn dark, I knew I’d had my revenge. Take THAT, wretched rabbit!

Last week there was a rustling in the shadow of the chives. When I approached, a bunny took off. Small enough to hide in the herbs, it nimbly darted among the thickets of zinnias and geraniums as I woefully reflected on this new generation of gluttons. Their revenge on me.

I am now looking for a garden ornament that features a recipe for hasenpfeffer.