The opening salvo has been fired. Let the games begin. Last year I planted enough spring bulbs to break into the theme from "The Sound of Music." Once they bloomed in April and May, the hills would be alive with that sound of music. One look at my luscious, colorful floral garden and people would weep for wooden shoes, windmills and a large plate of Karfluckinluk.
Now, I throw my head back and laugh like a drug dealer high on meth; laughter resounds at my naivety. For alas, I have one lone tulip that has made it through the winter. It poked its head up through the rough soil last week, wearing an orange-red sweater and torn blue jeans.
Where have all the flowers gone? Did I plant the bulbs in some neighbor's garden by mistake? Or is there evil lurking behind what some species would consider a salad bar? I notice a few dropped tulip petals leading away from the house. Hey, I watch a lot of "CSI" and "Law and Order." I start to panic, though, for next to my precious tulip, the beginning sprouts of my prize-winning Hosta are emerging, and a few other varieties of a classic English garden. OK, that is part of my novel. There is no English garden, but there could be if vile, back-stabbing, bulb-eating animals weren't staking out my property for a spring buffet.
OK, it's time to prepare for action. Fight fire with fire. So I set out for the mother of all forensic laboratories, the home and garden center. Here I will be able to purchase supplies to trap, set out, spray, and anything else that will protect my second amendment rights, that being the right to plant and grow flowers. I jump in my car and head out on a dark and stormy night. I think they are open until the wee hours of six p.m. I'm not denying it's a struggle. OK, mainly because my jeans are so tight, I feel like the very life blood is being strangled from my bloated body. The stress of saving my future flowers from future predators has taken its toll.
Well, that and the cake I just happened to shove down my throat before I left. This is a thick chocolate cake that has a mysterious DNA makeup. Whatever! I am on a mission. So I cut through the back of the outlets to avoid the 72-car pileup on Route 1. Then I cross over to the back roads to avoid the continuous construction on any other road, that results in a 12-car and one burro pileup. Finally, I careen into the parking lot of the home center.
It was another struggle. OK, now my jeans are really tight after I stopped for one of those super-sized pretzels. They are so tight, I am forced into a military maneuver of tuck and roll to get out of the car. But it is well worth it. For I have found the latest solution to the problem of animals eating my flowers. This has been scientifically studied and been in development by some of the leading experts both here and in Europe. It is called coyote urine.
There are rows and rows of boxes containing this stuff. There is a picture of a deer dressed in a political movement T-shirt on the outside of the box. You can fill in the blanks. I'm cautious because I do love deer, so I just buy a vat, knowing no one will come near me in the next month. I race home to start the madness. You know what – it actually is a dark and stormy night. But I have to plan now. And I'm on it. My message to those doe-eyed beauties is, "Enjoy yourself, it's later than you think."
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Nancy Katz has a degree in creative writing and is the author of the book, "Notes from the Beach." She has written the column Around Town for the Cape Gazette for twenty years. Her style is satirical and deals with all aspects of living in a resort area on Delmarva.
