You shit in my garden today. At first, when I noticed a series of deep impressions running the width of my chive and lettuce bed, I gave you the benefit of the doubt. I was alone but spoke openly to myself, "The feral cat must have come through," I said. For the briefest second I thought it odd that a boney wisp of a thing would sink that deep.
When I arrived at the okra bed, the evidence lay against you there in the dirt. Too big for any feline, feral tom or otherwise. It's true I've cursed the garden. You may have thought I was admonishing it or that I felt defeated and ready to throw in the rag. You were mistaken.
My tempermental dill that needs just the exact perfect amount of water made me roll my eyes tonight and yes, the sunflowers, too, because they staunchly refuse to grow for me no matter what I do, no matter how I plead, no matter, no matter!
But the okra? The okra, Beagle? It's suffered every misfortune a plant could suffer and still it strives; it's climbed from the soil and reached for the sun. It's been anchored in place while cutworm after wireworm after green worm have eaten away at it's tender leaves and stem. It's little more than a doily now. It's the Job of my garden.
I couldn't even bring myself to collect the behemoth turd and bag it up as is my habit, but instead I flung it deep into the dry weeds. I flung it out and away from the okra, from the collards. Was this act of yours a punitive gesture intended for the okra or a comment on my ability as a gardener? Maybe you just have a twisted, scatological sense of humor, one I will never quite understand.
The most confounding thing is that, when I let you out again a second time, you shamelessly returned to the scene of the crime. You circled the okra bed, found your 'specimen' and seemed truly puzzled. I could practically hear the gears in your little doggie noggin ratcheting 'round and 'round, wondering if another dog - a dog that smelled exactly like you had visited or if you had really pooped in such an unremarkable spot. Listen, I've discovered a half gallon of milk in the cupboard before so, believe you me, I know what it's like to feel bewildered by my own actions.
What I'm really trying to convey to you Beagle, is that I know it was you. I know it was you and it has to stop. I am asking you to refrain from any further comments on my gardening skills - for they be not mad skillz, this is true. I am asking you to leave any and all botanical admonishments to me. Your job is simply to bear witness, to remain silent. To litter the yard in all of the places that you have littered over these past several months. This is good and would please me greatly.
Love and Dismay in equal measure,
your Mulish Mommy