Monday, January 28, 2008 | by nathan

The Attack

Brian got home from almost a week in Orlando on Saturday. Just before he arrived home I had decided to put all the plants out in the backyard, on top of a large adirondack loveseat we have out there, so they could get some real sun. I had repotted most everything and it was all doing well, except for the tomato plants I ripped away from their roots and then washed down the sink and ran through the garbage disposal. (A moment of silence).

Brian got home, and we had all the appertaining hellos - kisses in the driveway while disapproving neighbors clucked their tongues, and the like. We talked for a few minutes and then I suggested we take Sam to the dog park so he could work off some of the nervous energy he’d been exhibiting over the last week.

I knew something was wrong the second I went into the backyard. Sam didn’t come running; he was propped up, his front legs on the adirondack seat. I screamed at him, he came running, a horrified look on his face - "Horrible news!"

He’d torn most of the plants down from where I’d put them, chewed and dug into the pots, destroying those weeks’ worth of work and growth and all the excitement I felt. I went to get a look at the damage - it was extensive, almost total - and a kind of rage came over me. A piece of dog poo lay at my feet; I picked it up and chucked it at my dog, who took off running away from me after his own excrement caught him square in the face. I called him back to me and gave him a spanking, screaming "BAD DOG!" in his face over and over. He ran away and hid.

I picked up one of the broken pots and smashed it against the side of the shed. I cried a little on Brian’s shoulder and threw a few clods of dirt at nothing. I screamed at Sam. Welcome home, sweetie!

I watered everything that was still alive and left it in the sun. As soon as we repotted what we could I went and found Sam; he was hiding from me on the sun porch, and when I found him he was looking at me with complete terror. I felt awful, and also, I was only barely repressing the urge to cut him open with my gardening spade and show him his own kidneys.

Instead, I yelled at him some more, then we took him to the dog park anyway. (I’m reasonably certain I’m going to make a terrible parent).

The garden is mostly dead. A few cucumber and tomato plants that I’d put on the front porch instead of in back have survived, and the strawberries, several of which were squished when Sam perched his giant paws in their tray, have come out mostly intact. The asparagus has started to come up but was not outside for the attack. Still, most of the cukes, tomatoes, all of the dill, all of the basil, and the peppers - they’re gone. I threw it all away tonight.

I’ll start a new garden shortly. This time I’ll know a little better how to manage, and hopefully, I’ll be smart enough to keep it away from predatory, stupid animals. Hopefully I’ll be nicer the next time Sam - to put it nicely - fucks my shit up.

That’s all I really want, you know - to be nicer. It’s just - it’s really difficult sometimes, you know?