The Spathifyllum in our south window thrived for years when Sophie the Wonder Dog ruled the roost, and Clyde the cat made himself scarce from the first floor. Since Sophie’s passing, however, that plant had been systematically defoliated.
Most pet owners anthropomorphize their charges. I admit to falling on the extreme tail of that distribution. I attribute intention to the mauling of houseplants – and as everyone who will listen appreciates, Clyde is more dog than cat, and understands English, too.
Clyde does not care that he will most likely vomit, no matter what green leaf he ingests. What he does seem to “know” is that any stealth attack on indoor vegetation will meet his goal: a flurry of my immediate attention.
As a serious gardener, I am loath to dispose of any plant, but even someone with a brown thumb could see that this Peace Lily had reached the end of the road.
The yard, however, brims with beginnings.
I delight in the recent emergence of my crocuses, thrusting up through the garden mulch. The somewhat more robust shoots of daffodils congregated, inch by inch, just where I’d planted them, too. This spring’s emergence of perennials was more a treasure hunt than in past years. The landscape had been graded in autumn to remove and refresh shrubs long past their prime. I had been warned that the position of surviving bulbs would be anybody’s guess, but I found that to be hopeful, rather than an annoyance.
Our Cornelian Dogwood is now bedecked in lime green. Conversely, gusty winds and the first big snowmelt toppled the bird-feeder post, the soggy earth unable to support it.
Before coffee, still wearing pajamas, I sauntered into the garage to retrieve my boots and venture outdoors to make repairs. The woebegone Spath, set aside to compost, stopped me cold!
Enjoying respite from the cat, amid the cool, filtered light, it had resurrected itself.
A small joy.
Spring.
Slowly unfolding. (c)
