Dirty Paws And Excuses

The destruction was immense, the death toll high.  Well, flower fatalities  that is.  “Whaaaa?” you ask?  About a year ago I caught our dog Booker digging out a sizable planter in what can be modestly described as focused, insane, abandon.  See here as a reminder:

Since then, that particular planter has been “revisited” by Booker many times.  After the third emptying last summer, I stopped the plant slaughter by Husky paws.  It just seemed cruel to visit a garden store and select innocent and beautiful flowers knowing they would die shortly.

Now that Minnesota has officially… sorta-kinda… started its 2013 spring season in earnest, I have planted flowers and veggies in all but that particular planter.  My husband—who built the planter—wanted to know why.

“Because Booker has already dug the soil out of that planter several times and I have no intention of putting in time, money, and flowers just to have him get his dirt-jollies.”

“But you don’t understand,” said my husband. “It’s not Booker’s fault.”

“Oh?”

“Listen, I’ve been watching the backyard and now firmly believe a spiteful chipmunk took Booker’s favorite bone and buried it in that planter.  Booker was just trying to get it back.”

“Let me get this straight,” I said.  “A chipmunk that is smaller than the size of most of Booker’s bones hefted said bone across the yard, jimmied the wire mesh you put over the planter, dug a hole about eight inches deep, dropped in the bone, covered it, and then signaled to Booker where it was?”

“Sounds perfectly reasonable to me.”

Several days passed and I still hadn’t put a single leaf or petal into the planter.  Let’s just say my trust issues were the only thing blooming where that planter was concerned.   Then, late in the day, I heard my husband yell, “Booker! Noooooo!”  I poked my head out the door and noted that once again the planter was emptied of 90% of the soil. See here:

Booker’s paws were pure black and his pink tongue lolled from a smiling mouth.  My husband silently shoveled the dirt back into the planter.

“Okay,” he said. “Here’s the plan.  Tomorrow at 4:30 p.m. you put in the flowers and I will place new wire mesh over the top.  That darn chipmunk won’t have a chance to steal Booker’s bone and bury it.”

“You’re sticking with that bit of fantasy are you?” I replied.

“What fantasy? That chipmunk is deranged. He may actually be carrying a gun.”

I muttered something about the chipmunk not being the only deranged creature in the yard and visited the local garden nursery to select the plants voted most likely to die.

With sincere apologies I placed the flowers into the freshly dug soil.  My husband worked by my side hammering staples over the thick wire mesh that now covered the top of the planter.

“You do realize,” I said. “That even though Booker may be hindered in his digging, he will still kill the plants when he jumps on top of them.”

My husband frowned as he saw the potential for my prediction to come true.

“I’ve got it!” he said. “Put up a ‘No Chipmunks Allowed’ sign. No chipmunks, no bone thief, no digging by Booker. Your plants will live happily ever after.”

Sigh.  What scares me is that started making sense.  I guess if the chipmunk can carry a gun, he probably knows how to read, right?  I’ll let you know how many days my newly planted flowers make it.  God bless them.