I've never been much of a gardener. I plant it. I water it. I kill it. End of story.
That's why, when Deborah arrived at our book club meeting bearing a tray of teeny weeny tomato plants in biodegradable pots, I didn't hold out much hope for mine. I knew the poor thing's fate.
But to my surprise, my plant not only survived, but thrived. It started growing exponentially, first in inches and then in feet. I started getting into this whole gardening business, creating a tomato paradise for my girl (yes, I've determined my tomato plant is a "she"). I moved her to my upstairs balcony that gets full sun and scorching heat. I repotted her in specialized vegetable soil and fertilized her, taking care to water her daily and talk to her often.
"You go, Tammy!" I encouraged my blooming beauty.
And go she did. Tammy rewarded me with tomatoes, first just a few and then a lot, big, fat,bursting juicy ones. When I compared notes with my book club peeps, I learned that my plant was producing more than any others; at last count, I had 45 while Deborah had 19.
Go, Tammy, go!
Except now there's trouble in paradise. A scrub jay has discovered my plant and is hanging around, eyeing my ripening beauties with an interest I find disturbing. John, a gardener friend, told me that the winged intruder won't go after green tomatoes, but the minute he sees red, my tomato is dead.
Oh, hell no. Game on, baby. It's me against the scrub jay.
For starters, John told me to dangle tin can lids from the metal support tower since the flickering shine will frighten the bird. And it appears to be working because for the past few days I've seen my nemesis hopping on a nearby fence, staring at Tammy while squawking with obvious displeasure. Seems I've spoiled his dinner plans.
But only for now. Something tells me I haven't heard the last of this scrub jay yet.
There we were, me and my greyhound Olivia, enjoying a brisk early morning walk today when I heard it:
"Tweeeet, tweeeet, tweeeet."
Then I saw it: a little bird hopping across a street that usually has a fair amount of neighborhood traffic, but was still quiet at 9am on a Sunday morning. Birds are plentiful on this particular trail, which parallels a park, but something about this little bird caught my attention.
I stopped. Watched. Listened.
And soon realized that the little bird was injured. He had to be. Because no normal bird would hop across a wide street and not fly away when the occasional car whizzed by.
With each approaching vehicle, I closed my eyes and plugged my ears, not wanting to hear the sudden silence that would signal the little bird's demise. But by sheer luck, he dodged all traffic and continued with that sad, despairing call: "Tweeeet, tweeet, tweeeeeeeeet." I wanted to help him, but with a 70-pound greyhound on a leash and nothing in which to contain the little bird, there wasn't much I could do.
And so we continued walking, but our pleasant morning walk was now tainted. I couldn't get that little bird's sad call out of my head. That's why, two miles later, when we returned to the parking lot, I made a U-turn and drove back to the street where I'd seen the little bird. Parking my Honda CRV, I opened the windows for Olivia since it was shaping up to be a warm day, emptied a shoe box I keep in the trunk, and went on a search. If I could find the little bird, I'd take him to the Lindsay Wildlife Museum in nearby Walnut Creek. There, he'd be in good hands.
I could hear the little bird. I recognized his distinct surround-sound of despair: "Tweeeet, tweeeeet, tweeeeeet." I stood in the middle of the street, holding a shoebox and looking left, right and all around as the town awakened and cars, bicyclists and joggers whizzed by. From my nearby car, Olivia poked her cocked head out the window and watched, obviously wondering what the heck was her human up to? The tweets were everywhere, but nowhere. I searched through ivy and poked through bushes, but couldn't find the little bird.
Sigh. Declaring defeat, I returned to my car. I know it's the nature of the beast and sometimes the beast is nature.
But I had to try.
