My cat is no help in the garden.
He doesn't warn me when ants crawl up my pants.
He doesn't know a weed from a seed.
He sleeps while I sweat and sweat.
He wants to play and I shoo him away
before he attacks me with his claws
and snaps his jaws.
My cat doesn't love me.
He loves my hat.
Bear is a frequent photo bomber, this time squinting his eyes to convey the importance of the message. Framed with blooming Iris, it’s pointless to resist the wisdom of beauty.
I’m in a love/hate relationship with my cats. I love the way they follow me around outside, and watching them from the kitchen, eat and play around their cat house. I love the way they catch mice and other pests. But I hate the way they dig in my kitchen boxes, like my whole garden is just their personal cat box. They could go anywhere in the great outdoors, but the fresh dirt in my carefully tended garden, that’s what they want. They dig in there, and get their paws all dirty, and then they climb on top of my car and leave little paw prints all over my windshield.
It’s been almost a month since I wrote about working on a new garden bed, and the majority of that time it was raining. Mr. Mims bought new timber, and the plan was to make the frame for the new raised bed over the holidays so that the boys could fill it with compost and chicken waste for me before they went back to school. I wanted the mixture to marinate in place before spring.