Jen was geeking out yesterday by sending me text messages on the Batphone: “DAMN BUNNies[sic].”
I spent the better part of Saturday digging out the shade bed (that bed which lies along the driveway and is hidden by three very emaciated bushes) and laying in a frame of 2×12″s to contain fresh dirt. Phase One was actually lugging the material home. Phase Two involved digging the existing plants out of hard-packed clay. (Think of the chain gang scenes in Cool Hand Luke.) Phase Three was constructing and installing the frame. That was definitely enough for one day, and a hearty round of applause must go out to our neighbors M. and S. for upping our suggestion of walking to get ice cream to a full-blown barbecue with beer at their place.
Sunday, Jen ignored all warnings from her Russian physical therapist and planted a paycheck’s worth of pretty shade plants into the rich soil we added and watered the whole thing while I toiled at the computer all afternoon long. It looked great Monday morning, when her back felt like the whole Russian army had marched across her shoulderblades.
Apparently, though, this fluffy patron and her child think we have opened up a salad bar for their convenience. Now, I like bunnies. They’re cute, and they eat lettuce and hang out in the glass cage at the pet store and poop little round pellets, like styrofoam peanuts. But when they start chowing down on my woman’s plants like it’s bluehair hour at the smorgasboard, I have some homicidal (bunnycidal) thoughts. We’re going to have to look into some anti-bunny measures (punji pits? guard dogs? mines?) so as to keep our garden green.