Nurturing a friend
Scout and Scarlett run wildly in the yard on this late June morning. Hearing a change in the intonation of their bark, I know something is wrong, quickly put on my robe and head to the back door unsure of what I might find. Howling, panting, jetting from one side of the yard to the other, then bouncing on their front feet at my garden gate, I see the focus of their attack. A large whitetail doe is in my fenced garden, eating the soft tops off my tomato, squash, carrot and pumpkin plants.
Making eye contact, the doe sees my anger and seeks an exit strategy. As the dogs dart right, the doe leaps left, jumps the garden fence, the back fence and over the last fence to the freedom of Canfield Mountain. The dogs, still excited at the defense of their domain, run the fenceline with their nose sniffing the ground. Stopping quickly to sniff the urine and fecal remains of the doe's visit, the dogs commit to memory — in the olfactory recess of their brains — an enemy for life.
Frustrated that my pups allow a deer to enter their property, I scold in disappointment, “What did you do dogs?” Unaffected by my dismay, the dogs, done with their guard-work, jet into the house through the open back door and run to the kitchen for breakfast. Tails wagging and panting heavily from their adventure, the dogs sit, then begin to drool as I prepare their meal while wondering what that scavenger destroyed in my garden.
After eating, the dogs curl up on their dog beds in front of the fireplace and settle in for their first nap of the day. Now it’s time to examine the destruction. I put on my slippers, then slowly walk through the damp grass and open the garden gate. Dang! The deer carefully deadheaded the top off all the plants. Tomato plants that yesterday sprouted small green tomatoes are now an ornamental plant, free of all fruit. Squash that had large blossoms are now only stems and the lettuce is unfit for human consumption.
In frustration, I disregard the garden for the rest of the summer. Sure, I add water to keep things green and pull weeds to keep things neat, but no mulch, no compost and no added nutrients all summer.
Rain is in the forcast for this mid-September week, so I head to the garden to button it up for the winter. Deciding to get a head start on my usual late autumn work, I am surprised to see the vibrant, new growth of all the plants — the plants look as they should in mid-August. Now what to do? Excited at the new prospect of fresh vegetables, I prepare the beds for growth, sturdy the tomato plants growing heavy under the weight of green fruit and remove the limbs and leaves that have no use.
I step back to admire my work, surprised at my newfound gift, then realize the potential was here all along. I gave up on these plants when they needed me most. They were ugly, suffering, hurt and damaged and I gave them up for dead, neglecting them as not important or useful. I wonder what these plants might have produced if, immediately following their attack, I had nurtured them?
The plants are resilient, strong and ready to produce, but now the growing season is coming to an end. My neglect and lack of faith in these plants limit their potential. The plants will offer produce this fall, but will not offer what they might have if I nurtured them when they were struggling — a lesson learned.
When something is unsightly, suffering, in pain or hurt, offering the gift of kindness, attention and care creates potential. That something might be strong enough to overcome the hurt, but will never reach its full potential without love and nurturing. What a simple thing to offer a plant.
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Send comments or other suggestions to William Rutherford at bprutherford@hotmail.com or visit pensiveparenting.com.