The Garden: A Destination for all the Creatures of the Realm

I have been working many a long hour in the garden this year.  (I'm not complaining.  I'm just setting up the story.)  The loss of the big elm tree last year meant that I needed to move a lot of things out of the newfound sun.  And then there were the flowers struggling in the shade that could now luxuriate in brilliance if only someone would take the time to move them. Um, that would be me. So that has been keeping me pretty busy.  But during all this time outside in the yard, I have been making friends.  Some just visit, some stay for a meal.  

Millie, the neighbor's cat, came over the other day.  Her arm got stuck on the wrong side of her harness.  I heard a little jingling behind me while I was digging yet another hole for transplanting. I turned around and there was Millie, up on the fence, just about touching me.  I fixed her collar and gave her some tickles.  Then we worked together digging the hole.  It was slow going after that, the two of us working in such a confined space. She pooped out first, as cats are known to do, and took a nap next to the faery house.  I finished the task unassisted and, well, unhampered. Not that I didn't appreciate the help. . .

And then there's Baby Bunny.  Maybe we should call her Darling. It might promote positive, loving thoughts when happening upon yet another moss rose that has been eaten by this sweet young thing.

Darling loves moss roses.  This one has, I mean had, apricot colored flowers.  Quite lovely.  And I guess quite delicious.  But she's so cute. . .

And this one is another apricot moss rose.  One seems to be even more delicious than the last. I think next year I'll plant something that tastes a bit nastier. 

And this is what Darling looks like after she has eaten my               moss roses.

The garden is also host to a chipmunk.  He seems to think the drainpipe is his private dwelling. If I come within four feet, he screeches and scratches around in there. The drainpipe amplifies the sound, bringing to mind Where the Wild Things Are. Not like my idyllic garden should sound at all.  So I have taken to carrying peanuts in my pocket and putting them in the entrance to the drainpipe.  He comes out to eat them and just stares at me, certain that I may pounce any minute.  Who knows?  Perhaps I will.  

The life cycle of a garden peanut.  

A flock (or a murder, a muster, a storytelling, or whatever you prefer) of crows has been hanging out in the neighborhood and calling secrets to each other.  I call back and hold up peanuts.  It seems I do not know the secret.  They actively do not notice me.  I throw a peanut in their direction.  Ah, I saw you.  You cocked your head. You saw the peanut.  Now a long slow descent from the fir tree. One branch lower, then hang out forever, then one branch lower. Repeat.  I get bored.  When I come back, the peanut offerings are gone.  We will be friends.  We will.