The instant you begin to believe you have your life figured out, a monkey wrench appears out of nowhere. I don't even know what a monkey wrench is, but I seem to encounter them often.
This spring, it's a new weed. It's popping up everywhere, and it's not just any weed. It's a baby tree. Now, it's practically an annual festival around here to spend weeks uprooting little maples, because our Mama maple tree has the babies. (Before you go all arbor day environmentalist on me, please understand you can't have a hundred and eleven million maple trees on just one acre. And you can't have them growing just one inch apart. Or in your sidewalk crack. Or adjacent to the foundation of your house.) But these aren't baby maples. They're baby walnuts. How?
There's been a walnut tree here for decades. It hasn't been fruitful and multiplied this way ever before. What is happening?
Jasmine.
Of all the dogs who have been part of our family, none have been as obsessive as Jasmine about burying her treasure. Anything Jasmine finds interesting to her, she buries for later. Bones, mice, milk cartons, bolts, tennis balls, feathers, pop cans, gloves, heels of bread, and apparently, walnuts. Thanks, my furry little garden buddy. You excel at making sure I have plenty to do.
She'd better not get a hold of my Jeremy Renner dvds.
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