Brother, Can You Spare a Zucchini?

In which the Casa de Kirby is struck by a case of "careful what you wish for."

Rewind several months, back to March, when a young, uh, youngish, erm, what-ever, gardener's heart warms after the winter that would not end. Me and husband critter are wandering around Lowe's. We stop by a display of seeds and gardening supplies.

"What should I try this year?" I say.

"Well, how about squash? And peppers. And tomatoes. We have to have tomatoes."

I peruse the display and take several seed packets. Frankly, I'm a little unenthusiastic about vegetables. Our official "garden," the part that is protected from marauding rabbits by an adobe wall, is at least 2500-sq ft of flowering plants and shrubs. If it's not edible, I can grow it.

Vegetables? Not so much. From seed? Fuggetaboutit.

But every year, I try.

This year I tried something new. Raised beds.

Fast forward to September. We're drowning in squash. This despite an army of squash bugs who treated my garden like a cheap hotel, spending the hot summer afternoons fornicating in the leafy shade. And spawning a whole new generation of squash bugs.

Husband critter, a.k.a., the family chef, scowls as I come in the house, another load of squash in my arms. "More squash?" he says. He's run out of squash recipes. We've both reached the point where if given the choice between starvation and squash, we'd ... well, we'd eat the damn squash, but we wouldn't be happy about it.

"Maybe we should give them to the homeless or something," says my beloved.

The notion immediately conjured up the following scene: I'm driving. I stop at an intersection, red light and all that. There's a homeless man standing by the road, holding the obligatory cardboard signage with "Hungry, please help."

I roll down the window and he hurries over. He reaches out and I plunk a huge zucchini in his hand.

I drive away, fast, before he can gets a chance to throw it at me.

The Greyhound's New Vocation

So I'm standing in front of my rose bushes, intent on pruning, and, as usual, having no fracking idea how to proceed.

I've been gardening pretty much all my life. Although, granted, my earliest efforts probably consisted more of consuming dirt than actually planting stuff in it. But when it comes to gardening in the desert southwest, my wee brain holds an encyclopedia of know-how.

But when it comes to pruning roses, I'm utterly flummoxed.

The greyhound, a retired racer, doesn't share my lack of confidence regarding the proper shape of roses. When I turned my back, he "helped" by grabbing an entire branch and tearing it off the bush.

When I pull weeds, he also assists by grabbing any nearby plant and yanking it out of the ground, even if it isn't a weed.

Racing didn't work out (one race; dead last), so it looks like the hound now has his sights set on gardening.