Who Needs Peace and Quiet, Anyway?

I crawled out of bed this morning at 9:04. Bill had been up just long enough to brew some coffee, so he brought me my first cup, as is his tradition. Then he disappeared, as is his tradition. I remembered him saying last night that the leaves are all in color out back, so I hobbled out in bare feet to the back deck with my coffee in hand to enjoy the beautiful Autumn leaves. That's why I live in North Carolina. So I can enjoy the change of the seasons. Right?

The two dogs followed me outside. They also wanted to sniff the fresh fall air and survey the back yard.

I crossed the deck to the table, barely (tip of toes) avoiding stepping full footal in a wet little plop of rained on doggie poop which evidently had gone undetected from a couple of days back. Great. Rinsing my toes off in a handy puddle of rain water, I thought, "Whew! At least I didn't step right on it! That would surely have distroyed my moment of peace and quiet." Nevertheless, I was headed back inside to bathe my five stinky little piggies in some of my sister's handmade soap when suddenly there was a terrible commotion.

The two dogs had cornered a poor little squirrel. Probably the one who's shadow had been dancing across the wall yesterday when I grabbed my camera only to find she'd already departed. Now she was running this way when one dog would grab her. Then she'd escape and go that way, and the other dog would nab her. I shouted frantically at the dogs as they and their prey skitterd hither and tither. I ran around flailing my arms wildly. "No, dogs! Bad! Bad!"

"We hunters," they proudly barked. "Squirrels bad!"

The door to my bedroom remained agape, and I realized the squirrel was eyeing it as a means of escape. She was headed that way, but the dogs were on the job. Still I screamed, "Stop! No! Stop! Bad dogs!"

Finally I got the dogs in and the door closed. The poor squirrel just lay there, breathing heavily. She was injured, but I couldn't tell how badly. At least no blood was evident. I thought I'd give her a moment to recover.

That's when the cat walked up. As is his habit, he wanted in so he could eat breakfast. Then he saw the squirrel and thought, "Oh! Breakfast Delivered!" He wouldn't go in, so I had to capture him, slamming the door behind him as I tossed him inside.

Then I let the dogs out front and the second of our three cats came in. Though Layla can jump the fence, she can't get onto the back deck because of a gate. Whew! Only one cat to go.

But alas, peace was not yet in my grasp. Somehow, clever and relentless Bo managed to escape the fence. He was determined to get that squirrel, yet. Both dogs ran barking to the back gate. Discovering it locked, they just ran amuck about the yard for a while, chosing to bark at neighbors and the mailman instead of the victim still recovering on the back porch.

Thank goodness that the one cat left outside was Little Kitty, who has FHDS...Feline Hunting Deficit Syndrome. I'm not too worried.

But an hour and a half later, I'm still concerned about the squirrel, because she hasn't gotten up and scampered off. What am I to do with her, poor thing? I'm thinking it would have been more merciful to let the dogs just do her in. It would have been swift, and thus more humane than letting her die out there, suffering for hours.

As I write, Bill just found Little Kitty locked accidently in my studio overnight. My hero. (That's what you get for sneaking in my studio and hiding, as is your tradition, you little...)

I'm going for more coffee. Maybe I'll get dressed, too, and hang out with my husband for a while...and check on the squirrel again and again and again. I should take her to the vet. Dang. Dangdangdang!

Well, I must away, my fellow squirrel lovers. (And to you squirrel haters? I know you're out there, and I don't even want to hear it.)

Autumn Blessings to all,

Deber

Squirrel update: Bill assisted the squirrel off the porch where she fell into an empty pool. (Again, My Hero.) Bill thought she'd broken her leg and was headed down there to check, but she was gone when he got down there. So I think Bo bruised her leg when he had her in his mouth but not so badly that she couldn't scale the walls of the pool. All I can do is sigh and shake my head. What a way to start the day.

Also, our friendly mailman caught Bad Bo and put his hiney back in the fence. He loves Bo. Thanks Mr. Mailman. You're my other hero of the day.

At last. Peace and Quiet. I shall enjoy!

How to Transplant a Rose

Above, Rose de Recht, planted "bare root" this spring, this one has been blooming continuously. The medium sized flowers have a wonderful fragrance. Though there is some virus in some of the leaves, she is still a beauty, and my favorite of the new "old" roses I planted this year.

How to transplant a rose bush:

It's best to do this in the fall or spring, but can be done other times, if you have no other choice. (If it's really hot, I might give it some relief from afternoon shade with a proped up piece of plywood or an old towel. Make sure it won't blow over onto the rose bush in a high wind. If it's really cold, what in the heck are you doing gardening now? You can put a heavy load of mulch around it which will generate some heat and help it survive the chill.)

1. When you dig the rose (check laws in your area if it's not from a place where you have permission) be sure to get as much of the root system as possible. You may prefer to divide the rose, taking only one side of the plant and roots. Also get a good amount of dirt from around the bush. You'll need it later. Being planted in familiar soil (with local bacteria, etc.) will help it to survive the transplant.
2. Trim away any large branches to about one foot above the soil line. This will allow the rose to put most of its energy into developing new roots instead of having to support large branches and leaves. Leave some leaves, if possible, and any new growth at the base.
3. Dig a large hole, easily big enough to accommodate the root system and some added soil. As you dig, you may want to put the dirt onto a garbage bag so it won't leave a mess around the plant. Bill and I, being reckless, never do that.
4. Once you've removed the soil from the hole, dump a couple of large scoops each of peat moss or root starter mix, manure (from the garden store or from the pasture, if you're lucky enough to have a farm) and rich top soil maybe with some leaf mold into the new hole along with the dirt you salvaged when you dug up the rose. If you have heavy clay soil, add a scoop or two of sand for drainage.
5. With a shovel, mix it all up well. Then remove enough so that the rose can be planted back up to the soil line it had when you dug it up. Pack the remaining soil into a mound within the hole so the roots will fit over the mound.
6. Set the roots on the mound. You are going to want the planted area to form a sort of "well", slightly lower than the surrounding earth, so that water will sit long enough to soak into the roots below. So make sure that the roots will be deep enough to where the old soil line at the base of the rose is slightly below the surrounding earth.
7. Place the soil mixture around your rose, distributing it evenly. Pack it down with your foot as you go so the soil will make contact with the roots of the rose. Don't forget to leave the well.
8. Top with a good layer of mulch, to hold in moisture and protect the roots from too much heat or cold.
9. Water your acquisition well. I water once so the water comes up to the edge of the well, and soaks in. Then I water at least two more times the same way. That way, I am sure that the water will go all the way down into the soil in the entire hole. For the first few weeks, I don't let it dry out too much. Water when the soil is dry on top, but still slightly moist an inch deep. Water in the morning to prevent black spot or other such ailments, but if you must water later in the day, try to avoid getting water on the leaves.
10. If you are really worried about root development, use a rooting hormone (such as Root Tone)  in your first or second watering. Follow the directions on the package for transplanting.

And as every fancy-pants Rose Rustler says when she's all done plantin', "Voila!...pardner.  I'm gonna just mozie along to the sank and get this here dirt out from under my fangernails." (Do be sure to get your hands and fingernails cleaned thoroughly using soap and a nail brush.)

So long for now.

For the Love of Charlie!

I can hardly remember a time when there wasn't a dog in my life. 

Among the more memorable were: Huckleberry Hound Dog who made an art out of avoiding the dog catcher's snare; Zigzag the Beautiful, a faithful dog who unfortunately jumped the fence to chase loaded dirt trucks; Toby the German Shepherd who jumped the neighbor's six foot fence to get to the "girls"; and Jock, a pound puppy who had first belonged to some college boys and thus had an unnatural fear of beer. The one thing that the dogs in my life had always had in common was that they were all large. That fact combined with the fact that I am not a "good pack leader" eventually led me to conclude that I should never again be the owner of a big dog, even if that was what the family desired. Even if the kids begged and begged and pleaded. Even if they brought one home and tried to seduce me with its huge sad eyes and puppy breath.

So when Jock died after eleven years, I was foot-lose and fancy-dog-free for a time. No more worries. No more missing coffee table legs, no more chewed up shoes or angry neighbors cursing at the kids over dog poop in their yards. After a couple of years without a family dog, however, I began to reconsider dog ownership. I didn't reconsider getting a big dog. A small dog would be a more appropriate selection. After all, the children were all in school leaving me rather lonely. And the front yard was surrounded by a picket fence, making it easy to keep a small dog away from the road, the cars, the neighbors and the neighbor's girl dogs.

So along came Charlie Brave and True. AKA, Charlie Habanero Klein, AKC. Chili Dog, Chuck, and in his later years, "the little fat one".

Charlie was four months old when we adopted him. He looked like a German Shepherd. A six pound trembling German Shepherd with large ears. He was so frightened on that first day that he shivered uncontrollably. Surrounded by my three very excited youngest daughters, it must was overwhelming to be five inches at the sholder and the center of such attention. Especially after having spent several months in the quiet of a pet store window. We took Little Charlie into the yard and sat him down on the grass. He sniffed the soil beneath his paws and began to dig. Like a crazy dog. Dirt flying every whichaway. It was the end of the shivering, and the start of those famous family words, "Dig, Charlie! Dig!"

For some of the males in the house, those first doggie walks were hard on their fragile manly egos. Especially Bill's. He found walking such a small dog to be a humbling, humiliating experience compared to walking a large, ferocious beast who lunged at little old ladies as they passed by with their finely quaffed toy poodles. But it wasn't long before Bill and the other men in the house learned that little tiny dogs have enormous personalities. Chihuahuas are big dogs that come in little packages. They are intellegent and energetic, loyal and brave. Charlie loved people (especially babies). He licked our children's tears away. He danced in the kitchen with the rest of us.

We had Charlie for 16 years before he went on to doggie heaven.  Actually I didn't want to make you sad, but he died just yesterday, after several months of deterioriating health. He was a very old little man, so we had been expecting it. Bill and I buried him in the garden that he loved so much. The garden where he stood his ground with the UPS man, the mail man and any salesman that dared open the gate. The garden where he dug in the dirt and under the fence to go for leasurely walks in the neighborhood, and where he greeted us after a day of shopping.

Charlie was a great little dog and we will indeed miss him.

deber

PS, A note about little dogs: As with all dogs, Chihuahuas must be taught how to behave in public. But unlike large dogs, the public often has to be taught how to behave with them. Men in particular, seem to get the urge to assert dominance over small dogs. They chase, growl and bark at them. They pull their ears and tails. Then they laugh. Ha, ha, ha! That's how you turn a small dog into a mean dog. Think about it. What would happen if a person treated a big dog in such a way? That big dog would start acting like a mean Chihuahua, only with bigger teeth and a deeper voice.