Pruning roses is a thorny subject with me. (Pardon the pun. I don't use them often, and I am not very good at it when I do.) It took me years to have the confidence to go in and start cutting off great lengths from my rose bushes. I had a lot of fear that they wouldn't bounce back, that I was ruining my chances for any roses to grow. I don't know why I thought they wouldn't develop buds, or not survive my tentative efforts. By the time I had huge roses overtaking the front porch of my house in New Mexico, I developed a surer hand at it. I don't know whether it was from wanting to be able to safely navigate between the seven foot tall rosebush and the scratchy brick at my back, or just faith that the bushes would benefit from a little air and shaping, but I learned well that cutting was absolutely necessary. Last year I left it until too late to do the giant knockout group just off the deck, and by the time I was ready, the roses woke up and the new little leaves started to emerge. I lost my willingness to cut heavily. I just trimmed the barest fringe off of it, and the result was disastrous. Grotesque, thick canes shot up in the air, reaching easily seven feet or higher. Then the rains came. Those tall, heavy canes couldn't hold themselves up in the non-stop rain last summer, and they tipped over and stayed. They grew tangled up with all the wild mess I left to grow untended, and pushed the boundaries of the space allotted to them. I can't allow myself to make the same mistake two years in a row.
Today was beautiful. Starting at about 9 this morning, I propped open the deck door, and took off all restrictions for travel. Cats were allowed to come and go at will all day, until sundown. Nearly everyone jumped at the chance to be outside, with one exception. Athena didn't know how to handle the pressure, and for the first hour or so, she lurked in the doorway, on the kitchen side, watching but not venturing out. She acted like she had never seen those dogs before in her life. Every time they ran by, she arched her back and poufed out her tail. Over the course of the day, she started going out in short trips, coming back often to check in with me while I was inside watching the Olympics, and sing to me the stories of her adventures. By the time I was starting to shape and finesse the roses, after hacking back three to four feet off the top of the bush, Athena was prancing around me, finding new places to explore and climb. Like the rest of the pride, I don't think I have to worry about her being a runner.
I was a fair to middling student of history in my day. I was always a little more interested in English history than any other country, which probably accounts for my thoughts this afternoon. I was beheading my roses, being as brutal and resolute as I could be. The tools I had were less than I ideal. I don't know what the man was cutting with those large pruners before I got hold of them, but I could have cut faster if I had been just chewing on the canes with my molars. (No, I wouldn't try--the thorns were overwhelming in size, thickness, and number. My shirt is ruined from being snagged so often.) The pruners were so bad, all I could think of was that at least Anne Boleyn was given a sharp sword for her beheading, instead of a brutish and common axe. My poor roses.
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