I've been talking about it for days, and today I finally attacked the rose bushes that have been trying to take over the Park. I spent hours at it, in two separate bursts, interrupted by a long rest and too much lunch. By the time I walked away for good, I had nearly achieved my goal of bringing the seven and a half foot tall monster down to a crown no higher than my chin. Maybe four or five branching canes remained that were taller than I at sundown, but until I get a ladder and a long pair of loppers, they are going to stay that way. No matter what I did, I couldn't get all the way in to reach them. Several times, I used the hopelessly tangled mess against itself, using one snagged cane to pull a neighboring one down to my level at the edge of the rosebush, so I could cut it back. At first, snipping the crossed canes and putting a little air into the outer rim of the bushes went easily, but the more I tried to clean out the dead wood at the center, the more the roses fought back. I don't think pruning happens in spring because that's when the buds first emerge. I think pruning happens in the spring so you can wear thick, long-sleeved shirts without melting, to protect yourself. I know that butchers have specialized chain mail to protect them, and motorcycle riders have Kevlar to keep themselves safe from road rash. What do gardeners have to discourage thorns? My sweatshirt and leather gloves were not enough, not by a long shot. I have years of experience at costume design in my work history. Perhaps I need to experiment with creating a thorn-proof jacket.
I had hours to think metaphorically about what I was doing today. I went to a few happy places but mostly dark places, as I went after the puzzle that was my knockout rose arbor. In my mind, I likened it to the difficulty that is separating two humans who have spent their lives together. Figuring out who crosses what, where the rubbing of too many characters is leaving open wounds that allow in sickness, finding opportunities to be strict and remove features that only strangle growth and health. It left me depressed, going down those paths, and at dark I came in and drowned myself in comedy (and a little bit of fantasy watching the NCAA tourney dancers be announced). I'm feeling better now, but I have forgotten all the florid allegory I had planned to write. I suppose it is just as well. Even as I was thinking it, it seemed a bit pompous at the time.
I left the door open for the entire day today. The cats all seemed to appreciate the time in the sun. Zoe spent her time in the front yard, wandering the cul-de-sac as usual. And I took video of Athena in a tree that I wish I had started sooner. I don't know how she didn't cut herself in half, coming down through crossed branches. But as much as they loved all of that, as of this evening, I am feeling less inclined to let them out unsupervised tomorrow. I didn't understand who it was at first, but my mother sent me a picture of one of her black cats, badly damaged. Her hind end had a big bloody wound that obviously bothered her a lot. My brother found her, and they said there was a lot of blood around the front of the house. It's possible a dog or coyote got her, but also possible that an owl grabbed her and dropped her from great height. Her femur was snapped clean through. Years ago, when my parents first moved to this house, they lost their last female black cat to a winged predator. I've never felt safe when the big birds fly over my Park because of that. Hattie Cattie is spending the night at the emergency vet, and she is heavily medicated. Send out a little love in the universe for this poor injured baby for me, okay? (Warning, I'm putting up a picture of her, injured, before they went to the vet.)
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