Meg’s Wildlife Sanctuary and Boot Camp

Letting go

2010-02-08T03:51:00.007+03:00

She paces from room to room, head low, eyes vacant, tail at half mast. In a smooth rhythm, her steps seem purposeful but she never reaches her destination.

She paces.

I stretch out my hand to touch the white spot between her ears. Startled, she jumps back, afraid. She no longer recognizes me and avoids even the gentlest of gestures.

Sadly, these days, all is not gentle. There are struggles to get into the car and into the house. There are struggles at the vet.

Anipryl does not work for her.

Letting go is always difficult.

In fall, the leaves turn and the weather cools. The days grow short. After the winter solstice, it snows. We know that it snows in winter, yet the day it arrives, we are startled by the silence and the cold.

In the garden, there is always spring at the end of winter. That is a special blessing reserved for plants.

January

2010-01-31T00:00:00.004+03:00

At the end of January, the nights are long and the days are cold. Gardeners check the weather almanac every day to see when the worst of winter is over. And happily, the coldest days are behind us. In February, the temperature rises about 2 degrees a week. By the March equinox, it will feel like spring.

But first we must to get through today's winter storm.

The wildlife habitat is covered by a soft white blanket.

Sculptures have formed in Papas Garden.

Snow insulates the plants in pots from the cold.

Bird houses wear white stocking caps.

Heavy snow and blowing winds collapsed the Jackson vine, Smilax smallii. But there are few other problems.

Bird prints on the edge of the carport are large and deep. Perhaps a hawk, looking for something tasty hiding among the garden tools.

Snow and sleet are hard on animals in a backyard wildlife habitat.

Colts

2010-01-25T01:36:00.004+03:00

Sunday afternoon in January. The house is quiet and the lights are low. A fire dances in the hearth. The couch is heavy with pillows and the Colts are on TV.

Someone lies on the couch, dozing during the commercials. I walk through the room. "Rainin' out," is the conversation.

Outside, the temperature is in the low 60's, a welcome relief from the long cold period this winter. As the sun sets, the air is thick and moist, as in early spring. The trees are bare and wildflowers sleep below a blanket of brown leaves. There is not much to compete with Peyton Manning on a widescreen TV.

The first blooms of the hellebores opened this week. These are the Brandywine strain and seemed to weather the arctic blasts better than other types.

The white hellebores are two weeks behind the pink and purple, and seem more delicate.

There is still plenty of fruit on the Jackson vine (Smilax smallii). Birds love to roost in this tangled vine and in my garden, chipmunks and squirrels make it their homes as well.

The roots of the ornamental kale had frozen solid in their pots, but they survived to provide a spot of color near the driveway.

In anticipation of spring, we are tempted to wish the winter away. But out of the browns and grays of winter, comes beauty.

Accumulation

2010-01-02T03:19:00.009+03:00

One night snow dusted our town and accumulated on an ornamental cabbage planted near the kitchen door.

That evening, I moved my seashell collection to an old fishbowl. These were found years ago on beaches from Charleston to Chincoteague, yet I no longer remember collecting them.

For Christmas, I decorated our tree with faux maple leaves found in a box in the carport. I didn't hang the ornaments stored in boxes in the attic, even though there are hundreds.

Over time, things accumulate without anyone intending it to be so.

Leaves are excellent accumulators.

On on a frigid winter day, oak leaves warm the ivy. It is not much cover, but this winter is so cold, any assistance is deeply appreciated.

Leaves blow along the stones on the path, accumulating in small piles.

Beside the front porch, the accumulation of leaves formed a thick black layer of soil over the compacted clay. And on the driveway, the decaying leaves formed their own flower bed on the pavement for a group of self-seeding impatiens. This photo is from summer.

I no longer collect seashells or christmas ornaments. In recent years, accumulations have been unintentional. Beyond the pots, plants and ponds, a garden made from 10 years of hands in the soil. And a marriage made from 33 years as a couple.

Away

2009-12-16T05:49:00.007+03:00

While I was away, the milkweed seeds burst out of their pods, floating on the wind to form a new generation.

The coral honeysuckle bloomed out of season, in defiance of the cold.

And while I was away, an oak tree fell. It had been in decline for years and a crossvine had woven its way to the top. In spring, the vine was a orange mass of trumpet blossoms, and in all other seasons, it was a shiny green cape that draped dramatically to the ground.

A high wind blew the oak against a neighboring tree. When I returned home, there was only a mottled brown stump.

Once when I was away, my father died, his face gray on the pillow, his hands clutching at the sheets.

He was not an oak, but a sassafras, his strength in his resourcefulness. His wiry temperament was flexible in form, but not in adaptability, owing to a long taproot. With leaves of unpredictable shape, and flaming red foliage in fall, he was often the center of attention, particularly in his later years. At his feet, his progeny radiated in all directions forming a colony that spread throughout the Midwest.

While I was away, the impatiens froze, but their seeds were already safely planted in the fertile soil below.

Moon

2009-11-28T05:14:00.009+03:00

The sun was already setting as the rake scraped the stones on the pathway. I crushed the leaves into the bag and clopped up the driveway, boots crunching small piles of leaves on the pavement.

In the distance, trees painted the sky dusky blue, then slate, then charcoal. In the branches, bushy knots of squirrel nests swayed gently in the cold evening air. Overhead, a half-moon rose through the bare branches of an oak and called to the single star to the South.

A continent lies between you and me. You have your dreams, in your teepee under a thousand stars on the West coast. And I am anchored in the East, in a brick house on a city lot, near a highway.

We are both under the night sky, but we do not see the same moon. You fold your teepee and wander by the light of the moon in a vast starry sky, in a world without end. I plant in a dark moon and nurture the roots in my garden, ever mindful of the boundaries.

In the darkness, a gentle breeze stroked my face. I whispered, "I love you, little nomad," but there was no answer.

November

2009-11-18T06:17:00.003+03:00

Caladium leaves lie limp on the ground, their stems like spaghetti.

Hummingbird feeders are abandoned.

Mornings are dark and cold.

November. Complaints are abundant.

Life seems more precious in the scarcity of late autumn.

The crickets still sound in the evening. And maple trees release their golden leaves to drift from the canopy to the soil below, while the Japanese maple turns from purple to crimson.

The impatiens continue to throw off a few blooms, even the rare white one that reseeded itself.

Green headed coneflower and pineapple sage only bloom in the shorter days of autumn.

Pineapple sage has lost its scent, but it continues to bloom until Thanksgiving.

Hurry little fella. Winter will be here soon.

Photos

2009-11-08T17:16:00.007+03:00

The door closes. The last guest backs down the driveway. The lights are switched off.

The photo album sits on the table, the sales receipt between the pages. Images of joy and laughter, garden tours, dinner celebrations and dancing, all remind us of happy times.

Yet a moment is only lived once, and photos are a thin line of smoke after a fire. Memories come with silent tears and a stinging in the throat.

After a wedding, hundreds of photos are viewed, edited, cropped, saved, moved, copied and ordered. Production methodically moves to completion, yet one photo still tugs at the heart.

It is an image of a moment when all things seemed possible, like wildflowers in early spring, emerging from their shared tangle of roots to greet one another under the warming sun.

Season's end

2009-10-06T17:51:00.004+03:00

At season's end, the days grow shorter, one minute at a time.

Asters fade, one petal at a time.

Oaks bare their branches, one leaf at a time.

Ripened autumn fruits bend the boughs low to the ground. One by one, they drop from the branches to the soft earth waiting below.

And so it is with us. One by one, the days pass. In the end, one last breath lingers on our lips. We taste its warm sweetness like a kiss.

We long for one more moment like a lover, knowing that at days end is a long moonless night.

Wild side

2009-09-16T22:12:00.007+03:00

Memory:

We stopped by Winn Dixie early on Sunday morning to pick up a few items. My husband tasked me with buying toilet bowl cleaner while he headed over to the produce section.

"Meet me at the checkout counter."

I recognized the brands Tidy Bowl and Vanish, but which one was superior? As I read the ingredients on the labels, I noticed that some were similar and others were different. I compared the number of uses per product, and computed the prices per ounce. I compared the frequency of application. I wondered if the shape of the container offered any advantage. I considered how blue water would look in a bathroom with gold tile.

Suddenly, a face loomed over me.

"Are you still here? Take a walk on the wild side. Get the Tidy Bowl and let's get out of here."

Here's a wonderful walk on the wild side.

The driveway garden may look disheveled to some, but I love the abundance at summer's end.

In the driveway garden, I ripped out Coreopsis tripteris and planted a spicebush in its place, but it came back and bloomed in spite of my abuse.

Beside the pavement, the beautyberry takes on magenta colors. Later in autumn, the leaves turn a lime tone, a lively combination.

Solidago rugosa 'Fireworks' blooms behind Salvia farinacea in a rare sunny spot in my garden. Bees love the salvia and tiny pollinators flock to the solidago.

You can see where 'Fireworks' gets its name. This explosion holds its own between the passionvine and the crossvine.

Rudbeckia laciniata, green headed coneflower, blooms in a shady spot, where few flowers dare.

Rain garden

2009-09-09T05:31:00.007+03:00

WRAL reports that early September is the most active time of year for tropical storms. I would welcome a gusher because there has been little rain throughout the summer. I also want to try out my new rain garden.

A rain garden collects water that runs off hard surfaces, such as roofs and driveways, storing and filtering the water to recharge the groundwater. This type of garden needs to be in a particular place, of a particular size, and contain particular plants.

This spring, I bought a book on the topic, Rain Gardening in the South by Helen Kraus and Anne Spafford, which provides instructions, advice and photographs about creating a rain garden. I used the charts in the book to estimate the size of the roof and to determine the size of the rain garden, 10 x 6.

I selected a spot in the backyard about 20 feet from the house, downstream from the downspout at the corner of the house. The site is near the pond and the compost pile, surrounded by several oaks and a hickory. A low area is not ideal, but there were no other options in our heavily wooded yard. The area has standing water at times, but the water drains within 48 hours, even after 5 inches of rain.

The first step is to remove the existing soil. I marked a few plants to be saved. When I started digging out the daylilies, I was surprised to find them shallowly rooted in gray sandy soil. The soil had little organic matter and no worms.

Fortunately, there were no roots from nearby trees. This made digging easier and prevented me from damaging our trees. On the PBS show In the Garden, Bryce Layne said that for the health of a tree, you should not cut any roots larger than your pinkie finger. No danger of that in this particular spot.

Back to the book Rain Gardening in the South. Kraus and Spafford recommended removing all the soil from the hole to a depth of 12 inches. Here I made my first mistake. I found a ruler in the house and brought it outside. I started digging, removing all the soil from the 10 x 6 hole to the depth of the ruler. Later I noticed that the ruler was 14 inches long instead of the standard 12.

After digging out the soil to the proper depth, it was time to stir in the amendments. I had a leftover bag of Black Cow manure and a large pile of compost. I added these amendments at a ratio 2 to 1, soil to amendments. Then I put the soil back into the hole.

By this time, I have been shoveling and amending for 3 days. I remembered reading in Gaia's Garden that old pieces of log would hold water for plants to use during drought, so I buried some limbs of oak trees that had fallen 7 or 8 years ago. This may have been my second mistake. I will find out soon enough.

In the end, the rain garden was 4 inches below grade. I used chunky semi-composted oak leaves from my new compost pile as a 2 inch mulch on the top. Then I formed a berm on the north side of the rain garden.

The following weekend, I was ready to plant. Using the lists of plants in the book, Rain Gardening in the South, I had long ago made a planting plan that was interesting and attractive. I purchased new Illicium plants and planned to transplant Ajuga, Epimedium and ferns from other areas of our garden.

Then I made my final mistake. I went to the plant sale at the NC Botanical Garden and found several that I have been seeking for a long time. I bought twice as many as I had space for, so some of them found a home in the rain garden.

At last it was time for planting. The soil in the rain garden had been resting for seven days. It was rich, dark and moist, perfect for roots of young plants. I was tempted to lie down in it, but I didn't.

Now I am waiting for rain, and lots of it.

Butterfly

2009-09-04T04:34:00.006+03:00

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Butterflies turn up their proboscises at the flowers in my garden. They prefer a hot sunny spot and my garden is cool and shady. But over the years, I have planted perennials, shrubs and trees that the caterpillars need for food.

The monarch caterpillars eat plants in the milkweed family. These two large fellas are feasting on common milkweed, Asclepias syriacus.

The spicebush swallowtail eats foliage from spicebushes and sassafras trees. The large "eyes" are fakes, designed to intimidate predators.

This year, I only saw two Eastern black swallowtail caterpillars on the parsley.

The pipevine swallowtail caterpillar feeds on pipevines. This year, we had a bumper crop.

This pipevine swallowtail has just emerged from her cocoon and dries her wings before floating away to nectar in a sunnier garden.

Good luck, little butterfly.

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Rosebud

2009-09-02T03:46:00.012+03:00

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You were already gone when I met you, a pink rosebud on a satin pillow. By days end, you were wrapped in a thousand tears and buried in a silent place.

Later there was a wildness behind your mother's eyes, like the sky before an autumn storm. She spoke in a calm voice, but in the distance, dry leaves rattled in the wind. The sky was heavy with dark clouds and there was a scent of rain in the air.

That was years ago. She still thinks of you every day, whether she speaks of you or not. Even for me, despite our brief encounter, I think of you more often than you would imagine.

Fear

2009-08-25T03:14:00.003+03:00

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At 2:30, the dog woke with a shake. I followed her through the dark house and unlocked the door to the carport. Outside, the overhead light had burned out.

The night air was thick under a heavy moonless sky. In the garden, looming masses pressed onto the driveway, dogwoods indistinguishable from beautyberries.

After several long minutes, the dog ran back to the door. We slipped inside quickly. My hand shook as I fumbled with the key in the lock. Finally, I heard the click.

Back in bed, an hour passed. Beside the nightstand, fear stood by silently, her dark cloak brushing my face. I thought of my daughter beneath the wide black sky of Olympia, 3000 miles away, asleep in her teepee with only a veneer of canvas between her and the somberness outside.

I counted the hours before she would wake to a new day of harvesting tomatoes and potatoes, secure in the risen sun of the Western sky.

Dozen vines for wildlife

2009-07-16T04:31:00.015+03:00

In the wild, abundant sunshine and moisture produces a diverse array of plants that jockey for position, competing for resources. Nature thrives in chaos. The jumble of perennials in a meadow provide food and shelter for birds, bees, butterflies, chipmunks and toads.

Vines have an edge. They grow quickly because no energy is spent forming a woody trunk. In the race to expose leaves to sunlight for photosynethesis, they can outmaneuver perennials and overwhelm shrubs. They can climb to the top of trees.

Uncomfortable with the wild ways of nature, people control their vines, using trellises or arbors. My unruly garden has a dozen vines and none of them are trained onto trellises. They scramble or climb or crawl, fulfilling their role in providing food and nesting places for wildlife.

Aristolochia macrophylla

In spring 2005, I planted a Dutchman's pipe vine as food for the pipevine swallowtail caterpillars. This year, black caterpillars with red spines were feeding on the vines. A few weeks later, I saw the large black and blue butterflies gliding about my garden.

With large heart shaped leaves and strange flowers that curl like a pipe, this vine climbs by twining up a trellis or shrub. This summer mine had rooted itself among the Virginia sweetspire. I chopped and uprooted the upstarts to keep it in bounds. Perhaps the carnage was attractive to the pipevine swallowtail, who laid her eggs soon after.

Parthenocissus quinquefolia

Pools of Virginia creeper cover the dry shady areas under the Japanese maple and the red buckeye trees, where nothing else survives the summer drought. It also grows up the brick along the east side of the house. Virginia creeper cements itself to walls and trees by secreting its own adhesive. It is said to produce berries for the birds, but I have never seen them. If grown in partial sun, this vine turns shades of red in autumn.

Smilax smalii

Cardinals nest in the Jackson vine that grows along the front of the house, their orange beaks just visible behind the foliage. Today a chipmunk hid in the vine over the carport, perhaps investigating the three nests hidden there, although all have been abandoned by now.

Jackson vine produces blue berries that ripen in late summer.

Hedera sp

Years ago, my young daughter found this ivy among the discarded stock at a plant nursery. When she brought it to the cash register, the owner charged her 50 cents. A slow grower, this shiny patch of green curls is a hideaway for chipmunks.

Gelsemium sempervirens

Along the highway to the beach in late winter, the yellow blooms of the Carolina jessamine drape the trees beside the culvert. In our garden, this aggressive grower ignores the fence but smothers a white oak sapling planted nearby. In early March, the cheerful yellow flowers welcome visitors to the back garden.

Lonicera sempervirens

Coral honeysuckle climbs the crape myrtle in the back garden. Hummingbirds use the spring flowers for nectar and birds eat the berries.

Passiflora incarnata

Passionvine blooms throughout the month of July with large lacy flowers. It wanders around the flower beds but any unwanted growth is is easy to pull out. I enjoy its ability to hide the foliage of flowers that look tired by midsummer, like daylilies and gladiolas.

Bignonia capreolata

Two crossvines cover the trunk of a dead oak tree in the front garden. They shower the tree with orange blooms each spring and toss off a few flowers throughout the summer. This year, a passionvine climbed the crossvine 80 feet to the top. Today, there are both purple and orange flowers on that old oak.

Other vines in my garden include native and exotic clematis, as well as native wisteria and trumpet vine. These vines scramble over shrubs and have nothing to show at the moment. So no photos with my apologies.

Sand

2009-07-01T23:49:00.016+03:00

Leaves in various states of decay had accumulated on the surface. I brushed them away and thrust the shovel into the brown earth between the daylilies. They had bloomed once, in their youth, but they had long since exhausted the nutrients in the soil. Shallowly rooted, they relinquished their lives with little resistance.

Beneath the lilies was sand, gray and dry with a gloss of quartz. The spade sliced easily through the soil. Loose sand slid from the spade back into the hole, where it was shoveled out once again.

Deep in the sand were objects lost long ago -- four orange bricks, two large chunks of soft stone, and thin pieces of fencing, perfectly preserved. Digging deeper, the shovel struck clay, compressed and compacted, a primordial slab.

The tool slammed into the clay, like steel to bone. A few shards chipped off, but the core did not yield the shadows buried there.

Love

2009-06-29T04:58:00.008+03:00

She watches every move. Even now, curled in a ball, snoring lightly, she senses me. I turn my head toward her and she opens her eyes slowly. I stand and walk softly to the door. She rises sluggishly to follow at my heel. She sighs deeply.

I often invite her to help me in the garden, but she prefers the controlled temperatures and cushioned surfaces of the house. If I slip outside, she moans and whines. As I work throughout the garden, she follows my movements from inside the house, running from window to window, hoping to catch a glimpse.

She only has eyes for her love, but if she could see beyond, here's what she would find:

These intricate flowers look exotic, but the passion vine (Passiflora incarnata) is native to Piedmont NC.

I removed the butterfly bush this spring and exposed these purple coneflowers (Echinacea purpurea) to more sun. In celebration, they put on a big show.

Hummingbirds love the red blooms of Monarda didyma. I do too, except for its tendency to flop. This year, the blue Brazilian sage (Salvia guaranitica) offers its support.

Hemerocallis 'Baltimore Oriole' is near the end of its season.

I planted this button bush (Cephalanthus occidentalis) in 2003 and it bloomed for the first time this year. Button bush likes a damp spot and this spring, there was ample rain.

The prettiest flower of all.

Reading garden

2009-06-23T06:14:00.002+03:00

Across the hall from our new library at Duke is a new, but rarely-used, terrace. On the North side of the building, the terrace is on the second floor and overlooks a remnant of woods. Four enormous glasscrete containers dominate the space, each with a single coralbark maple in the center. Tables and chairs are scattered about the terrace.

For several months, few people went outdoors to enjoy the fresh air, the new furniture or the coralbark maples, except a few smokers who used the containers as ashtrays. Last month, I asked the administration if I could buy some additional plants and warm up the space. They agreed and I started experimenting with building a reading garden, where students can read or study or meet in small groups.

The terrace is surrounded by glass walls. I used hostas, heucheras and ferns in this shady area. These plants can be seen from inside the building and the low profile does not obstruct the view to the rest of the garden. Hostas with thin blue leaves burned in the morning sunlight, so next year, they will be replaced by thick waxy leaved hostas and heucheras.

Along the far edge of the reading garden, I experimented with plants to attract hummingbirds, including lantana, pentas, salvia and petunia. I created four containers and these are growing so vigorously, I wish I had bought more.

The glasscrete containers in the center of the garden were planted with scented geraniums, trailing vinca and sweetpotato vine that will eventually trail over the side to cut down on the glare from the planters.

Almost immediately, people started using the new reading garden. No one smokes there now. A co-worker told me that the smaller containers were out of scale for the large space. That is true, but they are removed at the end of each season, so they must be portable. I need to create more mass without creating more weight.

Pssst

2009-06-18T03:26:00.004+03:00

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Did you hear something?

It's Lisa's birthday!!

Hope it is a happy one, sweet girl.

Kiawah

2009-06-15T04:52:00.002+03:00

For your birthday, I wish we could spend the day at Kiawah.

In the morning, we would wake early to walk to the beach while the air is cool. Along the surf, sandpipers dart in and out of the water as we search for sanddollars and seashells. The gray-blue ocean stretches on forever.

In the afternoon, we stay indoors to escape the heat. We talk or read or nap in air-conditioned comfort. Hours later, the sky darkens and we hear thunder. The rain cools the sultry air and in the evening, we venture out again to window shop at the Straw Market.

Time goes on forever in an ocean paradise. I wish we had that time again at Kiawah.

June bug

2009-06-12T04:41:00.006+03:00

Once we lived in the same house, you and I, with more than a dozen others. Now we live in separate homes 600 miles apart.

Despite the crowds and miles and years, I often think of you in June, your warm and welcoming style, your quick smile and ready laugh.

I think of you in my garden.

The hostas in your garden on Tristam were magnificent. 'T-Rex' is a new hosta in my garden this year. The blooms are tall and strong but the folliage is no comparison to your 'Gold Standard.'

Orange dayliles and blue stokes aster seem to smile in a rare sunny spot in my garden. Opposite colors often make lovely combinations.

Common milkweed loves to travel and welcomes visitors of all kinds. In June, milkweed buzzes with bees on every sunny day. In autumn, monarch butterfly caterpillars use the foliage for food.

Chipmunks love to dine on lily bulbs. These have escaped notice, so far. These lilies bloom every year on your birthday.

I wish you a very happy birthday and a year of abundant beauty.

Intolerable cruelty

2009-06-10T17:05:00.010+03:00

While deadheading the columbine, I noticed a brown caterpillar clinging to a stem, it's body covered by the pupae of parasitic wasps. The caterpillar was motionless, past its misery, mercifully.

At dusk, I noticed a young bird sitting quietly in the neighbor's grass. He was a big fellow with black feathers and hooked beak. I watched and listened for his mother but he was alone. The next morning, the bird lay on his side, motionless. An ant crawled up his leg.

Nature can be so cruel.

When I looked today, the bird was a handful of black feathers tossed among clumps of green turf. That silent trace will be completely erased on the next mowing with the John Deere.

Green and white

2009-06-05T05:15:00.006+03:00

Soothing colors of green and white look fresh as the days turn hot in June.

Hosta albomarginata and Virginia creeper (Parthenocissus quinquefolia) get no respect from the horticultural community, but their tenacity in a difficult spot in my garden is much appreciated.

Bees adore the white racemes on the Virginia sweetspire (Itea virginica) but people love this shrub for its colorful fall foliage.

I once discovered a lush planting of goatsbeard (Aruncus dioicus) at a state park in Indiana. Last year, I bought two from Niche Gardens, but they struggled throughout our sultry summer. This spring, there is a lone survivor.

Hosta 'Francee' started life in a pot, but after a few years, she outgrew her home. I planted her in a hosta bed under a mature Japanese maple, a garden mistake. I rescued 'Francee' on her deathbed but she has made a fine recovery in a large pot under the dogwood

The small white flowers of the tall meadow rue (Thalictrum pubescens) are sweet, but this perennial is grown for the delicate foliage.

Hare

2009-06-02T05:52:00.005+03:00

Many small mammals call my garden home, among them, a clan of hares. Hares are born above ground in a flattened area called a form. They are born furry with good vision and can fend for themselves within a few days of birth.

Last week, beside the path to the concrete bench, I noticed a square patch of bare earth among the leaf litter and Virginia creeper. Upon inspection, I noticed a shallow cavity at one end. I looked inside but no animal was nesting there. Then my soaker hose caught my eye. An animal had chewed through the recycled rubber of the hose.

The following day, the leaf litter was returned to the space. I walk up the path every morning, hoping to catch a glimpse of baby hares in the nest, but I have never seen them.

Dark night

2009-05-29T06:14:00.005+03:00

I peered out the window, checking for fireflies, but the night was thick and black. The rain had stopped so I stepped outside into the gray fog. I walked down the driveway. A strong methane gas odor wafted from the daylilies. I shined a flashlight into the flowerbed and noted that the asters had been eaten.

As I stood there quietly, I sensed someone's presence among the azaleas. Fear rose within my chest. Suddenly, a young deer jumped back and ran down the street.

To cut off access to the garden, I backed the car midway down the driveway. As I walked to the house, I noticed the tender new plants purchased today for my container garden at work. As I carried them into the kitchen, I noticed a soft brown substance on the side of the petunias. It leaped off onto the floor and hopped away.

It is not easy to trap a toad. Eventually, I caught it in a dishtowel and moved it outdoors without damage. He stuck around long enough to be photographed. Good luck, little fella.