Gangs of the city garden

(Or, My Tribute to Richard Price)

This week's sketch features two of the ne'er-do-wells who are good enough to give me a nod when they pass through my garden, on their separate ways to... where? The dumpster behind the Irish pub? A meeting to discuss New Screams to Make in the Night that Sound Like Human Children Dying? A place where they sell unlicensed firearms (and glocks to cats)?

I will likely never know, but strange as it may sound, I welcome these and other unsavory characters into my little sanctuary. Not that I have any choice - it's more their garden, and I'm just That Lady, Prone to Outbursts, who Lives in the Big Wooden Box.

Here's what I've come to believe. As a city gardener, you can think of yourself as a weeder, a waterer, a seeder, a mulcher, even an urban farmer with utopian organic ideals... Or you can simply accept that your role is to prepare fluffy, soil-filled toilets for cats to shit in. Also, importantly, you provide fortification to the thirteen generations of rats who currently occupy your compost pile.

To sum up, being that I embrace all creatures, great and small (even as I attempt to ensnare them in my Hav-a-Hart trap), I want you to know that everyone is welcome here, from the sweethearts (chickadees) to the scoundrels (dirty English sparrows, guilty of countless atrocities against the ecosystem).

Roving pitbulls, one-eyed-one-eared-stub-tailed tomcats, skunks of ill repute and all other bad actors... My land is your land. This is why, when I come out in the morning, I say "Good morning, friends!" and acknowledge anyone who wasn't there yesterday (song sparrow!), and take note of any fresh blood. Then at night, when I go in, I say "Goodnight, friends!" and everyone goes on with whatever it is they like to do at night, which may or may not include feeding, collecting nest materials, or Forcefully Removing the Ear of a Foe.