The clump of daisies stands round and tall. Its green leaves shine and shimmer in the breeze. Small but swelling buds—white buttons rimmed with green—top each stem. They’re almost ready to bloom. Thrilling with anticipation, I imagine the cloud of happy flowers: my daisies will delight me.
At the same time, I’m trying to prepare myself to let them go. Fuzz Face the woodchuck who lives under the shed might eat them. One day last summer I saw that all of the daisies were blooming. The next morning, every blossom was gone. They’d grown tall enough that only a large animal could have reached them.
Now the daisies are back, making a clump even larger than before. Their buds grow fatter every day. I checked this morning and again this afternoon to see if they’d popped. Not yet.
I refer to Fuzz Face as “he,” but in fact I have no idea if the woodchuck this year is a “he” or a “she,” and I don’t know if he’s the same one from last year. In fact, the woodchuck I saw yesterday looked smaller than I thought the one last week appeared. It may be a whole family. A few years ago, we often saw two small woodchucks in the yard—two babies—along with a large adult. They were really cute. But of course they would grow up, and along the way they and their parents would eat our plants.
This year’s Fuzz Face feasts on a lawn dense with clover, all kinds of grass, and weeds of every sort. I’m glad that he likes what’s on offer and spends most of his time just munching through it. I enjoy watching him—our own local wildlife representative. I was also disappointed—OK, mad—when I saw him eating the new shoots of the red cone flower I’d bought at the farmers market last summer.
After a bitter cold winter, I was delighted to see tiny cone flower shoots appear this spring. Not long ago they’d grown small leaves; a day after that, just a half-inch of stalk remained. Then again they’d grow larger, and again they’d get eaten. A few days ago, I looked out the glass patio doors and saw Fuzz Face in the process of eating more leaves. I stifled my first impulse to rush out yelling and waving my hands to scare him away—I did that last year, thinking I’d teach him a lesson. This time, I thought about my plan to share.
It’s easy to be high-minded in the abstract. Of course I want to share all the goodness around me. There’s nothing I’m growing that I can’t do without. But picturing lost flowers or vegetables eaten by critters, a disappointed voice yells, It’s mine, I planted it, I wanted it, hands off—it’s mine!
A while later, I saw Fuzz Face eating the longest leaves of two Coreopsis Early Sunrise seedlings Will and I had planted the day before. I’d been savoring the prospect of bright clumps of the double-petaled sunny yellow flowers their labels promised. At that moment I reconsidered my attitude about sharing with the critters. Using the wire we’d purchased last year to make a fence around the peach tree, I set up a protective barrier for both the coreopsis seedlings and the cone flower. In my mind it was a compromise between giving freely and protecting my plants.
As of today, they’re still OK—diminished from their original growth, but not subsequently disturbed. I’m assuming that there’s enough of the leaves left for them to grow into full flowering plants. I’ve accepted the idea that critters will continue to nibble the zinnias. A few hours ago, I checked the new summer squash and zucchini plants. Rabbits might already have eaten some blossoms.
Can I truly make peace with the woodchucks and the rabbits and the chipmunks and who knows what else who need to feed themselves and their babies? There’s no reason why they shouldn’t eat what they like if it’s right there. It was easier to be mellow after a friend helped us add underground wire fencing around the edge of the big garden where we grow the vegetables, herbs, and large dahlias. I thought it kept the big critters out. Today I discovered a dug up dahlia tuber—the first time the dahlias have ever been disturbed.
I Googled methods of controlling garden critters. In addition to various sprays and potions, I discovered sonic devices—some solar, some battery powered—used to repel them. These machines generate sound waves that torment the various animals, making their lives so miserable that they move away. They find new places to dig their tunnels and raise their pups.
Forcing Fuzz Face to go elsewhere by hounding him with noise feels deeply wrong. It’s cruel; I don’t want to do that. I’m even more determined to share.
When I’m feeling fulfilled and grateful to be alive, I tell myself life’s too short to spend time being upset. I don’t want to resent a fellow mammal who’s hungry and only wants to eat what looks best. It’s less about what I’m losing and more about just being kind.
Personal Perspectives Essential Reads
Live and let live holds profound implications for me in my 80s, when not one day can be taken for granted.
