Chin Up, These Things Happen in the Gulag

One must keep one's chin up after a disaster so let's look at what is going well in the Gulag Garden. First up, the freesias I planted last Spring put up a bumper crop of blooms. For a few short weeks, the whole patio area was full of freesia perfume. I'd love to duplicate the fragrance here but smell-o-blog has yet to be invented.

Also looking good is the barrel that holds yearling variegated lavender with sage, and loads of volunteer chia that are popping up daily. The chia look like a Popsicle garden.

And Gulag Surprise, mystery blades of something-or-the-other! I thought at first it was mutant iris, come back from the compost pile to torment me. Turned out to be the peach and white gladiolus I put in one of my planter barrels a few months ago. Totally awesome for the year round cutting garden I hope I am gradually cultivating.



Now for the bad stuff. I am sick with disgust over what's gone wrong in the Gulag. My 16 (17?) year old fart of a cat, Rum-kitty discovered a great treat. A HUGE, absolutely spot-on perfect litter box: that which was formerly known as my raised flower/vegetable bed. It seemed to happen abruptly. One minute the raised bed was pristine, clean, filled with spring fresh friable, enriched soil. The next my raised bed was filthy, poop-filled with tainted, cat-friable, a little too enriched soil.

My first impulse was to turn the raised bed in to a cat crypt & I knew just who to inter, but I restrained myself. How much longer can this annoying animal live? Right? Work with me here, cat's don't live forever, do they? Of course not. If I pretend I adore him, he'll be dead in a week or two, but if I continue feeling resentful of his furry arse, he'll reach the ripe old age of 35 - in human years of course.

I am so repulsed by the raised bed now, and following the death of my oven-stored seedlings, I am put off veggie gardening for this year altogether. When I work up the stomach for it, I will clean the raised bed - and its adjacent gravel trim - fencing it off with the wildlife netting that keeps my chickens from poopifying my patio. In short, I shall dwell on this summer season's triumphs - and NOT strangle the cat.