I know my garden pretty well. If something’s moved, dug up or missing, I spy it immediately. Anything out of place stands out more when the soft light is striking the dew dripping off the lettuce and the peas are looking sweet, ready for picking.
One recent morning, it was actually my dog, Gryphon, who first noticed a large piece of bark, apparently from an old ash tree that had fallen, hanging off the rabbit fence. He just kept sniffing it and the ground around it the way he does when a coyote or a fox has been through the yard. I snatched it off the fence, turned it over, and then my heart sank. There was writing or something like writing, but if there was a font to it, it would be called claw. The words jumped off the page: you’re cited for poisoning, neglect, attempted injury.
I knew I had to get a good lawyer, someone who could speak on my defense but would also give the jury some sympathy. The owl was the logical choice. Before he took my case, he asked me if there was anything I needed to tell him. I confessed years ago that I had tried to poison the mice. He nodded, turned his neck. We began.
A few weeks later, the trial began in my yard, the scene of the alleged crimes. The jury, voles, 12 of them (there’s never just one). Beady eyes locked in. Blunt, rounded snouts sizing me up.
The plaintiffs’ lawyer, the fox, called the first witness: the rabbit.
“I’ve been living here for 2 years, the hosta were delicious, the tulips some of the best I’ve ever tasted and then came the fence. I felt shut out. I raised a family here,” it said. “I almost ripped my foot on that rusty half-buried fence. I’m not a pest. I’m a prey animal, I’m a food source for the red-tailed hawk who lives two doors over, and I’m a seed disperser. Plant the daffodils, the yarrow or the lavender, not interested in it. Keep the fence buried and in good working order. I’ve got other things to eat besides your kale.”
Next came the hummingbird. I couldn’t imagine what she had against me. I put the feeders out in April for goodness sake.
“My husband came here first and told me the food was good. When I followed a few weeks later, I didn’t expect to find rancid nectar waiting for me,” she said. “It was some sort of cruel trick. You wouldn’t eat spoiled food — why do you expect me to?” She paused. “The feeding ports had developed a mold. That mold, had I kept drinking, could have caused a candidal infection of my tongue. It killed my cousin. Is it too much to ask to change the food every few days and clean those feeders properly? Diluted bleach. That’s all.”
I looked out of the corner of my eye and to the right I saw two more witnesses.
The squirrel leaped across the table set up, put his two front paws together, and began.
“For years, there was a delectable mix of nuts and seeds I could gorge myself on. Then came the baffle,” he said. “It took me a while to figure out that it led nowhere. So I grew used to leaping from a small rhododendron bush to the top of the feeder. Then came the mechanics. The door would close, shutting me out, although I can still see the food through the window.
“The other side of the yard still had sunflower seeds, but eventually they were replaced by that bitter safflower. Sometimes I’d nibble at it, but it’s not really any good. You can change the food. It doesn’t really matter. At the end of last summer, I started burying nuts and seeds and acorns, 7,423 of them. I won’t find them all. My record is a 70 percent retrieval rate. The other 30 percent have gone on to germinate and change the landscape in ways that none of the landscapers you’ve hired could have. They benefit my entire community and eventually you. I don’t need you, but I would like the sunflowers back.”
Next up came the ants, one by one, then two by two. I swear I heard them say “Hoorah!” Their testimony was brief: “We’ve been here longer than anybody; our Queen’s great-grandmother came here before this house was even built. The poison you tried to get rid of us with, there were many casualties, but we came back and that poison you put in the soil, why do you think the blooms on your Dahlias looked the way they did? If you must take us out, at least use diatomaceous earth and stop the collateral damage. We aerate the soil more effectively than those invasive jumping earthworms you introduced. Listen, we’ll stay away from your chrysanthemums, your lavender, mint, and even basil; you like the way they smell, we don’t. Leave us alone.” And with that, they marched out.
Then the final witness. She strode in almost unnoticeably, save for the white tail. She spoke in a soft, melodic voice that you had to lean in to hear.
“Yes, I ate several tomatoes last summer. They were delicious, even the green ones and the leaves,” the deer said. “A few days later, I noticed that unmistakable scent - bitrex. I was curious, but backed away unnoticed into the brush. I saw the plaintiff come out. He looked smug when he saw an untouched ripe tomato, but then I watched him eat it and then spit it out. I think it’s what you call getting a taste of your own medicine.”
When I took the stand, my heart was beating fast. “I’ve tried to be a good steward; clearly, I can be better. I just want to get along with everybody.” The owl turned to the voles; there’s an irony there. We rest our case.
About 45 seconds later, the jury came back. It certainly wasn’t a full acquittal, but it could have been worse; there were conditions:
- Stop using poison.
- Clean and change bird feeders regularly, including hummingbird food.
- Plant more native plants, target 70 percent. Include native honeysuckle, Columbine, and bee balm if the feeders run out. The hummingbirds will still have something.
- Keep fences buried and in good working order.
- Read labels before using any pest deterrents.
- Use barriers around the base of trees to prevent vole damage and rabbit damage.
I walked back inside, Gryphon at my heels, the conditions of my settlement already turning over in my mind.
Here’s what I’ve come to understand, standing in that yard, defendant in my own garden: Nature is not a battlefield, and it is not ours to conquer. The rabbit eats the clover. The hawk eats the rabbit. The owl eats the vole. The ant aerates the soil that feeds the milkweed that feeds the monarch that completes a journey so improbable it makes your morning commute look trivial. The caterpillar that might be eating my parsley right now will become a black swallowtail butterfly in approximately two weeks.
These are not problems. This is the whole point.
We can tend a garden, I certainly do, and I take a lot of pride in it. You can nurture it, shape it, protect what matters most. That’s not the issue. The issue is the adversarial stance — the idea that every creature that shows up uninvited is an enemy to be eliminated rather than a neighbor to be negotiated with. That posture will exhaust you. I know, because I’ve tried it.
Think of your yard instead as a small piece of something much larger — a thread in a fabric that connects soil to root to insect to bird to sky. Tend that thread carefully. It’s the only one you’ve got.
The voles are still out there. I’m sure of it. I already had to plant my peas twice. I know who ate them.
The milkweed is coming up along the border; it’s going to run under the lawn and start popping up everywhere, that’s what it does. The sugar water and the hummingbird feeder look a little cloudy to me. I’m going to change it.