I CAN Have it All by Jayne Ormerod

Dogs and vegetable gardens do not go well together. Call me a germaphobe, but I just don’t like the idea of dog poo in my oregano.

My instincts were confirmed in an article in yesterday’s local paper, The Virginian Pilot. The opening paragraph caught my attention:

“Animal waste tainting fresh produce is one of the major causes of food-borne ailments. So farmers markets and pick-your-own growers who fear fecal contamination are increasingly guarded about tolerating pets near their edibles.” You can read the entire article by clicking here.

My reaction was, “People really need to be told the basic sensibilities of life?”

But alas, yes, it seems people need to be told everything to think, feel, and do anymore. But that’s another topic for another more socially conscious blog. This one is about dogs.

I have waged a battle my entire adult life…do I want fresh grown vegetables and herbs or do I want playful pups? Pups won out, every single time! Fresh herbs can be procured at the market, puppy snuggles cannot.

A few years ago, I stumbled upon what I thought would be the perfect solution to my little dilemma. A stackable garden higher than an aging girl dog could pee, and I could tuck it discreetly away from the spot in the lawn where she routinely (more like religiously) did her business.

 

Problem solved! That year we enjoyed what I called the Scarborough Fair medley of fresh herbs (Really? You don’t know what the Scarborough Fair medley is? Why, parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme, of course!) (Old Simon and Garfunkel song. You can listen to it here.) (I fear my age is showing…again!)

Anyway, things changed when we got the puppies, Tiller and Scout. Perhaps more aptly named The Destructo Brothers!

 

Don’t let that innocent look fool you. That stack of tissue paper did not shred itself! They LOVE to chew on anything and everything.

I let them out in the backyard one sunny afternoon and ran inside to do something real quick, and raced outside seconds later, to find my herbs scattered hither and yon throughout my backyard. Not full plants, but tiny pieces parts as if each tender little plant had provided 3.2 seconds of a tug-o-war before they’d moved on to the next. Three tiers (12 plants) gone in the blink of an eye.

When my husband came home with two flats of fresh herbs, I knew I had to do something. He very kindly cobbled together a fence made of castoffs and garbage-day finds. Voila! A little side yard for my garden that was safe from the pups. He then suggested I channel my inner farm girl. Nope, not gonna till that earth that had been a popular potty spot for the pups. I let my fingers do the shopping on the Internet and found the perfect solution. Something three feet off the ground, and would be tucked behind the aforementioned fence. It is 6 feet long and 2 feet wide. It is filled with over 2 dozen little (but growing quickly!) plants! It took a lot of fresh soil to fill the basin. A lot. Like 13 bags. Overall, I figure the one sprig of thyme I put in my last casserole cost me $50. It’s gonna be a long time before this little garden pays for itself, but in the meantime, it’s safe from the beasts. Any time a recipe calls for a soupçon of tarragon or a snip of fresh chives, I can walk outside and harvest all I need. All the time singing another old favorite song, “Old McDonald had a farm. E-I-E-I-O.”

So, in this wonderful world of imaginative people who solve all sorts of problems, I CAN have it all…and more! If you’re ever in the neighborhood, stop by and harvest some basil or cilantro, I think planted more than I can use in a lifetime!

That’s all from this dog-loving city farmer this round. Next time I’ll wax poetic on the joys/horrors that are part of the every day life with rescue pups. In the meantime, I’m working hard on writing my second Mutt Mystery, tentatively titled “Yappy Hour.” Watch for more info on that, soon!

 

ABOUT JAYNE

Jayne Ormerod grew up in a small Ohio town then went on to a small-town Ohio college. Upon earning her degree in accountancy, she became a CIA (that’s not a sexy spy thing, but a Certified Internal Auditor.) She married a naval officer and off they sailed to see the world. After nineteen moves, they, along with their two rescue dogs Tiller and Scout, have settled into a cozy cottage by the sea. Jayne is the author of the Blonds at the Beach Mysteries, The Blond Leading the Blond, and Blond Luck, as well as a doze other short stories and novellas. Her most recent releases are Goin’ Coastal and To Fetch a Thief.

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A Funny Thing Happened When Dad Walked my Dogs

Before we get started, I want to offer a HUGE thank you to Heather Weidner and the other Pens, Paws and Claws bloggers who have welcomed me into the litter! I am truly honored to be amongst such great writers and animal lovers! This is going to be fun!

So, a little bit about myself, I write light-hearted mysteries that usually have a coastal setting and sometimes include animals. I figure it’s best to keep with that tradition while blogging here, so my first post is the true tale of the one (and only) time I let my dad walk my dogs.

My military husband had deployed for six months. I was left home with a toddler and two BIG dogs (combined weight 175 pounds! They weren’t supposed to be that big, but that’s another story for another day.) My dad, a 60-something apple-shaped man who never met a piece of pie he didn’t devour, travelled 400 miles to help me out for a few weeks. His “help” consisted of letting me cook for him and clean up after him while he sat and watched Golden Girls reruns. But, to his credit, having another adult to talk to during the day saved my sanity. One afternoon the toddler was being a toddler (cutting teeth, if memory serves), so given the choice of staying home with the cranky child or taking the dogs for a walk to burn off some canine energy, Dad chose the dogs. Off he went, leashed up to the usually well-behaved beasts for an anticipated 15-minute trot around the block.

He was gone a really long time. I got really worried. My fears ran the gamut from Dad suffering a heart attack to the dogs getting loose and running into traffic.

At the 52-minute mark, I strapped toddler onto the seat on the back of my bicycle and we went looking.

We found dad and the dogs about two blocks from home. He’d taken a wrong turn and gotten lost on the winding streets of our planned development. HUGE sigh of relief. We rode alongside to make sure he found his way home, all the while chatting about what I would cook for dinner that night.

“Uh-oh,” I said when I saw a calico cat perched on a neighbor’s sunny front porch.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“A cat.” My dogs didn’t like cats. And they especially didn’t like that particular calico who took great pleasure in taunting them as she cleaned herself while perched atop the fencepost in our backyard.

“What does that mean?” Dad asked.

The cat streaked across our path. “Hold on tight!”

Next thing I knew, my dad was on his bulbous belly, being dragged across a neighbor’s front yard. His arms were stretched over his head as he rocked back and forth, the leashes tight around his wrists as the dogs pulled him the length of the lawn. The cat jumped over the fence and disappeared. My dogs sniffed the ground where the cat had last set paw. My dad lay, stunned, with little bits of grass stuck to his face.

Yes, it was horrific, but I sheepishly admit I have never laughed so hard in my life. Tears streamed down my eyes and I couldn’t get a single word out. I still laugh at the memory.

We made it home without further incident. Dad’s pride was bruised, but his 200 body parts remained intact. The grass stains on his shirt and knees came out in the wash. My son would put his arms over his head and rock his body, imitating dad’s adventure, and we would all break out into peals of laughter again.

We laughed about his suburban version of his Nantucket sleighride the rest of his life.

Employing the old writer’s adage, “write what you know,” I used this experience to craft the opening scene in my first romance novel, Bailey’s Most Wanted. Don’t go rushing off to buy a copy, because nopublisher ever wanted to waste paper and ink on that one. While the first scene was great, I’m the first to admit it went downhill…fast…from there. Turns out romance is not my genre. While I enjoy reading it, I just can’t keep two desperately in love people apart for 300 pages. Stories need conflict! Hence, I found my niche in mysteries, wherein when the story gets boring, I kill off a character. But I do so with a soupçon of hilarity, because life—and stories—are better when filled with humor.

ABOUT JAYNE

 

Jayne Ormerod grew up in a small Ohio town then went on to a small-town Ohio college. Upon earning her degree in accountancy, she became a CIA (that’s not a sexy spy thing, but a Certified Internal Auditor.) She married a naval officer and off they sailed to see the world. After nineteen moves, they, along with their two rescue dogs Tiller and Scout, have settled into a cozy cottage by the sea. Jayne is the author of the Blonds at the Beach Mysteries, The Blond Leading the Blond, and Blond Luck, as well as a doze other short stories and novellas. Her most recent releases are Goin’ Coastal and To Fetch a Thief

LET’S BE SOCIAL.

Website

Blog

Facebook

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