Some animal vomited all over the base of a plant in my garden. Not a pleasant sight. We ignored it for a couple of days, then it hardened, and Alf hacked at it with a spade and dumped it into a plastic bag and deposited it in the garbage, which goes out tomorrow.
I mention this because not everything is pretty in my garden.
Occasionally I come across the body of a dead bird on the ground. This usually happens when it bangs into a window. But I have learned to leave it alone because it could be just stunned into unconsciousness and eventually, after a few hours, it will come to and fly off. I can’t think of how many “dead” birds I’ve thrown away when they probably could have survived.
Have I mentioned that every pet we have ever owned, when it died, we buried in the garden? From Chico the ring-neck parrot, Eternity our Siamese, Baxter and Jones, our two parakeets, and Gwen our Springer Spaniel. Right now their burial plots are springing up flowers. Their bones have fertilized the soil and given new life to lovely plants that house hummingbirds and butterflies.
“The circle of life,” Alf said.
“I wonder what the vomit could have produced,” I said.
“Maggots,” Alf said.
“Don’t they make good fertilizer?”
“Not if you want creepy crawlies underfoot.”
Calvin says, “Don’t you bury me in the back when my time comes. I want to be let free in wild grasses to frolic all day long.”