Mary, Mary, quite contrary,
How does your garden grow?
My name's not Mary, though.
"Dagnabbit! Dang it and dang it all!"
I watched my father throw another one of his tantrums over the garden. The garden was already wrecked enough -- peas scattered, carrots nibbled, lettuces and greens ripped to shreds by sharp teeth. He didn't need to go stomping around on it, ruining what else was left. I could do nothing but watch.
"Dang it, Cricket! I trust you to guard the veg and look what happens!"
He trusts me to also raise them, plant them, fertilize them, water them, and do everything else that he is too lazy to do. But I don't say anything.
"I'm sorry, papa."
"Sorry, sorry is not enough! I want results, Cricket! We can't run our veg stand without any veg. You set this right, you understand me? You get this veg growing by the next week or else you're going to bed without supper!"
He already doesn't feed me regularly, even when we have food available. The food hardly lasts on the table before he gobbles them down. And then he blames me for not having enough, when he's the reason food is scarce for the both of us. Plus, I'm sure he knows it's near impossible to grow quality vegetables over a span of seven days. But I don't complain.
"I'm sorry, papa. I'll fix it papa."
"You'd better. Or else..."
He stalks away, grumbling. I don't even need to know what will happen. The bruises I cover with my gardening cloak are reminders enough.
~
My gardening cloak is my security blanket. At night, I wrap it around me, but not to sleep, or to keep the cold out. It's merely become habit. I don't need security in the evenings though, when I go out to keep watch over the garden. I've never felt more secure than when I'm around him.
Rico visits me every night. Well, he really more visits the garden. As I sit watching him eat, he finishes his portion of the cabbages and then proceeds to chow down on the grown strawberries.
"I wish you wouldn't eat them up yet," I say. I can't possibly say it in a reprimanding manner, however. His bony self needs all it can eat.
"Why not? I'm avoiding the baby ones, like you told me," he says, looking up, his maw caked with strawberry stains.
I shake my head as I wipe his maw clean with the edge of my cloak. "A vegetarian wolf," I sigh. "I wish there were more like you. Maybe my father would believe me then."
He looks guilty; a rare occasion he feels something other than intense hunger. One of the reasons why I let him in, in the first place. (And why I keep letting him in.)
"I'm sorry I ate so much," he says apologetically.
"It's alright. You need to eat." I wipe the edge of my cloak dry, and smile up at him.
He smiles back. "I only eat to see you."
I'm left speechless as he gives me a quick, tiny lick on the tip of my nose. He turns tail faster than I can blink; the last I see of him is his bushy orange tail disappearing through the shrubbery. All my hard work is strewn all over the garden; remains of the fruits of my labor scattered all over the ground.
But I don't have the heart to scold him; he's already stolen it away.
How does your garden grow?
My name's not Mary, though.
"Dagnabbit! Dang it and dang it all!"
I watched my father throw another one of his tantrums over the garden. The garden was already wrecked enough -- peas scattered, carrots nibbled, lettuces and greens ripped to shreds by sharp teeth. He didn't need to go stomping around on it, ruining what else was left. I could do nothing but watch.
"Dang it, Cricket! I trust you to guard the veg and look what happens!"
He trusts me to also raise them, plant them, fertilize them, water them, and do everything else that he is too lazy to do. But I don't say anything.
"I'm sorry, papa."
"Sorry, sorry is not enough! I want results, Cricket! We can't run our veg stand without any veg. You set this right, you understand me? You get this veg growing by the next week or else you're going to bed without supper!"
He already doesn't feed me regularly, even when we have food available. The food hardly lasts on the table before he gobbles them down. And then he blames me for not having enough, when he's the reason food is scarce for the both of us. Plus, I'm sure he knows it's near impossible to grow quality vegetables over a span of seven days. But I don't complain.
"I'm sorry, papa. I'll fix it papa."
"You'd better. Or else..."
He stalks away, grumbling. I don't even need to know what will happen. The bruises I cover with my gardening cloak are reminders enough.
~
My gardening cloak is my security blanket. At night, I wrap it around me, but not to sleep, or to keep the cold out. It's merely become habit. I don't need security in the evenings though, when I go out to keep watch over the garden. I've never felt more secure than when I'm around him.
Rico visits me every night. Well, he really more visits the garden. As I sit watching him eat, he finishes his portion of the cabbages and then proceeds to chow down on the grown strawberries.
"I wish you wouldn't eat them up yet," I say. I can't possibly say it in a reprimanding manner, however. His bony self needs all it can eat.
"Why not? I'm avoiding the baby ones, like you told me," he says, looking up, his maw caked with strawberry stains.
I shake my head as I wipe his maw clean with the edge of my cloak. "A vegetarian wolf," I sigh. "I wish there were more like you. Maybe my father would believe me then."
He looks guilty; a rare occasion he feels something other than intense hunger. One of the reasons why I let him in, in the first place. (And why I keep letting him in.)
"I'm sorry I ate so much," he says apologetically.
"It's alright. You need to eat." I wipe the edge of my cloak dry, and smile up at him.
He smiles back. "I only eat to see you."
I'm left speechless as he gives me a quick, tiny lick on the tip of my nose. He turns tail faster than I can blink; the last I see of him is his bushy orange tail disappearing through the shrubbery. All my hard work is strewn all over the garden; remains of the fruits of my labor scattered all over the ground.
But I don't have the heart to scold him; he's already stolen it away.
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