Apologies to Better Poets

Picture, if you will, an early morning in September—so early, in fact, that the sun has the good sense to still be in bed. I am sleeping, and while it’s not visions of sugar plums dancing in my head, I’m pretty sure I’m dreaming of something pleasant—artisanal lemon curd perhaps-- when suddenly there comes a zapping, then the sound of some elk yapping, yapping as the fence is zapping, zapping her on her greedy nose.

I stir. I smile. I roll back over to sleep.

What is this, a fairy tale? Of course, I can’t go back to sleep! I get up and turn on the backyard floodlights and squint out into the gloom. As best as my sleep-smeared, wondering eyes can see, the fence seems to be intact. Just in case it isn’t, Abby the Crabby Tabby, AKA Stone Cold Killer, brushes past me, out into the pre-dawn hours to patrol. I’m pretty sure Abby is convinced that someday, given the right conditions, she will catch an elk. Size doesn’t matter much to Abby, she once left a dead grouse on my doorstep—as a present, I presume, not a threat. At least I hope so. Mulling that over, I return to bed.

Not to sleep, because of course now I’m worried about both the state of my fence and the safety of my ridiculous cat. I rise, make tea and wait for the sun to drag its lazy self above the skyline so I can go out and inspect my fence line.

Two cups in and dawn arrives “as slender as a bridge*.” I take my tea and wander out on the deck to survey my kingdom-- in time to discover a small herd of elk just outside my partially downed fence. The first wave of the attack has stripped the upper strand from its insulators along a 20-foot length of fence and the elk are just outside the fallen boundary, looking for all the world as though the second wave is going to be less a Charge of the Light Brigade and more of a “Hey, Mikey!” attack— “I’m not going to touch it, you touch it...Let’s get Mikey.”

Fortunately for me, Mikey is a bit reluctant and I have enough time to mount a counter defense. There is--and I say this with pride—no creative use of language. No swearing, no shoe throwing, and property values remained stable; two cups of tea have given me ample time to assemble a suitable ensemble. Acceptably attired—well, except for the snow boots. Don’t judge me-- I politely invite the elk to vacate my property, restring my fence—after remembering to first unplug it from the power source—and feed the cats breakfast.

Six hours later it occurs to me that I haven’t plugged the electric fence back in.

Seasonal Adjustment

It’s that time of year again---you know what I’m talking about—that season in between the seasons. It’s not quite fall, but not really still summer. Nights are longer and cooler, mornings are damp, and even if the afternoons are hot, there’s still a little chill to be found lingering in the shadows-- the kind of day that requires a sweater in the morning and shorts by the afternoon.

Summer officially ends in the middle of this month, and winter won’t start until late December, which means Official Fall straddles all of October and November. October can be beautiful-- cooler, colorful and crisp. November, as you well know, is all about the damp, the drizzle and—quite possibly—some flooding. How can one season contain two such separate types of weather but be called by a single name?

I think we need seasons in between the seasons, and I think we need to name them. Instead of Winter, Spring, Summer, Fall, Winter-- I think we need Winter; Frozen; Less Frozen; Spring; Warm Spring; Summer; Almost Like Summer/Pre-Fall/Not too early for Pumpkin Spice Lattes---I’ll admit I’m having a little trouble settling on a name for this glorious season—Fall; Rain; and back to Winter.

Seasons come, seasons go, even the in- between ones----and Life goes on. I find great comfort in knowing that the sun will come up tomorrow—even if clouds obscure it; that True Summer will return, even if we have three-to-eight more seasons to get through before it returns. And for those of you that celebrate Not Too Early for Pumpkin Spice Latte Season—I wish you extra sprinkles.

PSA:Zuked

    We interrupt your normally scheduled Elk Complaint Fest to bring you this urgent Public Service Announcement: WARNING! It’s that time of year again. Zucchini Season is peaking in Lewis County. All residents that do not normally lock their homes and cars are urged to do so.

     I used to have my own addendum: make sure your car’s sunroof is closed, lest your gardening friends be unable to resist the temptation and stealthily slide an entire bag of zucchini, piece by piece, through the opening and into your backseat. I have no proof as to the identity of the miscreant, but I’m pretty sure his initials are Tim Kelly. I no longer advise this approach, as I was warned that I would be taking zucchini home-- the easy way, or the hard way. I thought it over and then handed him my keys.

     This year I was introduced to zucchini “pizza”—simply drizzle zucchini rounds, ¼” thick, with olive oil, sprinkle with seasoning salt, and grill right on your BBQ. Remove when “done”, place on top of a cookie sheet, top with your favorite pizza toppings and replace on grill—or in your oven—until the cheese has melted. Very yummy, and carb free. And if you get too hungry-- or lazy—you can just skip the topping part and eat the zucchini, hot off the grill. I advise cooking waaaay more zucchini than you think is prudent, because once you start eating it, it tastes just like MORE.

Updates, with Only Minor #@%$!!#!!! Words

I tend to procrastinate—at least I do, once I get around to it. I usually write Over My Garden Gate right ahead of the deadline, telling myself that, in this fast-paced world, that is my way of ensuring you-- Gentle Reader-- the freshest content available. Also, Twitter is highly addictive, but that’s not the point. My point is, writing OMGG ahead of the deadline—which is what I did four weeks ago on The Elk Ate Everything Day--- means I need to play catch-up and bring y’all up to speed.

In Sugar News: Lil’ John-John is beautiful, and funny, and much adored. His parents have decided to keep him, even though they still have 63 days left on the 90-day warranty, and I think that’s the right call. I can just tell---he’s a keeper.

 
In Stinky Spray News: I got a refund check and I feel kind of bad about that---but not bad enough to not cash it. Stupid elk.

In Fence News: The sympathetic Wildlife Conflict Specialist came with a helpful volunteer named Jim—or Ron? I don’t remember his name now, since I called him both—but by any name, he was very helpful and they installed my loaner electric elk fence. It goes up in a jiffy and looks a lot like I’m starting either a professional sock laundry, or that I can make you a sweet deal on a low-mileage vehicle with zero down, or that I’m a piñata short of the Best Birthday Party EVER. But, after I got over the initial “THERENESS” of the fence, I appreciated waking up to a backyard that looked exactly as it had when I went to bed the night before. I took some of the flowerpots I had barricaded on my deck for safe keeping and tucked them among the stumps and stubs of my denuded flowerbeds, and the result could almost fool one into thinking that an Elk Disaster Worthy of FEMA Response hadn’t happened. Almost. 

In Elk News: Post fence installation, things were proceeding smoothly in my backyard, no elk—only signs that they had approached the fence and been, shall we say, “deterred.” Flowers were beginning to make a comeback, I was getting used to the waving flagging of my fence, all was well that ends well----
Well, it didn’t end. At six o’clock this morning the four-legged vandals trashed my fence in a brazen attempt to eat my quaking aspen. I woke to the sounds of elk outrage, “HOW DARE YOU?!! THIS! WILL! NEVER! DO! WTAH?!!” 

By the time I got my eyelids pried open and the door unlocked, the band of miscreants were standing in a huddle, complaining loudly and planning a second assault. The flagging was stripped from the poles, torn in two, and drug halfway into the neighboring field, and the elk—based on body language and my understanding of elk-speak—were planning on calling both their lawyer and the SPCA. Possibly the ACLU, acronyms are hard to translate.

In Property Values News: Real estate values on the Cline Road took another dip today. There was some chasing of elk, whilst improperly attired in pajamas—me, not the elk. There was some shouting of earthy, Anglo-Saxon vulgarities—perhaps the elk were guilty of this as well? There was some throwing of pink Crocs at retreating rumps---that one involved all of us, but it was my footwear aimed—poorly—at their hind-ends. 

In Other News: The smoke from the fires seems to be clearing; Happy Labor Day; and remember to lock your cars, it’s Zucchini Season