So, remember how I said I planted some mint? Something slouched its way through the dark and devoured it all on Sunday night.
Whatever the critter was, it was very careful to leave the weeds alone.
So, that about does it for this front garden box. The only thing that has managed to grow in it is the seemingly-unkillable hydrangea that I hate. My plan for this year was to cram it full of mountain mint, since I hear-tell that stuff is also immortal, and let them fight it out all Highlander-style.
There can be only one, and I hoped it would be the one I could use for tea.
Alas, the hydrangea apparently called in an allied strike from…something, just as the seeds had begun to sprout. My father suggested it looked like a raccoon’s handiwork, but the fifteen seconds of painstaking research I did on Google seems to suggest raccoons hate the smell of the stuff.
I don’t know.
What I do know is that I’m just going to leave the hydrangea alone. It’s over. It has the high ground, the low ground, and–apparently–the unwavering support of some mint-devouring, night-stalking horror from beyond.
Or a squirrel.
It’s probably a squirrel.
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