A Dog

in a garden

I call the dog. He doesn’t come. I call again. Nothing. Just a stillness in the air. There is no comforting sound of the tinkle of his collar. I try again, placing more emphasis on his name, hinting at my frustration that he won’t head my call. At times like this I am amazed that I can loose him in this garden. It is not large but he has made his secret corners. I spied him one day. He didn’t notice me while he was just sitting, looking at a tree in the corner of the garden. It was a corner which he had created just for himself. Almost like a mediation spot. It is found only by the dog sized path he has formed amongst the garden foliage, his feet having trampled down the weeds and whatever. It is worn like a sheep trail across a paddock. Here he sit so peacefully, observing. As I watched him, I kinda fall in love with him even more. I admire his ability to find and create a space like this for himself in the garden. When I call and he doesn’t come I often wonder if he is in his spot and thinking to himself, “Just one more minute”.

As I wait for my errant dog to come inside I look around the garden. I take note of how the season is unfolding. Noting what is gone. What is new. It is always changing as is the nature of a garden. I feel like I am always saying this but I do feel like it is changing in a different way this year. I try and understand if the changes are driven by warming air and irregular weather or if it is just how the garden is. Part of me worries it is more the former not the later. Earlier in the week I walked around the botanical gardens and noted that camellias and hellebore are starting to flower. It feels early. Yet the leaves on the trees still hold on. I feel like the gaps between one season and another are over lapping more and more in a confusing way. I wonder if we will call the seasons different things in the years to come. Someone, I am sure, will create a buzz word to explain and define the confusion that I see and feel in an effort to understand and explain this emotion.

Still waiting for said dog, I see the white poppies I brought for a couple of dollars at the local hardware store. I was sucked into the marketing ploy of instant colour. It was a purchase of whimsy that I suspect won’t last long. Frost, I am sure will nip the joy that they give me. I take photos of them over the week. Some images are blurred creating the illusion of an impressionist painting that I love. Other days their flower heads hang with the weight of raindrops. Today as I look they are in full sun, creating new challenges if I am to photograph them right now. They are fun to play with. I’ve added another hellebore to my collection. A blush and bruised coloured pink. It is sweet in form. Another purchase made based on mood rather than planning. I was missing a friend so I brought a plant to remind me of her. I am sure there are worse reasons for buying plants. On the bench where the poppies are I have various pots filled with an assortment of tulip bulbs which I rediscovered in a box in the cupboard. Harvested from last seasons pots they are returned to the soil to hopefully provide instant colour in spring. I put them on the table out of reach of the neighborhood cat who likes to dig things up.

I see the sedums. Their burnt burgundy flower heads echo the ones I saw in the botanical gardens. There they grow on mass, a river stream of flowers. It is an idea that I love, having read about the term “river stream”, as a way to describe mass planting in a book about Piet Oudolf. I am in a rabbit hole of his work of late. Tagging his quotes, making notes of his plant choices. Dreaming as always of the next garden. I wonder how many streams I can create of sedum. Of Salvias. As Piet says “Let everyone start their own garden”.

Finally Atlee trots out from his garden corner. At first he is camouflaged. Then appears. Shuffling along, taking the moment in his stride, brushing aside the foliage that hides the path he takes. He likes to stick to paths. He walks past me, heading inside and turns at the door, looking at me expectantly. His eyes say “Where is my treat, I came when you call” My eyes reply “You are kidding me, right?” We go about the rest of day knowing we will most likely repeat this little routine again tomorrow.