Alcohol… drugs… gambling… wild women (yawn) have never been issues in our marriage. No one has a stronger moral compass than Dearly Beloved. He is kind to animals, delightful with children, and friendly to adults. He is non-violent and has never owned a gun.
HOWEVER, let that sonofagun get his hands on a pair of loppers or large pruning shears and Freddy Krueger is a mild-mannered manicurist by comparison. Neighbors run inside and lock their doors with when DB, armed and wild-eyed, approaches. If it’s something gas or electric-powered, the skies darken as birds flee, some carrying their nests on their little backs.
Nothing is safe when the unsupervised Mad Pruner is on the prowl.
A couple of years ago, he neatened our prize Japanese maple by cutting off the graceful, drooping branches and turning it into a Tootsie Pop. We agreed that, to save the marriage, he would not prune without supervision.
Daughter Boo and I share plants, so I have been e-mailing photos to show her the wood poppies, hostas, ferns, and trilliums which came from her garden and now brighten mine. As a joke, I snapped this picture of the 50-year-old camellias on one side of our house.
That’s how I labeled it and when I sent it to her, I also e-mailed a copy to DB. My bad. My bad, bad, bad!!
This is how the shrubs looked in March:
Tuesday I went over to have lunch with a friend and see her large, lovely rose garden. I was gone about three hours. DB was in the sunroom at his computer when I returned. Without even looking up, he said, “I did that pruning job while you were gone.”
My blood ran cold. DANGER!!! DANGER!!!!
I think I know how Bambi’s mother must have felt when she smelled smoke. I rushed outside, almost bumping into our neighbor as I rounded the house. He was looking at the side of our house. When he saw me, he held up his hands in surrender and started to back away.
The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. The neighbor, whether shell-shocked at my language or the carnage before him, solemnly intoned, “Dearly Beloved is in deep doodoo, isn’t he?”
The city collects “yard waste” on Fridays, so here is the scene at our curb this morning:
Now, as I hum TAPS softly and if carnage and mutilation do not make you ill, take a look at this picture of the victims, if you dare.
I love this man and want to save our marriage, but something has to be done.
Will I need a permit for a stun gun?