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Photography by Suzy Gorman
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My family and I are the owners (is it rude to omit the word proud?) of two Scottish terriers, Lillie and Lucky. Lillie was actually given to me when I was scouting a house. I oohed and aahed over a majestic black Scottie. The homeowner, casting a wary eye, inquired into my sincerity regarding the breed.
I effused some more.
“Well,” she said with a shrug, “I have three, and that’s one too many.” A few days later (after she rightfully cleared it with her clan), I drove up and away, terrier in tow.
In those days, we still had Billie the boxer, so Lillie wasn’t alone. But after Billie died, we determined Lillie had to have a friend. Enter Lucky. Lillie loved him and played with him constantly—and by the time Lucky was 6 months old, we realized his one leg was considerably shorter than the next. Perhaps that play was just a tad too rough. Time for Operation No. 1. (My niece Cissy, the veterinarian, advised me after we’d christened him Lucky that dogs named that never are.)
Still, I love the coosome twosome. They are exceptionally sweet, they bark-talk with authority, and they’re packed with personality. I bring up their tenacity only because this is the garden issue. Our garden is something the terriers, a.k.a. the terrorists, know much too well. Scotties can dig a hole all the way to Wyoming faster than you can read the Post-Dispatch. Give them a bone and watch your rose bed get decimated. They hide their treasures. Deep.
Churned dirt doesn’t totally destroy the aesthetic, of course. I can always pretend it’s freshly planted seeds. But there is another problem.
The Great Escapes.
Lucky is lithe; Lillie is not. He destroys the lattice fence that keeps them in. A small hole suffices for him—but not for his pudgy pal. So while we are otherwise occupied, he sets about carving their paths to freedom with a combination of digging, chewing, and scratching the now-battered barricade. Together they have wormed their way through most of it—which, as a result, is currently fronted with a variety of mesh wires, logs, and lawn furniture. Sound attractive? It’s not.
Granted, sometimes Lucky escapes in style. In my favorite moment, he was in midair, soaring over the front gate, when he glanced halfway back at my horrified husband. Who knew he had the vertical jump of Kobe Bryant?
Of course, once free, they are gone. Gone. No street is too busy for them to cross, no backyard too far away. The mission is clear: Every dog must be harassed, every squirrel chased, and every rabbit terrified right back into its hole. Chipmunks? Merely tasty morsels.
Every spring I enter the garden with such great expectations: the brilliance of those first blooms, the gentle dogwood swaying in the breeze, the pink peonies dotted with ants. I go out with my clippers, rake, spade, and gloves. I weed with passion. I plant anew. And then Lillie and Lucky dig, so I replant. Again. And again. I sit on the step, sipping my wine, literally watching my garden grow. Then I notice a little activity to my left. Or it could be to my right. A hosta stem broken. A hydrangea crushed. And…
a new hole in the fence.
Time to refortify. After I track down the terrorists.
Christy Marshall
Editor, AT HOME
