Meet Tom Petty, my recently appointed Minster of Slow Living. He’s a ceramic snail that gets moved from place to place within my garden—probably about once a month. He does occasionally get pooped on by an disapproving mockingbird (there is a very opinionated mockingbird that patrols my back yard), but he keeps on smiling and I keep on scrubbing him clean.

He judges the weeds, cheers on the flowers, supervises front porch activities, and reminds everybody that even a snail’s pace counts as progress.

He might belong among the wildflowers, but he’s perfectly happy nestled in between my hostas. For now.

OK, so we’re not talking Drag Race fierce, but she’s showing up!

Last year, I planted three little bare root roses that I grabbed from a sale shelf at Sam’s Club. They did pretty well, and have climbed up a trellis that had to be creatively attached to my porch. Side note: they were not labelled as climbers, but are obviously so motivated.

This Spring, the leaves started to come back quickly–along with a swarm of what turned out to be sawflies. They skeletonized more leaves than I’d like to admit before I bought some insecticidal soap and fought them back. I was worried, though, that the damage had been done.

Until yesterday afternoon! She’s a little bit raggedy, and a smidge on the small side, but she’s beautiful. And I counted at least 3 dozen more buds that will be backing her up soon enough.

I think she’s going to do just fine.

The insect world has obviously had a meeting and decided that I’m public enemy #1.

First there was the spider in the bathroom. He was small, but definitely a jumping spider, which immediately ups the stakes.

This morning, there was a camel cricket in the kitchen. Thankfully, Ursa had wounded it so its bouncing opportunities were limited and I was able to smoosh it with a carefully aimed trash can.

Now, I’m about 95% positive that I have a tick on my back. It’s in a weird spot so I can’t get a clear enough picture of it, or see it in the mirror, so I have to wait until my son wakes up to check it for me.

I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve this, but I’d like to issue a formal apology… just in case.

My dog, Muggle, will no longer respond to simple requests like “come”, “here”, or “let’s go inside”.

Every morning, she gets half a slice of American cheese wrapped around a pain pill, followed by a CBD tablet for her anxiety. This is followed by a bacon-adjacent chew strip that bounces off her forehead, without fail, because she refuses to try and catch it.

She’s learned this routine down to the second. She sits in the exact same spot, stumpy tail wagging, while I gather everything up. She only stands when I approach with “Here’s your cheese!”. She adores this routine and I imagine it’s comforting to her rescue dog nervous system.

So, if you hear me shouting “Cheeeeeeese” out my door at various times of the day, mind your business.