A Feast For Crows

I am a horrible horticulturist. Dogs I got. Cats I can do. Plants? Fuggitaboutit.

Nonetheless, hope springs eternal, and every year an unfortunate crop of plants are sent to their doom as they peer out in horror from the back of my car on their way to purgatory from the relative safety of the nursery.

This year, I decided I would bring the kids into the fold and have them start a few seedlings. Maybe they have better juju than I, I reasoned. Perhaps they inherited their father’s talent for keeping plants alive instead of my less impressive genetic spread.

And they threw themselves into it the way only kids can, with gusto and passion. They planted the seeds as directed. They watered them religiously.

And then this morning, just as the first couple of eager sprouts were optimistically poking their tiny little sprout heads out of the soil, disaster.

Brody found the crime scene first.

I’m so sorry ma’am, the killer was in and out before there was anything we could do. What’s that? No, there were no survivors.

You may want to avert your eyes. It’s pretty bad out on the grass. Yes, they got the squash seedlings too. The whole crew, just like that.

Ma’am, I can say with certainty this was not the work of rabbits or coyotes. These were lifted right off the window ledge by a crow. I tried to tell you this morning when you were making coffee, remember?

Please accept my condolences. Oh, wait, you’re that vet, right? What were you doing with plants in the first place? Haven’t you learned by now? *sigh*