As a gardener, one must be philosophical but sometimes there’s a fine line between being a philosopher and a psychopath and today I feel like morphing into the latter. A serial killer like Dexter, and the guilty that I’d like to kill are the thieves who take from my orchard. If only I have a shotgun like Granny in the Beverly Hillbillies…and if I’m not against guns.
I was congratulating myself as I inspected my breba crop of figs yesterday and this morning I found most of them gone. They were small and not palatable to humans so it’s the possum or the bird. Bird, I think.
Upon closer inspection a few fruit had survived and there’s nothing to do but bag those and hope for the best. My bags are against fruit flies but hopefully they’ll also deter other predators. In past years when I’d been early with them I suffered no loss (until they became edible for humans). I used to feel ridiculous bagging figs the size of peas or marbles; no more.
The scent of orange blossoms woke me from my murderous mood and I decided to be philosophical after all.