It seems every garden needs a dog these days. It is a trend led by Monty Don, who took it to another level this year by creating a garden for the Chelsea Flower Show that was designed for, and by, his dog Nell. Badger, our own canine horticultural expert, watches Monty Don on Gardener’s World and barks angrily whenever he sees Nell. I suspect Badger shares our view that basing your garden design on the random wanderings of your dog is taking the whole thing a little far.
The Midlife Garden has not been designed by a dog, but Badger’s influence on it is clear. He spends long hours patrolling the beds and borders, on the lookout for frogs, rodents and, on one particularly disturbing evening, Elephant Hawk Moth caterpillars. Thankfully he rarely, if ever, catches anything but his regular rootling through shrubs has created well-worn paths under the Peonies and Persicaria. So, in some sense, I have designed my planting around his habits. In our own scaled down version of Elephant Walk, I realise that planting anything on his path is ill-advised, as evidenced by the crushed Nicotiana and broken Bells of Ireland.
But Badger doesn’t confine himself to the dense jungles of the borders. He roams the lawns and paths in his efforts to evict other interlopers, of which the worst offenders are pigeons. Mrs B wonders if Badger picks up on her own annoyance at the half-arsed efforts of pigeons building nests in the pyracanthas or apple tree. They lay three twigs on top of one another and call it home, but they make such a flapping fuss about it. If Badger really does feed off Mrs B’s anger, he takes that anger, distils it, pressurises it and vents in a concentrated stream of apoplectic rage every time a pigeon lands anywhere near the garden, let alone actually in it. To Badger, pigeons are unwanted migrants, treating our trees like hotels, and like a Tory councillor, he wants them out of our Back Yard.
He does not spend ALL his time barking and getting angry. He is generally a calm dog, but not everyone would share this view. Certainly not the middle-aged woman we met the other day with her long-legged terrier cross. Badger and I were nearing the end of a relaxing walk when we came upon them. Badger was off the lead, and for a moment I thought he would maintain his relaxed demeanour with the other dog which was being tightly restrained by its tense owner.
Badger did his now customary nose to nose meet and greet, swiftly followed by a mouthful of snarled invective as he leapt at the larger dog. The owner pulled it away and I grabbed the now simmering Badger. She questioned why my dog was not on a lead, which was a fair point, and I apologised, sounding like a woolly-headed liberal parent making excuses for his “boisterous” child (for which you can read “spoilt”). But she was not in a mood for apologies or placations.
“Drives me up the FACKIN’ wall”, was her response as she strutted away.
I drew two of conclusions from the interchange. One: she is not from round here. And two: my dog is a foulmouthed little tyrant.
Like the master of quick wit and ready repartee that I am, I had the ideal response to the potty-mouthed newcomer.
“If dogs are like their owners, we appear to have got our dogs mixed up”, as I offered her my foul-mouthed dachshund.
But, like the comedian who thinks of the ultimate putdown to an annoying heckler, but only when he is on the bus on the way home, I came up with my witty rejoinder when I was back in the Midlife Garden, talking to my flowers, while Badger licked frogs and shouted at pigeons.
