I loaded up my cart and smiled and nodded at the clerk as I rolled out of the door.

It began to snow within 24 hours of my credit card clearing Home Depot's magnetic strip.

For the next two weeks, miniature roses, ever-bearing strawberries and small annuals spilled over into my kitchen sink, both literally and visually. I had a pink rose, in particular, tumble into the dish water on occasion, the pansies staying put because they are afraid to go near the edge and are possibility afraid of the bubbles.

I finally planted in early May. It wasn't going to be a problem, and although several of the plants began to droop beyond recognition due to an unlikely coupling of lack of sunshine and Dawn dishwashing liquid, I knew the leggy and listless inhabitants of the back of the kitchen sink needed fresh air, sunshine and a reprieve from Brillo pads.

Standing back, I surveyed those early beauties of Spring, delicate and graceful, complementing one another in their bright-white Grecian urns. Miniature roses intermingled with strawberries, which rested besides pansies, filling out the rest of the arrangement. I looked up at the sky, surveyed predicted sunshine for days to come and, for the rest of that day, sat inside where I could view my plants which had been coddled as best they could be for the circumstances.

The next morning, as I looked down into the urns, I noticed the extremely clean look to the pots-- almost as though there were no plants there. I looked at the sky, licked a finger, felt no breeze. It was, at this moment, improbable that a random winter Zephyr had blown 12 plants away and left no trace behind whatsoever.

It is generally then, right about that time, the dog I had brought home to love and call my own (I had always been a cat person) had grown noticeably brown lips. Granted, it's not commonly thought upon that a dog has lips, but this one did, especially contrasting with its white, wiry fur. Big brown lips, and a tail wagging, bits of pansy splayed from the creature's mouth.

"Foul animal!" I shook my fist in the blasted devil animal's direction, and then spied the bits of plants that had been ripped out by their heads, roots and potting soil flung everywhere like old socks. I gathered parts of plants that had survived dogzilla's canine fun-time, and placed them as carefully as I could, back into the pots. Now, where once-filled flora spilled over the edges, I was stapling bits of leaves back onto fruit plants, and marveling that a dog could eat thorny roses and not spout water from its internal organs as in those old Loony Toons shows. Flopping flower heads finally lost their will to live, and the gulag of root matter every place led also into the living room, where I found a yellow annual under the carved pecan table.

Decimated by a dog with the IQ of my toenails on a good day, I was, minimally, as I cursed the dog in terms which curled even her hair, happy that not every plant I owned that had promise was within a dog's normally pink lips. I had the cherries to look forward to, thankfully, burdening deliciously the lapins tree in the front yard, along with the Montmorency.

That evening, I dreamt of birds chirping madly outside of my bedroom.

On the morning of a beautiful early May, I woke up to two naked fruit trees, and birds lying on the front lawn rather satisfied, patting their fat, bulging bellies. One of them burped. The dog met me at the door, tail wagging. The cat saw an opportunity. She spied the birds, full of pie cherries, and I looked at the dog, its demonic tail wagging.

I would have eaten the dog in a blackberry pie, but judging from the sight of her now-purple lips and the bits of drippy twig strewn across the back patio, I gathered that was no longer an option, either.