A wascally wabbit is wavaging my wife's stwaberry patch.
Sorry, it must be all those Bugs Bunny cartoons I watched as a kid. What I meant to say is that a rascally rabbit is ravaging my wife's strawberry patch.
The strawberries are the prizes in the various gardens that my wife, Sue, has planted around the house.
She would never let me plant a garden because I have a green thumb. I think it's a fungus. I really ought to see a doctor.
In the 14 years we have lived in our house, I have killed virtually every form of flora I have encountered. It's a good thing I don't know anyone named Flora or I'd be in jail right now.
I once had my own herb garden in which I grew parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme. (I apologize if you can't get the song out of your head.) Herb, Sage and Rosemary had a menage a twine, which I used to tie up the tomato plants in the adjacent vegetable garden. It was pretty kinky. My deadly touch tragically put an end to their love nest.
The only thing I couldn't kill was a humongous butterfly bush that grew about 12 feet tall and threatened to engulf the side of the house. Sue wanted me to remove it (the bush, not the side of the house), but my pathetic little handsaw had about as much effect as a plastic knife would have on a giant sequoia. So I had it chopped down by a landscaper whose name wasn't Paul Bunyan but should have been. I played the role of Babe, not because I'm as strong as an ox but because I'm as dumb as one.
It was, therefore, a pretty risky proposition when I recently asked Sue if she needed help planting flowers. Maybe it's because she had been out in the sun too long, but she kindly accepted.
"My Gerber daisies are doing very well," she noted as we began our work.
"Gerber? You mean like the baby food?" I wondered. "You must have bought them in a nursery."
I could tell that Sue regretted accepting my offer, but it was too late to do anything about it.
"I want to plant these flowers," she said, indicating the flats on the patio, "so you have to dig some holes in the bed."
"How will we get to sleep?" I asked.
Sue gave me a look that explained why the flowers are called impatiens.
I dutifully dug, but the holes weren't deep enough, so Sue took the trowel and showed me the right way to do it. "You can just hand me the flowers," she said. "I don't want you to kill them."
One thing that Sue trusts me to do is the watering. It is often my job to provide liquid nourishment not only for her flowers and herbs but for the strawberries in the side yard. They are sweet and succulent. Unfortunately, the rabbit thinks so, too.
"That bunny is eating all my strawberries," Sue lamented. "I don't know what to do."
"Why don't you put up a sign saying, 'Silly rabbit, strawberries are for people'?" I suggested.
"Silly man," Sue responded, "rabbits can't read."
Most mornings, when I am heading off to work, the rabbit will be sitting in the front yard, twitching its nose. Then it will look at me like I have two heads. Or one head with two very short ears.
One day I said, "Our friends have a pet rabbit named Stew." The bunny hopped away.
But it didn't stay away for long. It came back later that evening, presumably for a strawberry dinner. Sue and I have actually grown fond of the little critter, so we don't really mind sharing our bounty.
It's a good thing I'm not responsible for the strawberry patch. The poor rabbit would starve.
Stamford Advocate columnist Jerry Zezima is the author of "Leave It to Boomer." Visit his blog at www.jerryzezima.blogspot.com. Email: JerryZ111@optonline.net.