We’re having a disagreement about property rights and sharing.
Hop is my pet garden rabbit. She’s a smart one—she knows the parts of the yard where the dogs can’t go and sits right over the electric fence line eating clovers. She knows the dogs can’t get her in the garden, either.
And that I won’t. I’ll just walk in and say, “Hi, Hop,” and if anything, I’ll spray a bunch of beetles and sit and visit with her for a while.
Hop comes pretty close to me now—about five or six feet in the yard if I’m quiet and still, and a row away if we’re in the garden. Hop’s comfortable enough with me now to life her head and say, “Hey,” and look back down to her dinner.
Two nights ago, it was an entire row of beans. I didn’t really mind that much because they were a little tough, but still—the whole row is a little rude. We’ve got an agreement… a farm share.
That means I get some, too.
Then, last night I found seven half-tomatoes. I mind this less than the squirrel from the original Poser Homestead who stopped to take a single bite out of every pepper and tomato to make sure I wasn’t holding out my prized veggies.
But seven tomatoes is a little gluttonish—I’d rather share 3.5 whole tomatoes.
I picked the seven halves and shared them with the chickens. They are now big fans of Hop.
One day, I saved Hop’s family—the Hoplets were stuck in my berry net. I got some scissors, held Little Hop, and cut him out while his sister sat by, untangled, and waited for him. I’m sure they’ll say thanks over a handful of my blackberries, ripening soon.
“Want me to get rid of them?”
That’s what happened to the squirrels at the old place. Twenty one in one sight line was an invasion and they had eaten their way into the soffits and into our house walls. That’s crossing the line.
Hop just eats tomatoes and beans and sits with me at twilight.
She’s a good friend.
She can stay for now… but I wish she’d leave a few of my tomatoes for me.