Hippity hoppity, feaster's on its way!

The Boston Globe

Beverly Beckham

I planted 200 tulips last Nov 14. I know this because I wrote it down in my gardening journal, a little book my family contends is proof that I am clearly obsessed. Who, over the age of 6, they ask, cuts out pictures of morning glory and columbine and saves the little stick-in-the ground plastic identifiers that come with potted plants?

I try to explain, as I search for my glue stick and scissors, that at least what I cut and paste in my journal stays put. Look. See? Orange tulips tinged with yellow. Purple anemones. Baby coreopsis. Sapphire blue delphinium. This is what is supposed to be growing in my garden right now.

But as of this morning, there are just five frightened tulips huddled together and not a single anemone. The coreopsis and delphinium may well be hunkering low, like soldiers in trenches, biding their time, hoping to outwit the enemy. Or, who knows, they may already be part of the food chain, fuel for the cells of the very creatures that are ravaging not only them but almost everything else I've planted.

Snow. Heavy rain. Frigid cold. Wind. Drought. Even the god-awful fungus that killed my black-eyed susan three summers ago - they have nothing on these beasts. All by themselves they've devoured 195 tulips. You can see the remains of what might have been, gnawed stalks of green, a trail of half-chewed orange petals, a perfect tulip perfectly beheaded.

Thumper, Peter Cottontail, and Brer Rabbit have ruined my garden. What's a person to do?

Last year I draped ugly green netting on top of my plants to keep the rabbits out. I sprinkled dried blood on the daisies, coyote urine on the asters, and hot red pepper everywhere else. I turned my backyard into a back alley. Still the rabbits kept on eating. I bought them carrots. And some rabbit food. And, OK, I talked to them, too. "Hello, cute little bunnies," I said. "Here. Eat this and leave my flowers alone." And they looked at me and did that cute little bunny thing with their nose. And they did that cute little bunny thing with their tail. And I thought, maybe they understand. Maybe they're spreading the word: Ah ha! We're not supposed to be chowing down her yummy yarrow, guys. We're supposed to be eating all those carrots.

A dream is a wish your heart makes, right? But it didn't work. The carrots. The pleas. The heartfelt Disney sentiment. The rabbits kept on eating. So I gave up and said OK. We'll coexist. There were just two of them, then, skinny in the spring, but as big as Benji by June. They lived under the shed near the back gate and sometimes, when I was pruning and weeding, they'd stick their heads out and watch me. I hummed, "So this is love," from Cinderella. I should have carried a wand and sung "Bippity Bobbity, Boo!"

Fall came. I planned on planting daffodils. Rabbits don't like daffodils. But I was shopping and found four bags of tulips that were coral and lavender and bright red and yellow and pearl and marked down. And I thought, if I plant enough of them, some will grow. The rabbits can't possibly eat them all.

They did.

Here's the thing, though. It's hard to think of Thumper as the enemy even when you glance out your kitchen window and see his little mouth spitting out tulip petals. Rabbits look so benign. They don't whoop like samurai or stomp across tender shoots like foot soldiers. They don't even squawk like the wild turkeys that stroll through my yard. They're silent. They're the equivalent of a neuron bomb. We have four of them already this spring. I watch them hop, hop, hopping from plant to lovely plant. And though I groan and complain and curse at them, I laugh, too, because how can you not laugh at these furry, outrageously brazen creatures?

I planted herbs last week, cilantro, basil, parsley and chives. And some bib lettuce, too. But I think I've outsmarted them this time. I planted them in containers on my deck, close to my house. Too close to my house for them to come near. Too many stairs to climb. Too dangerous.

At least this is what I'm hoping. Fingers crossed!