Tag Archives: Noah’s Ark

Why I Am a Plant Person

Before pet owners condemn me to deep doo-doo, please believe that I hold the utmost respect for animal lovers. They invest enormous amounts of time, money and love in their animal buds. One friend even shares hot fudge sundaes with her German shepherd.

I’d share with my husband. On his birthday. But with a dog?

Sorry. I don’t get it.

Yes, God made sure Noah took animals aboard the Ark, though it soon would rain cats and dogs. However, plants would have required feeding only once every two weeks. The family wouldn’t have shoveled nearly as many, um, by-products.

But the Lord counted on plants to take care of themselves — a big reason I’m a plant person.

My dear, departed fern was named Carolyn.

I’ve never paper-trained a plant. They don’t nudge me at 5 a.m. to go outside. They don’t bark or jump on guests. Plants don’t lick.

I haven’t lost a single new shoe to a plant’s fangs. Nor does my fern, unlike my daughter’s dog, shred the family’s underwear. If a plant outgrows its space, I can trim it. A plant will even hold still. (Just try this with a Lab.) I don’t scour neighborhoods for runaway plants or pay hefty shelter fees to bail them out. No vet appointments inflate my budget.

Unlike horses, they cannot kick me in the head.

Plants never eye me with the “Oh, is that you, peasant?” stare favored by most felines.

My black-eyed Susans and tiger lilies engage in leaf-to-leaf combat for dominance, but they never yowl under my window during the wee hours.

Plants even diminish carbon dioxide and add oxygen to the air. Animals? The reverse.

Admittedly, plants are not perfect. While they don’t bite, some boast nasty thorns. My child preferred to teethe on poisonous ones.

Plants shed, but their shedding is localized. I don’t find a thousand leaves stuck to my Sunday morning attire.

Plants also can be fussy as your Aunt Prilla Lou. They readily lay on wilt-guilt when I subject them to too much sun, not enough sun, too much moisture, not enough. Despite my friend’s assertion that “you can’t kill herbs,” I am a serial basil killer.

That’s the biggest reason I am a plant person. I grieve the herbs I kill and the poinsettias that shrivel, but I rarely shed tears for them. I never conduct plant funerals, as I did for our children’s hamsters, ceremonies so numerous the neighbors suspected a cult.

Hats off to folks who not only risk tears, but share sundaes with animal buds.

Still, unless my daffodils ask outright for a taste, I’ll handle hot fudge by myself.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Are you a plant or animal person? Both?

Why I Am a Plant Person

Before pet-loving pals condemn me to doo-doo, I affirm deep respect for animal lovers. They invest enormous amounts of time, money and love. Some even leave huge fortunes to pets. That, however, doesn’t stagger me like one friend’s sharing hot fudge sundaes with her German shepherd.

I’d share with my husband on his birthday. But with a dog?

God in His wisdom created both plants and animals. He wanted animals aboard the Ark, though it was raining cats and dogs.

Why didn’t Noah suggest inviting hydrangeas, callas and evergreens instead of badgers, snakes and elephants? Plants would have required weekly feedings. The family wouldn’t have shoveled nearly as many, um, by-products.

But the Lord knew animal lovers would languish without furry friends.

He also counted on plants to take care of themselves — a big reason I am a plant person.

I’ve never had to paper-train a plant. They do not nudge me at 5 a.m. to go out. My philodendrons never bring me a leash, begging me to leave the sofa. They don’t bark or jump on guests. Plants do not lick. I haven’t lost a single pair of new shoes to a plant’s fangs. I never scour the neighborhood, yelling for plants that have wandered off.

Plants never eye me with the “Is that you, peasant?” stare favored by felines.

They don’t rear or kick me in the head. Lord knows, I can’t afford to lose what brains I have.

Plants even diminish carbon dioxide and add oxygen to the air. Animals: the reverse.

Obviously, plants aren’t perfect. They shed, but I don’t find a thousand leaves stuck to my black pants. While plants don’t bite, some boast nasty thorns. My grandchildren showed an inordinate desire to teethe on poisonous ones.

Plants also can be fussy as your Aunt Prilla Lou. They readily lay on wilt-guilt when subjected to less-than-perfect conditions.

I confess I am a serial herb murderer. I’ve taught the only trick plants can learn — “play dead” — to basil, oregano and cilantro with far too much success.

That’s the biggest reason I am a plant rather than animal person. I grieve the herbs I kill, poinsettias that shrivel, the cyclamen I neglected to repot. However, I’ve rarely shed tears for them. I never conduct plant funerals, as I did for our children’s hamsters, so numerous the neighbors suspected I was running a cult.

Hats off to you folks who not only risk tears, but share hot fudge sundaes with your animal buds.

Still, unless my asparagus fern makes a direct request for a taste, I’ll eat my sundaes by myself.

Your Extraordinary Ordinary: Are you an animal or plant person?

OMG, It’s Monday! Prayer: Yaaay, Mrs. Noah!

OMG, I’m done with torrential downpours and drizzly days! But You helped Mrs. Noah survive 40 days and nights of rain — plus cleaning up after a gazillion animals! Like her, I should believe Your rainbow promises. Though later, when their anniversary rolled around, I bet she and Noah didn’t take a cruise.