Disturbed

Before delving into my usual silliness, I'd like to share a link to a fundraiser. As dear Strayer warned, images are disturbing. I averted my eyes from the poor kitty's disfigurement because I'm a wimp. ~shakes head~ Please donate if you are able.

Meanwhile, back to my goofy look at life in Southwest Ohio. Oh, and only in retrospect after updating this post, did I realize this poor animal's plight fits my title. It's odd how things happen.
 
Anyway, on the bright side, our yard is bustling with springtime activity. The other morning I mowed the back lawn, then hooked up the garden hose to clean the mower’s undercarriage. Beneath the shade of my horse chestnut tree, chore complete, I studied the tidy nest above.
 
To my delight, four or five beaks rose, opening and closing in hopes of a feed. It occurred to me that my presence, not to mention the noise, must have disrupted the dedicated mother robin. And our hose no doubt looked like a snake.
 
I wasted no time storing everything away and clearing out. Inside looking out the window, I was rewarded with sight of mama bird flying up to her offspring, a fat bug in her bill. But another development disturbs my poor husband.
 
Years ago I brought home a cute, tropical looking specimen the seller called ‘snake plant’ due to its interesting stem pattern. The thing struggled until I happened to see the same fellow at that garden center and he recommended a shadier spot. From one little pot its transplanted corms have since filled the space between our front door and weeping crabapple tree. And then we started to see blossoms emerge.
 
That doesn’t sound bad, now, does it? But one common name for amorphophallus konjac is ‘corpse flower’. The bloom, meant to attract and capture insects, smells like rotting flesh. Our home improvement contractor actually posed the question one spring, asking what had died. And this May we have a record eight flowers.

Can you see all eight?

My guy now dreads some delivery person calling the authorities until they wilt back and make way for its striking foliage. While I think the average person will simply go on with his or her busy day, the thought is a bit disturbing. It’s weird how I end up growing pervasive stuff like this and the menacing prickly pear cacti while my daylilies and creeping phlox disappeared into the ground.

What are the odds I’d plant this right next to my front door? Would you find such a stench suspicious enough to call the police?
 

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