THE LACKADAISICALITY INDEX

It's because I'm generally not lackadaisical that my experience with wild pigs is limited. However, because I've only seen one monkey in the last few months, my LI (Lackadaisicality Index) has plunged. You see at once how this all fits together. Monkeys keep me on my toes, LI-wise, and if you're on your toes in regard to monkeys, you're on stilts when it comes to wild pigs. If you're not thus on your toes, then you are a welcome mat for the porkers. That's my deep philosophical lesson of the week.

To begin not too long after the beginning: while making my breakfast tea this morning I looked out the big window in the kitchen and noticed that out in the garden, inside the high net fence, the large bucket of bokashi juice had fallen over. I knew I had not been so careless as to place it in such a way that it could be toppled by a strong wind. Anyway it was ¾ full, and heavy.  I also knew that monkeys would not have toppled it, because there was no reward in doing so, and monkeys do not do anything for nothing; they're almost as bad as Wall Street. I couldn't see any other signs of destruction out there, which also mitigated against monkeys. In rural shamus fashion I would check it out after breakfast, on my way to work.

As to my LI, I've been leaving the garden gate open lately because as I say I'd only seen one monkey in a long while, that one cowering behind a rice paddy downmountain; anyway the thieving beasts don't need gates unless they're infirm, and there aren't many infirm monkeys. A mother with clinging infant might opt for a gate rather than climb the high net, but that's another time of year. You can see I've got this all figured out. The deer take advantage of the open gate when there's Spring spinach to be had, but there's so much fresh wild food everywhere for deer to eat now that we don't even see deer any more, they haven't come into the garden in quite a while; no need for them to leave the forest. Couldn't be Littlefoot, he never leaves a mess. My LI was pretty well justified, if you ask me. So what had happened? What had I overlooked? Were my tromboncino now under threat? My cukes? My peppers and pumpkins? Tomatoes? Nobody bothers hot peppers or goyas, thank goodness...

When I got out there for a quick check it appeared that all was well, oddly enough; then when I reached the far end I saw that the soil of one entire corner, perhaps 6 square meters, had been deeply and violently ripped up. I'd seen this before, elsewhere: wild pigs after earthworms. Also, I had planted potatoes there last year. An irresistible combination to wild pigs deprived of the fresh rice growing all around them but out of reach behind electric fences - you can imagine the frustration - but fortunately Mr. Nice Guy of the declining LI was living nearby. The snouty beasts work at night, quietly, so I hadn't heard a sound. Didn't touch the nearby tomatoes and just missed some goya and cuke vines, though one cuke vine had to be listed as collateral damage; nothing else. Those big porky bodies had no problem shouldering that heavy bucket out of the way of fine dining.

This is the first time I've ever been invaded by wild pigs, but only because of my gradual LI reversal. There's a big lesson for the world somewhere in there, but there's no point in throwing pearls before politicians. For their part, the porkos probably broke up their garden party at dawn, but I bet they'll be back for more: tonight one garden corner, tomorrow you know what. My gate, for one, will be closed.

You've been warned. Metaphorically too.

FOREST TRASH

It was clearly a crude simian that invaded my garden briefly on Friday while I was at the office, as I discovered on Saturday morning; so very unlike the sophisticated Littlefoot, who purloins so neatly and considerately.

Judging from the vegetoforensic results I obtained in the aftermath, this hairy clod pulled up a baby carrot, just looked at it, threw it on the ground saying I don't want little carrots, I want big carrots, don't you know who I am, then did it again and again until there were no more upsetting carrots in the ground, they were now all over the place uneaten, then he spotted a largish green tomato in there among lush tomato vines, pulled apart the vines, grabbed the tomato, ripped it off the vine and broke other vines too this way and that, looked at and bit the tomato, threw it on the ground at his feet and said ptah, I don't want a hard, green tomato, I want a juicy, red tomato didn't anybody know I was coming, this garden sucks, where are the tomatoes and carrots I deserve, somebody better do something about this, and tore up some more tomato vines, threw them around, crudely elbowed the tall, slim and unoffending sunflowers aside while coming and going, like he was using a Tokyo subway or something, crassly leaving the innocent flowers toppled in situ-- no class, no sense of order or discipline, no concept of neatness, no pride in one's species and culture-- so unlike the elegant thief Littlefoot, the Cary Grant of simians.

This was just a lowlife, uncultured simian brigand, gaucher than you can get even in Hollywood-- what some apes call forest trash. Or so I hear.

THE FIVE PLUM PIPS

By Wednesday the ripening plums had hung there long enough. I was surprised to have gotten away with it thus far this year, given the quantity of fragrant plums and the precise plum awareness of monkeys in years past, when simians all around had "Brady Plums Ready" clearly marked in their organizers. So even though it was raining hard I got the ladder and harvested all the plums that were even slightly ripe, put them in a big basket by the window in the living room to finish ripening. I left the half dozen or so still fully green ones on the tree, to get on Saturday.

On Thursday and Friday I worked in the big city, coming back after dark, so it wasn't until Saturday morning that I went out on the deck to check the green plums and saw a row of well-chewed plum pits arranged along the deck railing and no plums left on the tree. Later, when I went out into the garden, I found that the potato patch had been dug up, and one patch of baby carrots had been plucked and eaten. Oddly enough, though, it was all done very neatly.

In the potato patch it looked as though the perp, more than seeking potatoes, had enjoyed the sensation of digging in the dirt and pulling up the plants, which were not tossed monkily everywhere, but merely laid down neatly at the edge of the patch, with many of the potatoes left showing in the dirt, only a couple of the small ones eaten; there were none with big bites taken out and then just tossed aside anywhere as per monkey behavioral norms. The baby carrots as well had been neatly pulled up, one by one (not in handfuls!), they'd been neatly bitten off and neatly laid out on the ground with all the carrot leaves in one direction, making a nicely arranged pile, quite convenient for me to gather and carry to the compost heap.

The ready-to-eat turnips right next to the potatoes were completely untouched (not ripped up and tossed around just for the hell of it, like at a monkey garden party)-- as were the ready green beans, though the perp had apparently napped atop a couple of the plants. He had sampled but one little green tomato, not tossing every single tomato everywhere as if angry at their unreadiness and then pulling up the plants for the simian inyerface anarchy of it all. The tomatoes were otherwise untouched.

In fact, the perp had done a lot of potato digging work for me; it took but a few moments to harvest the remainder (98%!) (and the biggest!) of the potatoes; in light of this, it's beginning to appear as though the polite perp might in fact have waited for me to harvest the distinctly ripe and fragrant plums, which had hung there for some days(!), and had then eaten the few unripe ones remaining, leaving the pits for me to find... Littlefoot, you are a strange one... So fastidious, with a bit of integrity, even somewhat honest... We could use a few like you on Wall Street... Anyway, better there than here... With my tomatoes and pumpkins now emerging, it's time to implement Plan T...

GARLIC AND JACK DANIELS

Yesterday morning out in the garden, under some now-and-then brief slivers of sun that somehow managed to make it through the clouds, I was splitting firewood and stonewalling when, as a break from stonelifting I decided to harvest my slouchy garlic rather than just leave it unattended to hang out on street corners after dark and hero-worship the sullen tomatoes. I remember where that can lead. So in the full confidence of midday monkeylessness I dug the bulbs up, bunched them, tied them together with one of the stalks and laid them atop a high cord of firewood to pick up later when I went in for lunch after splitting some more wood.

But because when I went in for lunch I was pondering the deeper quantum relation of chronorelativity as pertains to the torque factors stemming from the interaction of meteorology and gravitation as manifested in the grain of cherry wood I forgot about the garlic, which maybe explains the slouchiness-- was I being too inattentive? Growing garlic is different from parenting: with parenting you get one long shot; with garlic you can try again next year.

Anyway I went in, had lunch, enjoyed a brief nap and came out again an hour or so later to get back to work, when I found that during my brief respite a solo simian had come and scored just one bulb of garlic from the bunch, without making a mess of the very messable mass, just left them where they lay, had taken the single bulb over to the stone steps and there sat quietly eating just half the cloves, then went away, all without making a sound (more proof that it was an individual)-- which surprised me greatly, since I have a carefully constructed, autopowered multifunctional internal monkey alarm that requires no maintenance and is sensitive to such microsounds as occur with garlic movement. The hairy pirates rarely pull off a successful heist while I am at home.

Whoever it was had eaten about half the cloves, then laid the stalk neatly atop the stairs together with the remnant cloves and fragments, arranged in rather an ikebana fashion, and simply departed, without even trying to get into the vegetable garden itself. This did not add up. This solitariness, this quietness, this relative consideration and artistic neatness did not ring any of the old monkey bells in the Brady tower; rather, this combination of factors seemed to me to indicate that I had had a visit from Littlefoot, that quiet, pensive creature. Maybe he just chewed up a bit of garlic to make a poultice for a sore belly.

I think tomorrow I'll leave some Jack Daniels out there with a garlic bulb.

LITTLEFOOT

Yesterday afternoon as I was coming outside into the garden, over the top of the firewood stack I saw a monkey leap from the ground to the big oak by the garden. He had apparently been casing the onionfest when he heard me come out, but hadn't seen me. At the moment he just clung to the side of the oak right where he'd landed, seemed in no hurry at all. This was not your usual monkey. Normally, a solo thieving monkey that suddenly spots me will take off like a simian out of hell, but this monkey just hung there on the side of the tree until I made myself fully visible, when he slowly climbed to the first branch and just sat there.

I was surprised by his awkwardness in getting up the tree - an odd thing to say about a monkey - he had none of the motive grace of the typical thieving monkey, who flows up any tree like water flows down a mountain; this beast, in contrast, waddled inexpertly upward like he was a bit overweight, then sat there watching me like I was on tv. Was this the world's first simian couch potato?

He just sat there quietly, in no hurry, pushing some leaves aside the better to enjoy this interesting program, making no other move even when I bent to pick up a rock. Even when I hefted the rock. Even when I reared back to throw the rock (by this time a normal monkey would be well on the move, if not already beyond range) . Even when I threw the rock, he just watched. This must be 3D! When the rock struck the bark near him, though: that's when he'd take off. The rock struck the bark near him, he waddled off to a branch on the other side of the tree and continued watching through the leaves this fascinating natural adventure program in 3D. I half expected him to whip out a bag of potato chips.

So I got another egg-sized rock. Normally I make my antimonkey throws somewhat gingerly, because of a game shoulder from back in my pitching days, but all these past months of heavy labor have gotten me into better shape than I realized; I reared back and whanged a rockety fastball at that monkey: it went right down the old pipe, and out from among the leaves came what I felt was a simian "Ooof!", though I'd never heard a simian "Ooof!" before. I must have hit him in the belly. Anyway we were both surprised. He swung unhurriedly to the roof of a neighboring building - this program was not going as expected - then dropped down into the bamboo and blundered off, probably wondering why everything happened to him.

As I stood there I realized that the protothieve's fur had been longer and darker than that of the usual beady-eyed brigand, and he'd moved slower, like a chubby monkey. But there aren't any chubby monkeys. Also, the way he'd climbed that tree, and just sat there and watched... Plus I didn't recall seeing a typical thieving red face or a typical thieving red ass. Had this been a different species of monkey? No, there's only one species in Japan. Was this a zoo escapee? Had I maybe just dinged a child of Bigfoot?

In any case I hadn't meant to hit whatever it was with the rock, I'd never hit anything before, other than superior batters, and I felt bad as Littlefoot plunged away-- so I shouted after him "Sorry, dude-- didn't mean to hit you with that rock, I just meant to scare you away from my garden-- nothing personal, you understand."

Which is true as far as it goes, but also it might be good to stay on the better side of Bigfoot.