D-Day in the Forest

It is a rainy day in Southern Maine. Not that this is a bad thing; it's a good thing, actually, because the fire danger has been pretty high lately. But it also means the poison ivy along the edges of the road is getting more than its share of nourishment. I've decided to declare war on the poison ivy this year and next week's sun will signal D-Day.

It's nothing personal; I don't have a history of itchy-scratchy sleepless nights because of a chance encounter with the weed. It's more a matter of boundaries. I'm willing to let it keep the deep forest -- I'm only interested in the roadside and a path into the trees. I'm not asking for everything, just a little safer bit of something. That's fair, isn't it?

I would have been willing to use detante, but that means dialogue and the poison ivy hasn't been responsive when I've broached the subject of a shared living space. It just sits there and stares back at me: the old silent treatment. I even offered it a deal: I don't kill you and you don't infect me. The silent treatment once again.

Really, it's my dog's fault (when in doubt, blame someone else!). When we walk, he likes to do his business off the side of the road. Now, we could just walk around the house, around and around and around until he's done what he needs to do and then head off down the middle of the road. But try explaining that to him. The road doesn't smell like other dogs; there's no D-Mail to check. Blacktop is boring.

So, you see, I'm at the end of my options. Like it or not, it's time for "General Patton" to draw his ivory-handled spray gun and go to work. It's not going to be pretty; I may miss a few but I'll get the majority. Who knows? Maybe the survivors will pass the word and next year will be different. Now, who am I kidding?