Dear Tinkerbell,
Just so you know, I’m lying in wait for you. Right now. Behind the lilac bush. Early in the morning. So early, in fact, that dawn is barely cracking. Or whatever it is that dawn does early in the morning.
I’m waiting for you to appear so I can leap to my feet and shout HA! And also GOTCHA!
OK. Certain people reading this may wonder why I am waiting behind the lilac bush for a Disney character to appear in my backyard. Is it normal for people to do that? Is that even a thing? I need to explain, obv.
You, Tinkerbell, are a dog — a real live Newfoundland that weighs 120 pounds, as opposed to a fake fairy who doesn’t weigh anything because (as I just noted) she’s fake. When we brought you home, we figured we knew all about your kind because we owned a Newfoundland before you. Zora. We knew that you would shed and drool and sneak up on the couch because that’s what Newfies do. We also knew you would adore little children, just like Katie Nana in Peter Pan.
But. There were a few things we didn’t know.
Even when Zora was a puppy she was lazy. It took every last ounce of her energy to lie in the middle of the floor all day long. I once found a photo in a magazine of a Newfie leaping out of a helicopter to rescue somebody drowning in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean … and marveled. I knew the last thing in the world Zora wanted to do was leap out of helicopters. She barely wanted to leap out of cars. Especially when I took her to the groomer’s.
So imagine our surprise, Tinkerbell, when we brought you home and discovered that leaping was one of your superpowers. You leap everywhere. Up and down staircases. On furniture. Over furniture.
But here’s the thing I REALLY didn’t expect, which is why I’m hiding behind the lilac bush. You have apparently developed a taste for tomatoes. Fresh ones, straight off the vine. My vines. The ones I planted with hope in my heart last May.
Yes, I thought to myself as I carefully placed those tiny tomato plants in my garden. Come August and September I will be able to enjoy the literal fruits (because tomatoes, technically speaking, are fruits and not vegetables) of my labor. I will pluck warm ripe tomatoes straight out of my garden and eat them as I sit on my back porch.
However, as the Scottish poet Robert Burns once said, “The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.” Except he said it in Scottish. “The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men gang aft a-gley.” Which explains why I only understood half of what I heard that time I was in Glasgow trying to order some curry in a restaurant.
(Ann Cannon | Special to The Tribune) Exhibit A of Tinkerbell's taste for tomatoes.
Here’s what happened. One morning I noticed that tomatoes were missing. Also, the plants themselves looked as if Paul Bunyan had stepped on them. Paul Bunyan? What?! Later, I caught sight of you, Tinkerbell, rummaging through those same plants like someone at a garage sale.
YOU! You are Paul Bunyan. Except not really. Because he’s fake, too. But that’s not the point. The point is that I’m going to bust you this morning. I’m going to shoot out from behind this bush and shout, “UNHAND THOSE TOMATOES.”
Which you will. And you’ll look at me with big repentant brown eyes.
But as soon as my back is turned, you’ll help yourself to them again.
Which leaves me no other choice but this: to plant my tomatoes in the front yard when spring rolls around once again. Live and learn, Tink. That’s what this life is all about.
Ann Cannon can be reached at acannon@sltrib.com or facebook.com/anncannontrib.
