Soon after we moved into our house our new neighbor Lauren left several plants on our front porch on her way to yoga class. “Enjoy the beauty and serenity that these milkweeds will provide you — for many years to come!” read the card.
My partner and I looked at the plants and looked at each other skeptically. “She gave us potted weeds?” he asked. “As if this yard doesn’t have enough weeds already?”
“Did she get these at a distress sale?” I asked. The plants were skinny and stalky and the leaves were all ragged.
“We’re not planting those,” said my partner firmly. “They’re really ugly.”
“It’s the thought that counts,” I said, giving her the benefit of the doubt.
“What was she thinking?” he asked.
My first inclination– to throw the plants right in the dumpster — I dismissed as being ungracious, so I went to the side yard and put the milkweed plants under the live oak next to the garbage cans. Our big dog Ali, inquisitive, came by, took one sniff and, bored, walked away.
I was about to follow her lead but a slight movement caught my eye; I took a closer look and saw a fair sized caterpillar happily gnawing one of the leaves. “What the….?” I muttered and started looking closer: the plants were literally crawling with caterpillars.
I’ve hated caterpillars ever since I was bitten by a poinsettia caterpillar when I was a kid; the bite got infected and I was on antibiotics for weeks. “Gross!” I muttered and made a beeline for the Sevin spray — Sevin is an insecticide that will kill pretty much anything you want it to – and within minutes the caterpillars were gone. “Well, that’s that!” I said to myself with a satisfied air.
With the caterpillars gone the milkweeds started to thrive, but every week to 10 days the caterpillars would come back, eat the leaves and I would have to get out the Sevin and start over again. “I swear I’m throwing those milkweeds away,” I told my partner.
“I’m surprised you haven’t already,” he said.
Not long after this I saw Lauren at the grocery store. A militant vegan, she looked into my shopping cart, saw a package of chicken breast, sighed and, clearly restraining herself, simply said, “How are the milkweeds doing?”
“Not well,” I told her. “I can’t keep the caterpillars off them. I’m going through gallons of Sevin.”
Lauren went pale and made a dreadful little sound; she hung on to her shopping cart as though afraid she may collapse.
“Those are milkweed plants,” she said. “They are for a butterfly garden.” I stared at her blankly, uncomprehending. She gulped. “The caterpillars come, eat the plants and turn into beautiful butterflies.” She paused, swaying slightly. “You’re killing butterflies,” she said in the same tone she would use if she caught me slaughtering unicorns for a tailgate party.
“How would I know that?” I said defensively, not sharing with her that I loathe butterflies — what are they but well-dressed cockroaches — and that I’m afraid of caterpillars and that the milkweed plants are butt-ugly. I also did not share with my vegan, yoga-loving neighbor that in my experience people who love butterflies also love raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens and spend way too much time scrapbooking. “How would I know?” I said again.
“Now you know,” said Lauren and flounced off; probably to stock up on tofu.
Chastised, I stopped spraying the milkweeds and several weeks later Ali and I were playing catch when a magnificent multi-colored butterfly fluttered by. Charmed in spite of myself I stopped to watch it; just at that moment Ali dropped her ball, charged by, made a flying leap and swallowed the butterfly in one gulp. She trotted over to me, licking her lips, clearly pleased with herself.
I looked around, secretly afraid Lauren was spying on me. “Good girl,” I said.