The Backyard: Guardian-in-Training & The Walnut Syndicate

Episode 2

What is that awful smell? Oh my, it’s getting worse, and everyone’s still at the table doing…something. Walking toward the table only makes it worse. Sneeze—sneeze—sneeze. Her paws reach the table edge, mostly for balance. Bowls of color breathe a new, pungent, sour into the mix. She sneezes and shakes her head; it’s still there. Under the table is a little better. Try the other side—nope. Hands close around her ribs, lifting. No—this is worse. She twists free, hits the tile, and runs for the door. I need air!

On the patio, fresh air can’t fill her nose fast enough; the sour, gaseous smell still lingers.

Daiiiisy—

“Do not finish that sentence, Oleander. I am not in the mood.”

She needed a perch with a clear view of the yard and a little cover so nothing could sneak up on her—a spot to think and observe.

Out of the corner of her eye, she catches a slight movement. The low branches of the Japanese Maple move, giving way to round green tufts. Daisy recognizes the invitation. She goes to the tufts, sniffs first, presses a paw to ensure nothing’s hiding, then climbs up. Cool, soft, with some give—they fit her perfectly. The Maple’s branches stretch over, shading the spot and giving a bit of cover from above. Daisy likes the protective perch with a clear view of the yard. Settling in, she sends her thanks, silently, to the maple.

One last deep breath to clear the odious smell—another sneezing fit shakes her. Butterfly flutters to a safe distance. When the sneezing passes, Daisy sinks into her perch.

“Hi, Butterfly!” Daisy says. “Why are you so far behind me?”

Butterfly studies the pup stretched out on the tufts, gauging whether they’ll set her off again. “I prefer to do greetings at a sociable distance, not flattened against your nose.” As she speaks, Butterfly flutters before Daisy. “That aside, good afternoon, Daisy.”

Daisy gives her best puppy-dog eyes. “I’m sorry, Butterfly. It wasn’t my intention to greet you like that.”

Butterfly can’t stay upset at those sorrowful eyes. “It’s alright, pup. I know you didn’t mean it.”

Bumble buzzes by with his posse and waves.

Once again, Ashe’s baritone finds her before the words do.
“What’s up, little one? Why such a bad mood?” he asks.

“Can humans not smell? I don’t know how they sit in that odious mix, enjoying themselves. I could barely breathe. Why are they coloring eggs?”

Ashe pauses; he already knows. “This is the time of year they color eggs. One hides them and the kids go looking. It’s a human ritual—every year. And their noses aren’t as capable as yours, Daisy.”

“Lucky them,” Daisy grouses. Thinking ahead to avoid this in the future: “How do I know when it’s coming?”

“Smell.”

“Smell what?”

“Smell.”

She stretches her head forward past the grass scent of the tufts and catches a sweet note with a spicy finish. “Mmm…what is that?”

“Hyacinths. When you see or smell them in the air, this happens.”

“Noted. But why eggs?”

A twig bounces on the cement by Daisy’s perch. “Eggs!” Hummingbird gasps.

Hummingbird zips to the window, peeks, and comes back, swooping down to pick up her twig. An empathetic sigh escapes her: “Chickens.” With that, Daisy watches her go back to her nest building.

Turning her head to settle back into the tufts, she comes face to face with a small, brown, fuzzy thing holding a walnut. Startled, Daisy pops up. The animal takes off for Ashe. Daisy gives chase. The squirrel jumps to the trunk and scurries, its nails scratching the rough bark of the old tree. Daisy circles the trunk, tracking its spiral climb. She tracks it through the branches to the long one that shades Oleander. She stands to one side, near Oleander, and just makes out the squirrel hiding behind a thicker patch of leaves.

“You get out of that tree and leave this yard immediately!”

The squirrel laughs and strides down the branch almost directly over her, his bushy tail swishing in time with his strides, giving him a little extra bravado.

“Is that the best you got? Is that the all-powerful ‘Daisy the Destroyer’ bark? Hey, mates—come meet Daisy the Dainty!”

More squirrels appear on the branch and the one above.

“All of you get out of here! This is not your yard!” Daisy says.
The twittering quiets; they hesitate.

Behind her, Oleander laughs. “Good one, Patrick—‘Daisy the Dainty.’ Aww, our little girl—does she want to play tea party? Boys, anything to bring to her tea party?”

The squirrels vanish for a beat—then return with leftover shells and pelt her.

There is no way she is backing down. She runs back and forth, dodging shells. “Your days are numbered. I will get you out of here.” The twittering fades; a few stop. Maybe I’m getting to them…

Behind her, Oleander laughs—bright and needling—and the barrage starts up again.

Daisy plants her feet. “I won’t be small forever.”

For a beat, the shells falter. A few squirrels freeze.

Swoosh! The slider opens, and the woman walks out. She picks up a stick; the squirrels scatter. She looks down at the shells, frustrated. “Good dog, Daisy! Get those squirrels out of here!”

Daisy does her Aussie wiggle, flashing her big smile. She comes close for praise—maybe a cuddle—then darts back to her perch. She can still smell that horrible egg smell; the woman needs to air out.

The yard exhales. Calm takes root in the stillness; the yard has made its choice. Hummingbird, Butterfly, and Ashe trade looks. Hummingbird and Butterfly nod to Ashe. It’s time.

The yard has seen it—the fight, the speed (she nearly had that fat tail), the Guardian traits residing in the Shepherd. In her, Australian Shepherd and Guardian mean the same thing. She’s a natural.

On her perch, Daisy picks walnut shell shards from her fur and from between her pads. Flick, flick.
“Daisy the Dainty.” “Daisy the Dainty.” “Want a tea party, little girl?”
Oleander.
Anger, humiliation, and revenge swirl. Her voice—how could it betray her like that?

Another sound rises—the strength in her mother’s voice.
Her mother’s voice had strength and richness. When she’d had enough, no one crossed her; even the squirrels scurried up the skinny maples to escape. Where is her voice?

“Your voice will come. You are still young.”

The comfort lands; the sting stays. Ashe’s presence settles.

“I meant to wait,” Ashe says, “but The Yard has chosen. You’re ready—what you did today proves it. You saw the squirrel, chased it, and held your ground. We’d be foolish not to put those instincts to work. We have a job for you, Daisy.”

“What? A job? For me?” Daisy sits up.

“Yes. The yard needs a Guardian. Not just an Australian Shepherd—in you, those are the same thing. There’s more going on here than you’ve seen.”

Skeptical, Daisy says, “Is this just some role you made up to make me feel better?”

Ashe’s tone softens. “We were the ones hesitating. The yard already senses it in you; now it sees it. We won’t deny it.”

“What does a Guardian do?”

“A Guardian isn’t just strong or swift,” Ashe says. “The yard chooses the one it can speak to—and the one who will listen. Nose that knows what doesn’t belong. Eyes that don’t miss the flick in the leaves. A spine that doesn’t back down to bullies. That’s you.

“Your work is simple and old. Keep the walnut-planters from burying nuts. When you find a walnut sprout, show the humans—make it obvious: sit on the spot, paw once, stare—but don’t dig up their beds or they’ll keep you inside. Press the squirrels off the fence line. Watch over the new plantings the humans plant. Help the yard welcome back who belongs here—Butterfly, Hummingbird, Bumble the bee—and the rest will follow. You have allies; you’ve already met them.”

“Walnut-planters?”

“First, see what you’re fighting for.”  

Ashe shares images from long ago: a beautiful yard full of zinnias, buddleias, roses, and shrubs. Clusters of butterflies in many colors. Bees thick over the flowers. Hummingbirds drinking from honeysuckle on a wide wooden arbor—color everywhere and a lush lawn. The yard attracts the pollinators and invites them into the neighborhood.

“Wow. There’s so much color and life in the yard of the past,” Daisy says. “I hear the family always talking about things dying right when they think they’ll survive. There was a mole, but I’d love to live in a garden like that. I guess these guys aren’t so good at this kind of thing.”

Ashe shakes his leaves. “No—it’s the syndicate. They plant poison bombs—black walnuts. The poison lives in the roots and sours the soil around it. Until the soil is replaced, nothing will thrive.”

Daisy’s eyes widen at how far the damage goes.

“As for the squirrels who eat black walnuts,” Ashe says, “they grow aggressive—slowly obsessed. Their plan is simple: plant as many walnut trees as possible.”

“Oleander and the Trumpet Tree think height will keep them safe,” Ashe says.

“What? Oleander can be a tree? She doesn’t seem the type,” Daisy says.

Ashe’s leaves rustle. “She was—not long ago. Your humans got annoyed and cut her down to a stump. They never removed it, so now they keep her as a shrub.”

“Really?” Daisy can’t help but giggle. “My, how the mighty have fallen.”

Ashe’s tone softens. “They don’t see how slow they grow—or the risk. They’re as vulnerable as any plant in the yard. The squirrels will turn on them, too.”

He lets the images fade.
“That’s enough for today,” Ashe says. “We’ll make a plan to thin their ranks another day.”

“Will you tell me more about what happened?” Daisy asks.
“Another day,” he says.

Hungry now, Daisy says goodbye and pads to the woman in the chair. She tucks in beside her, waiting while she finishes reading; the woman smells a little better now.
Behind them, Oleander still snickers as she tends her flowers.

Daisy walks to the slider to ask for dinner, still turning over ways to answer those taunts. The door slides open and—immediately—she knows how she’ll get even.

One move, many lessons. Oleander won’t see it coming.

Daisy flashes her Australian smile as she steps inside, stopping Oleander mid-preen. Oleander is starting to dislike that smile.