It was Friday the 13th, but Cuca decided to go out anyway.
He was headed for the Alley Cat Disco for a night of struttin’ his stuff.
I told him he should stay home, but would he listen? Not he. He had the pack of Black Cat cigarettes rolled up in his sleeve and a walletful of cash for drinks, and he was sporting his white spats. The cat’s meow, he.
He’d been there an hour (so he told me the next day) when in she walked: Kitty Puff, the girl of his dreams.
Cuca almost couldn’t believe it when Kitty sauntered up to him. “Buy a girl a drink?” she purred.
Now ordinarily, Cuca won’t even drink fermented milk. Adam’s Ale is his preferred beverage. But one look at those Max Catfor slickered lips, and Cuca lost his head.
Too bad, really. Somehow he found his way home at three in the morning, yowling “What’s New, Pussycat? Whoa-oh-oh!” at the top of his lungs. I let him in, whereupon he toppled onto the boot tray in a heap and snored until ten.
I say “Too bad,” because Cuca couldn’t remember a thing. He didn’t know if Kitty liked him, whether they’d talked, whether they’d danced. All he knew was he had an empty wallet and a head pounding from too many glasses of Gato Negro the night before. Cai and Fergus avoided him, for fear he’d reach for a hair of the dog.
“Never again,” he moaned. “Never again. Coffee, please. And an aspirin.”
Co-starring: Mourning Cloak Caterpillar
We went to the Kingston peninsula farmers’ market on Saturday morning and brought home some pickling cukes and fresh-grown garlic and two choice heads of broccoli. Then we spent all day together in the kitchen.
Free blogging tip:
One of the places E.g. and I visited in Nova Scotia was the Annapolis Royal Historic Gardens, at the height of rose season. Knowing nothing about roses at the time, I decided to take a quick walk through their dozens of varieties and take note of four or five that really grabbed my attention.
I found that larger bushes and stronger scents attracted me as much as the look of the flowers. Lots of greenery with scatterings of jolly fragrant blooms counted much more than scraggly stems with blossoms that looked — and smelled — like porcelain.
Just as well, because Foggy Saint John is no place for Hybrid Tea roses. Fast forward to lots of internet research.
Rugosa roses seemed like the way to go, especially if they’re to act as barrier hedging on the remaining part of the property that isn’t fenced in. Rugosas are thorny. They’re bushy. They’re cold tolerant. They can put up with lousy soil, coastal winds, and partial shade. Plus they have been hybridized for colours and scents and various numbers of petals (roses come in “single”, “semi-double”, “double”, and “very double” blooms).
So off we went to Corn Hill Nurseries, near Moncton, on Monday. I chose three Rugosas and one Alba. All I know about Albas so far is that they’re hardier than Hybrid Teas.
My Alba is a lady.
She’s the ‘Queen of Denmark’, created in Germany in 1816. Not only a bicentenarian but a centifolia. You’ll forgive her if she’s not looking her best; she’s come a long way to arrive in my backyard.
Now for the Rugosas.
At the far corner, may I present ‘Blanc Double de Coubert’, a white-petaled French gentleman born in 1892:
‘Blanc Double de Coubert’ is seated next to the queen. Though they’re somewhat standoffish still, I expect them to grow closer over the next year or two.
Closer to the house is that vigorous young upstart, the Netherlandish ‘Dart’s Dash’, 30 years young this year:
For a look at him in dress uniform, you can visit Barefootheart’s post here.
Finally, we have ‘Wasagaming’, a respectable Canadian cultivar from 1939:
Of course, you’re wondering where all the roses are. I’m not sure if the others will perform any later this year, but ‘Blanc Double de Coubert’, that gallant old Frenchman, is ready to oblige:
What? Now you want pink? Sheesh. This final photo will have to do:
C’mon in, pull up a chair, and sip your latté over the morning news.