Read by Matilda Longbottom

If laughter could kill, my mother and I wouldn’t have survived to share this story! One sunny day, we found ourselves doubled over on the living room sofa, unable to catch our breath from laughing so hard. It all started innocently enough—our morning routine of gardening, a curious toddler, and an equally curious pup named Possum Marie.

“Little Rooney,” my first grandson, was our delightful shadow that day. His mother was at work, leaving my mother and me in charge of the tiny explorer. Rooney, a toddler with wide-eyed wonder, had learned his garden manners well. He followed Possum Marie, our spunky half-German feist pup, along the straw paths of the garden. Neither disturbed the plants; Rooney’s little hands stayed clear of the growing things, and Possum Marie had mastered the art of not trampling them.

Possum Marie, as her name suggests, looked like a pink-nosed opossum when she was a puppy. Though her exact lineage remains a mystery, she embodied the feist breed’s spirited nature. Her feisty charm and garden discipline made her the perfect sidekick.

That morning, Mama and I harvested our usual bounty—more than 50 bush beans—destined for lunch and dinner. We prepared them simply, steaming them and tossing them in butter with a touch of Portuguese-inspired seasoning. Green beans were a hit with the little ones in our family, and today was no exception.

After lunch, it was rest time. While Rooney napped under Mama’s watchful eye, I returned to the garden to tend to some tomatoes in need of firmer staking. When I returned a couple of hours later, the house was peaceful—or so it seemed. Rooney was awake, his snack ready, and Possum Marie was quietly nibbling at her food dish.

Then, chaos erupted.

Little Rooney, with the determination of a toddler on a mission, stood up and made a beeline toward Possum. His tiny index finger pointed straight ahead as if guided by an unseen force. Before Mama or I could intervene, Rooney’s finger landed squarely in the “No Man’s Land” of Possum’s backside.

The pup whipped around, her face a mix of bewilderment and insult, and my mother and I dissolved into uncontrollable laughter. We howled, tears streaming down our faces, our laughter surely reaching the heavens. It wasn’t until Mama managed to gasp, “Go wash that baby’s hands—GO WASH THAT BABY’S HANDS!” that I stumbled to the bathroom, still laughing, clutching Rooney’s left hand for safety.

From that day forward, Possum Marie gained a new nickname: “The Dog From Ohio,” bestowed by my witty and much-missed mother.

Gardening is full of surprises, but that day we learned it’s not just about the plants—it’s about the joy, the unexpected moments, and the memories that grow alongside the beans and tomatoes. ❖

About the Author: Mo Pascoe-Hoyal is a published writer, songwriter, avid gardener, and lifelong equestrian residing in Central Louisiana. Despite facing various challenges, including disabilities from multiple accidents, Mo remains an ardent advocate for growth and resilience. Inspired by the spirit of aloha and the beauty of nature, she continues to find solace and joy in the art of gardening.