George's Blog

I can’t even chase chipmunks through the lavender gardens without getting a lecture from Carrie about the poor little chipmunks! She claims that I have been violating our agreement. What about poor me?

Everywhere I go I am told NO!  The greenhouse is for customers. Don’t sleep on the salt marsh hay… it’s the best stuff for plant beds. So! What about my bed? Stay out of the lawn mower repair shop.  We sharpen blades, not cat claws.  No digging in our new children’s pumpkin patch. Hey, that’s why I needed my claws sharpened.  And, now, just when I think I am safe strolling through the beautiful display of summer patio and annual plants on the front lawn, they booby trap me by turning on the sprinkler system.  No warning whatsoever.  I am constantly hearing Kim and her staff talking to plants, and they think I need counseling.  And another thing, they forget that I am the reason that customers come here.  Just the other day, former First Lady Mrs. Bush visited and the staff paid more attention to her than me.  What was she first in? I have been first at many things, like the first to complain and the first to tell you about myself.  And I didn’t get a title.

If this continues, I may take Charles’ cousin Carol’s offer to move to New Jersey and stay with her.  That would show them!  Oh, but my fans would miss me terribly.

See you next time,

King George

I am not one to complain, but nobody tells me anything.  Who knew that the sign said “Wet Paint”, not “Catnip”, and that I could not sleep in the beautiful, cool lavender field because Bethany, my nemesis, is harvesting it to make our own Lavender Wreaths.  La Di Da Da Da, whatever!  Or, that I can’t sleep in the firewood pile because I startle the campers picking up wood.  Does Charles care that they startle me just as much? – Nooooooo.  And, I can’t even lie in front of the fans in the lower barn on these hot days, because “it is for the customers” – Ha! It’s for Hilary! She’s not fooling me.  Speaking of Hilary, she gave me the highest insult of all when she told me “I was behaving like Charles”, who by the way cut my food to one half can per day.  He thinks I’m getting fat. I am not! I am just healthy and lovable.

I see the bakery, candy, fudge, and coffee center are all opening July, 4^th weekend.  All I care about is the return of my cheese section!

I could go on, but until next time,

King George

It’s me again! There is no place like home except for all the rules. Rules, rules, and more rules. I, for example, am unable to abandon my plant tray bed occasionally and sprawl out in the middle of the counter for better positioning to get petted because, apparently, that is where Charles’ customers set down their Japanese Beetle Spray, Slug Magic, and other plant stuff. 

I’ve been banned from the statuary section where I like to nap in the birdbath. Charles says, “It’s for JUST the birds.” HE’S for the birds! Kim said, “No sniffing the hydrangea blossoms.” WHY? I like how they feel on my nose! And oh, by the way, while beach roses have a simply intoxicating scent, I prefer them as jam — but when I bit the leaves, they tasted terrible!

It wasn’t enough to tell me not to “park myself” in the fire lane. I like to roll around and scratch my back. It feels divine. And before I could recover from that persnickety little RULE, they yelled at me for leaping from table to table in the new greenhouse. They said it startled the customers. But that’s a lie because, unlike some people here, they love me!!!

After I got sprayed with water for sniffing those luscious peony bouquets in the lower barn, I thought I’d escape for a while from those meanies. I just managed to fall asleep atop a nice warm straw bale when some nincompoop started to cover it up with a tarp, trapping me. I had to scramble for my life. Can’t one of you, my faithful followers, do something about these people here trying to sabotage my fun?

Until next time,
King George of Wallingford Farm

Well it’s that time of year. They’re all running around here like something important is going to happen. It’s the same thing every year at this time. Don’t they value my peace and quiet?  Bad enough I couldn’t get that miser, Charles, to heat up my food all winter, and for the past month you could float a boat down Route 1 (even the field mice went to higher ground), now he hardly is paying any attention to me. Him and that clipboard and those insane glasses… can’t he find a pair with two stems? The man is his own fashion statement, I swear. Why can’t he be more like Kim?  That neat, efficient, beautiful amazing woman (yes she is the ONE who orders the catnip!!! and all the other thousands of plants that people seem to swoon and carry on about), or Hillary down in the lower barn, fun and friendly, willing to scratch my belly in between ringing up sales, answering customer’s questions, and stocking shelves?  Not a chance. Day and night he scribbles notes, pencil moving as quick as a Maine summer. He makes me so mad! This is MY farm, I run the show and if he THINKS I will allow him to move my bed away from that cash register where my adoring fans pay me homage, he’s got another thing coming. I must sign off for now, my Wallingford friends. I have an appointment to get my nails sharpened for mice season. I’ll see you soon. And yes, you can count on it, I’ll be by the register. You may scratch my robust little tummy, and I’ll not charge you a cent. But he will, if you decide to buy plants, fertilizer, planting pots or anything. He’s like that.

Your friend in catnip,

King George of Wallingford Farm