Dirty Deeds

This is where someone stole my flowers from.

I don’t want to harp on this because there are many worse offenses in the world and in my town. But what kind of lowlife turd does one have to be, to walk past (drive past? ride past?) someone’s hanging flower basket and take it?

It was a nice one, too. The basket was plastic but molded to look like it was woven. I had taken my time choosing it, looking for a healthy plant with lots of blooms and buds. It was lovingly placed on the outstretched arm of a wrought-iron structure built for us by brother-in-law Howie. And the next morning, it was gone.

Lots of people had loads of advice. Zip-tie the basket to the hanger. Put out a spy-cam. Look around the neighbourhood, it probably didn’t go far. But I called “uncle”. Steal from me once, shame on you. If I put out another basket and it’s stolen again, well, that’s my fault.

I hope the person who took it feels guilty. When they see the patch of earth and grass seed they’ll know that I’m giving up on putting flowers out front because of them. It’s not devastating or traumatizing. I’m not a kid who’s lost a shiny new bike to a thief. But it’s just so darn disappointing. And it feels crummy to not know whether it was a close neighbour or an occasional passerby. Someone might be looking me in the eye, smiling, knowing all the while my flowers are in their yard. It just sucks.