Montreal, like much of the East Coast I exspect, has been experiencing a wave of abnormally warm temperatures, and we just don’t know what to do about it. Embracing the apparent approach of spring would just be setting ourselves up for heartbreak farther down the line.  Pete and I visited Montreal for the first time about two years ago (!!) to look for an apartment, and we managed to arrive in the brief window between two snowstorms.  I remember that my suitable-for-Wisconsin-in-late-March outerwear was decidedly less suitable for Quebec.  Normally, at this time of year, we’re getting a spiteful blast of winter that prevents us from getting our hopes up too much: I mean, we’re still a full two months away from the city opening (re: plowing and/or doing the necessary rearrangement of on-street parking) its bike paths and Bixi stands, and piles of crunchy, dingy snow stubbornly stick around in the shadows until June.  I can’t even put out tomatoes on my balcony for another three months!

But right now, daytime temperatures are consistently hovering above freezing, and I find myself irresistibly drawn to walking around the city for hours despite the fact that this is unquestionably the ugliest part of the year: glaring, unmerciful light, not a spot of greenery to be seen, tired, gray-and-yellow snow, and melting snowbanks that leave piles of litter, gravel, dog poo, broken glass, and other detritus liberally scattered over the sidewalks.  And yet I cannot temper my enthusiasm, and cannot stay indoors.

One of the deps near the Y has been putting out little $2 and $3 plastic pots of forced spring bulbs, and I finally caved to their charms.  It’s hard to pick favorites amongst spring bulbs, but I chose a little pot of soon-to-be-crocuses, because crocuses (along with snowdrops, not on offer) are some of the first bulbs up in the spring.  Leave the daffodils and miniature tulips for later, I say.

I proudly displayed my new acquisition in the middle of the dining table on an old tea saucer, and during the course of 24 hours it produced several impressive buds from nowhere.  The other night, though, Pete and I were watching a movie, and heard the tell-tale thump of Sebastian jumping down from a high surface, followed by him sauntering into the room, ostentatiously licking his chops.

“Oh, God,” I moaned, and Pete went over to check on the now-upended crocuses, one sprig of which had received a surprisingly precise feline trim. Our knowledge of the aftereffects of such events is much greater than Sebastian’s, see, so I fetched some paper towels and disinfectant while Pete herded Sebastian onto the hardwood.  As if on cue, his little kitty smirk disappeared as he went into a crouch and promptly coughed up, intact, the offending clump of crocus at Pete’s feet.

It’s hard to find a truly cat-proof place for plants in our apartment that’s still within a line of sight, but I think I’ve got a temporary solution going on for now.  If you’ll excuse the tedious analogy, these crocuses are a bit like an early spring: they require coddling, ample protection, and a solid — if cautious — dose of hope.

Seriously, though, cat: STAY AWAY.

This entry was posted on Thursday, March 4th, 2010 at 11:27 am and is filed under bits. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.