Yesterday in the garden I realized one of my peonies, which is close to a fence along the path and just about ready to blossom, was short a few buds.  I don't go around counting them, but from a distance something looked amiss.  On closer inspection I saw that several of the stems where the blossoms had been were snapped off about midway down. 

Of course, my first thought was, hmm, what kind of critter would do that?  Was there a recent plague of peony-eating pendejos in the Fenway Gardens? I hadn't heard of any.

I looked around at my other peonies, which I noticed were (a) not affected, and (b) more than an arm's length from the fence bordering the garden path.

And my brain went to work.

I had to conclude, as incredible as it sounds, that it was one of my fellow human beings.  Humans are the only species known to steal flowers from other human beings' gardens, by leaning over the rickety fence if need be. 

It's one of those things you understand and yet... don't.  I mean, as dark and cynical a picture of human nature as I might have at times, the thought of knocking off a community garden plot for its peonies — I can say honestly, it's never occurred to me. 

There is something about the ability to appreciate the beauty of a garden enough to want to steal from it that seems at odds with actually stealing from it, if you know what I mean. 

Stealing can sometimes be justified — especially if the thief is desperate, and deprived of honest means.  Even the most hardened of community gardeners could find it in their heart to forgive a homeless vegetarian for stealing the occasional head of lettuce.

But flowers — most of them aren't edible.  And while I wholly believe we need beauty to live, that doesn't mean I advocate ripping art off other people's walls whenever the mood strikes. 

The thought of traipsing down the garden path plucking whatever flowers you fancy, which usually seem to somehow be those that bloom only once a year for a very short period, and which some poor gardener has planted and nurtured for weeks, sometimes months, for that moment of truth — so that you can have a bouquet on your dining room table when you eat alone tonight?  I don't know.  I'm having trouble with this one.

It's like a music-lover sneaking into the back door of Symphony Hall and nicking all the oboes an hour before they're supposed to do the Mozart Oboe Concerto. 

If you love the Mozart Oboe Concerto that much, there are a number of fabulous recordings available.  Likewise, if you think the garden is glorious, take a picture, not a flower.  Let everyone enjoy it. 

And if you're just a natural-born thief, think on this:  the camera enables us to steal while leaving the thing we've stolen behind.  That's win-win in my book.