And then I woke up the next morning – another grey overcast, cold morning in a week of grey overcast, cold mornings – and headed for the coffee machine, looked out the window, and my planter box had been mauled.
Ravaged. Pillaged.
I stood in disbelief staring out the window like some kind of crazed farmer in a children's book. 'Who has been at my crop!' my face probably screamed. I might have also said that out loud. The pieces of the puzzle slowly fell into place.
The large cow-pat looking poo on our front lawn at the start of the week. No way could a dog do that, I thought at the time.
Maybe a very large, sick dog. But our neighbours would have said something, surely. Then, a few days later, I noticed the narrow strip of grass behind the house getting muddier and muddier. Like 22 pairs of junior football boots had been running up and down on it all day.
Could it be a cow? Again, we reasoned, surely not.
We would have noticed if a cow had been walking around the street. Someone would have noticed. It's not inconceivable. We don't live on a farm, but we do kind of border one. Our street is probably one of very few left in suburban Pāpāmoa that can say that.
We've seen the cows come pretty close before, leave the farm and hover around the sand dunes, but never have they crossed into suburbia. Never have they found the narrow path that leads over the sand dunes to a small gap in the hedge next to our house.
Then late one evening late last week, we saw the cows closer than ever before.
The next day, I saw a couple of farmers inspecting a fence in the distance. Okay, so it could have been cows on our front lawn. Still, no eyewitnesses. No photos. No proof. And then the Saturday morning horror show.
We soon found out our neighbours down the road had their vege patch cleaned out too. Except for the parsley. Cows obviously don't like parsley.
Turns out this was the second time it had happened to those neighbours.
They thought someone had been raiding their garden in the night. But now they had hoof prints on their lawn. But still, no eyewitnesses.
I started daydreaming about a roaming herd of cows or a lone bandit making her/their way along our street deep in the night as we all slept, padding softly across the narrow strip of grass behind our house, down the concrete driveway, across the cul-de-sac, briefly lit up as they pass under the street lights, to forage on the best vegetables they've had in years.
I started my vege garden during the Covid-19 lockdown.
It was one of those home improvement projects that everyone seemed to be doing at one stage or another. Other such projects have been left unfinished and forgotten.
Not my garden.
Our curious neighbours came over as I started digging at the bottom of the driveway. The youngest people on the street were trying to create a vege garden. The millennials were making something.
One by one, they brought seedlings from their own gardens, for our garden. It was heartwarming. Saturday was a sad day on our street. Not because of the beef in the night, that provided plenty of laughter and some light relief for everyone.
The puns were endless. It was a sad day because one of our neighbours left the street.
He and his young family have had to look elsewhere for work after he was made redundant during lockdown.
There were tears and hugs as we all said goodbye and watched him drive off down the road.
In a few months, once he's set up, his family will follow him. It started raining as we all trudged back to our own houses feeling grim.
Perspective is everywhere if you are willing to look for it. These days, you don't have to look far. In this case, two doors down.
It's so easy to slip back into the luxury of stressing about everyday things again, instead of the hidden virus still causing havoc and heartbreak; instead of the business closures and job losses.
Some of us lucky ones have unfortunately returned to thinking about ourselves and our own personal goals. House ownership. Holidays. Vege gardens.
On Sunday morning I woke up and looked out the kitchen window and it was sunny and warm for the first time in what felt like weeks.
My vege garden was still in a state and for all I knew the midnight marauders were still on the loose, sleeping it off somewhere. But the farm fence will be fixed, and my perpetual spinach will rebound.
There will be other attempts to buy our first house. I've still got spring onions, and parsley, and mint. And the best neighbours I've ever had. On Sunday night, at 9pm on the dot, I also got closure.
Daydreams do come true. Lit up by the street lights, quietly crossing the cul-de-sac, were two cows. And then they were gone, disappearing into the night.
