My panic was palpable. After all, I was looking straight at Finn, my 2-year-old gigantic baby of a standard poodle. He’s been through so much. His idiopathic epileptic seizures started when he was only 6 months old. They grew longer and became more aggressive as the months ticked away. None of the preventative drugs seemed to work. Finally, our vet found a suitable cocktail: Phenobarbital and a double dose of Zonisamide. And, nearly two years later, here he was in the backyard, covered in blood? He’s not allowed in the backyard without me. Even though he’s been seizure free for nearly a year, we are told it isn’t a matter of if those seizures could break through but when they become too prevalent for the meds to block. Part of a successful seizure protocol is making sure the surroundings are safe. So, he goes outdoors with me. But, where is the blood from? Standard poodle brother Tucker is a lover, not a biter. Rescue dachshund senior brother Poe is, well, a low rider. He’s passive, too, but even so, the best he could catch would be an ankle. In fact, I can shamefully admit that Poe is usually the receiver of injustice when in the backyard. He always seems to be in too close proximity of the pood’s urine streams, constantly needing a sink bath after an afternoon outside. Finn seems ok. Yet, there’s the blood. It’s on his temple. It’s near his neck. It’s on his flank. Why, there’s even blood on his booty! I look at him. He looks at me, perplexed at the attention he’s receiving. He does that adorable head tilt to one side, as if to say, “Mom, I know I’m cute, but stop staring.” It hits me. This isn’t blood at all. Why, I should have noticed the tint was closer to a hot pink on the color wheel. I look up. I look around. Yep, it’s berry season. I feel intense relief followed by intense desperation. The mulberries are everywhere.
A long time ago, 218 AD, specifically, there was a Roman emperor named Elagabalus. It’s a mouthful. I know. No worries. He also went by Heliogabalus and Antoninus, so get a mouthful of sunflower seeds and see which one you like best. He was a teen during his short, four-year reign, which was marred by sex scandals and marriages to vestal virgins. He was assassinated by his grandmother in 222 AD, so there’s that. But, while Ela-HeliAnt ruled, his claim to fame was fashun (that how the youngsters on social media spell it when they’re being facetious). He favored silk robes. Silk robes need silkworms. Silkworms gotta eat. Turns out, Bluebell Southern Blackberry Cobbler ice cream is to my husband as mulberry leaves are to silkworms. They cannot get enough. It was thought that a diet of only mulberry leaves produced better silk, though this was the same logic that gave us the superiority of vestal virgins, so buyer beware? Still, when royalty starts a trend, it catches hold. Soon, the Orient was chock full of mulberry trees and silkworms and luxurious fabrics. Bada boom, bada bang – suddenly it was 1783. The Treaty of Paris passed with flying colors and a US ship entered China waters with an ample load of silver. That ship would return home with tea, silk, silkworms, and most likely, a mulberry tree or twenty.
In 1984, Tucson banned the planting of mulberry trees, citing research that stated the amount of pollen produced by the trees was harmful to humans. El Paso followed suit in 1992, calling the tree invasive. The supposed massive amount of pollen helps them reproduce in high numbers, choking out native trees. Then, there’s the unclarified rumor that certain variations can be hallucinogenic, along with another difficult to decipher report that seems to state all unripened mulberries are hallucinogenic. This is why mulberry trees aren’t sold in nurseries. In certain areas, they are considered trash trees due to their shorter life spans and short stature. Yet, mulberry trees have been known to live for 250 years and grow as tall as 66 ft. We’ve always felt that “our” massive backyard mulberry predates our 1910 house. Papers from the young Jones girls who first grew up here document the making of pies. I’d bet your bottom dollar those were mulberry pies. Honestly, I’d be lying if I told you I hadn’t tried my own hand at collecting mulberries. I’ve never been successful. See, every spring, we are inundated with Cedar Waxwings, the most beautiful little birds you’ve ever seen. They eat the berries faster than we can pick them. But, this year, they didn’t come. Where, in past springs, the tree has been alive, moving, pulsating with hundreds of Cedar Waxwings, this year we only had a few. And that, my friends, is how my heart almost exploded last week. Turns out, a 75 lb standard poodle’s girth is quite enough to burst ripened fallen mulberries if he rolls around on the ground. A good scrubbing with a goat’s milk bar does help fade the “blood” to a soft pink. So, my white male poodle looks like he’s channeling Cyndy Lauper. He’s only a teenager in dog years. Let him be fashun forward. Finn is our own personal Emperor Elagabalus, minus the vestal virgins, of course. Long may he reign.
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