I don’t like to kill things. Oh, I’ll occasionally swat at mosquitoes, but I prefer to deter the little bloodsuckers with citrus-oil repellent. I keep my kitchen meticulously clean so ants lack incentive to invade, thus sparing their little lives.
I don’t even like to kill plants. I’d rather mulch than pull weeds, although I’d rather pull weeds than spray them with chemicals.
I draw the line at poison ivy.
It isn’t that I think poison ivy is evil. I imagine that like the rest of nature, it’s just trying to get by — in this case, by inflicting an insanely itching rash. If somebody says, “What’s the big deal? It just itches,” I know they’ve never suffered from the “leaves of three.”
Most of the time, I “quickly flee.” Lately, though, the poisonous plant has been thoroughly out of control, banishing me from my waterfront and from the hill behind my house. Time to do battle.
With the foliage easily visible in its autumn gold and red, I attacked with professional-strength Roundup.
I don’t expect instant victory. Repeat applications are required; it’s an ongoing battle. I shall prevail.
Just don’t ask me about scorpions.