Gwynnie died last night. I wish I could tell you she passed away peacefully in her sleep, but I think you're old enough for me to be straight with you. It wasn't pretty.
If you're new to the blog and don't know who Gwynnie is, her full name is Gwyneth Plantrow and she was the best plant anybody could ask for. Quiet, dignified, and never one to complain when I forgot to water her for weeks at a time. Or so I thought.
Here's a picture of her in her prime:
So young. So beautiful. You would have loved her, I just know it.
There were tiny police cars surrounding our house when we got home last night. This is what we found when we got inside:
They found this note, written in Gwynnie's own blood:
As you can probably imagine, I was devastated, but Gary was damn near inconsolable.
It's one of those things you never think will happen to you, and then one day you're staring down at a dismembered plant carcass on your kitchen counter.
So those of you who are lucky enough to still have one, go give your plant a hug. Because life's too short not to hug a plant.
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