September has arrived at last. Time to bid good riddance to the melting heat and discard the last of my desiccated vestiges of flowering plants.

Each time the maintenance team comes, another carport pot stands empty for them to blow around. Those yellow flowers were so lovely. They held promise sitting in the Fred Meyer garden department a couple months ago. I strolled with them through the store like one of those green-thumbed women who load their carts with flamboyant blooms and appear completely serene, confident they will thrive in their garden. I had them all fooled.

I purchased Happy Frog potting soil, for Pete’s sake. With a name like that, wouldn’t the roots feel loved? I even bought a fancy ‘60s era pot.

They didn’t like the soil, they didn’t like the pot, and they didn’t like me watering or looking at them. One by one they turned to crust and stood stalk still and unrecognizable as the flowers they had once been. It’s not the first time plants have spurned me. Some may remember past misadventures in the garden. However, I did have one major floral success this year.

My crape myrtle made me gush with joy, flowering earlier and far more abundantly than ever before. Each time I turn into my driveway, I see the profundity of fuchsia and giggle with pride. It was the one flowering success story of my summer. Despite the evil potted flower turncoats, I basked in a sense of accomplishment for once. Then, one day ...

I was minding my own business watching TV on the sofa, probably “Andy Griffith,” and I heard a woman’s voice. It sounded close ... too close for someone just walking past. I parted my curtains to discover a young woman helping herself to my crape myrtle blooms.

I couldn’t believe it. I was stunned and yelled through the window, “What are you doing?” Now, it was perfectly obvious what she was doing, but that was my impromptu response.

She and her younger brother are walked daily by two humongous animals. I believe I have said hello to them and their elephants on occasion. I came outside to further confront and saw that she’d allowed her ox-like canine free to roam at will over my beds. I’m pretty sure it knew I was upset.

I looked over the young woman’s shoulder — my beautiful and disengaged crape myrtle flowers clutched in her fist — and watched in horror as her passive-aggressive mastiff relieved itself. Did I say he was big? Did I say relieved? The size of the deposit reminded me of the cattle leavings on my uncle’s former ranch.

I cried out as they beat a quick retreat, “Your dog just pooped in my yard!” She mumbled something about not having a bag and would get one when they returned. Yeah, uh huh.

“Well, stay off my property!” I had instantly transformed into an old woman yelling at kids.

I got a large plastic bag and a flashlight, since it was getting dark. I’d planned to hold the light for them. I waited. After an hour or two I suspected they weren’t coming. They were too freaked out to ever come by again.

Sure enough, under cover of darkness, I watched them scoot past with looks on their faces and a spring in their step that said no way would they clean up after Jumbo.

Two days later, I couldn’t stand the fact of it still being out there. With the last dribble of optimism toward the kids’ returning drained, I took care of it. During the excavation project, I reminded myself to never consider buying a large dog. I mean, how in the world and where in the wide, wide world of woofers does one dispose of these, daily? I would never again complain about the litter box.

Speaking of cats. During my ordeal where I undoubtedly overreacted and ruined any chance of handing out Halloween candy to those children, Cricket the cat sat far off watching and pretending to not know me. There’s the difference.

Peggy Dover is a freelance writer/author. Reach her at pcdover@hotmail.com. She’ll be doing an author talk at the Eagle Point library at 4 p.m. Thursday, Sept. 15.