My friend Ramona is an amazing gardener, and for years she tried to goad me into it. "It's so easy!" she declared. "Just throw dirt and seeds into a pot, and two months later you've got eight thousand zucchini!"

I resisted. It couldn't be that easy, could it? Besides, who needs eight thousand zucchini? But one day I saw a neighbor's garden and it hit me. I was wasting all this sunny cement in front of my house. Even if I didn't need that many zucchini, I could use a dozen or two, and in New York they're like three bucks each.

I went to the local nursery where the clerk convinced me to get ambitious. I bought seeds for zucchini, tomatoes, cucumbers, beans, carrots, beets and lettuce. The clerk told me that contrary to Ramona's promise, dirt alone wouldn't do the trick, and he added organic humus and peat moss to the pile. I got excited. I was going to help the environment! I was going to save the earth! And then he led me to the planter department where I picked out two hundred dollars worth of orange plastic pots.

I needed a taxi to haul everything home, and tried not to think about the bill. Three hundred twenty dollars. Sure, I'd never spent more than twelve bucks on vegetables in my life, but somehow it'd pay off. I went to bed that night with dirt under my fingernails and a smile on my face. And the next morning I went outside and found cat diarrhea in every pot.

The dirt/humus/peat moss mix filled up eight Hefty bags. Sure, maybe the cat excrement was confined to the dirt's surface, but there was no way I could be sure. And though I had very few standards in life, I knew I couldn't eat a salad that had been watered by cat piss.

Before trying again, I checked online for ways to keep cats out of plants. One website offered a tip: cover the dirt with crinkled foil. Cats had a thing about foil. I went back to the nursery for new dirt and seeds, then to the market. I replanted everything, topped it with foil, and went to bed that night with hope in my heart.

And the next morning I found cat diarrhea streaked like graffiti across the foil.

Everything went into the trash again, and once more I went online. There was no way my $400 was dying in vain. "Cats hate tulle," somebody wrote. "Cover the pots with tulle and the cats will stay far away." So after buying the usual at the nursery I had the taxi driver take me to a fabric store, where I learned that (1) tulle is the fluffy netting used in dancer's outfits, and (2) it only comes in white or pink.

Once again I covered the dirt with crumpled foil before wrapping the pots in tulle. And the next morning I went outside and it looked like six ballerinas had pooped their tutus. I was emptying the pots into garbage bags when a neighbor girl rode up on a Barbie bicycle. "Why did you decorate your plants like that?" she asked.

"To keep the cats out," I said.

"Oh. My daddy said it's because you're gay."

I didn't know how to reply to that, so I went back inside and online. Someone swore that motion keeps cats away, so along with the usual at the nursery I got everything they had that moved. Hummingbirds with spinning wings, whirling plastic sunflowers, bumblebee whirlagigs. I put it all together and stood there assessing the damage. Tulle, foil, fake flowers, birds and bees. I was embarrassed to look at it, and I'd been to Barbra Streisand's farewell tour. If I'd painted the house pink and had Cher blasting on the stereo it wouldn't have been any worse. Still, in my heart I knew it wouldn't keep a New York cat away, and the next day I discovered I was right.

As I upended the pots into Hefty bags the little girl came back. "What are you doing?" she screamed. "It was the most fantastic garden I'd ever seen!"

"Well, I didn't like it much," I said. "And how about your dad? What did he say?"

"He didn't say nothing. He's too busy looking for somewhere else to live."

That night I tried to erase the whole thing from my memory, but first I called Ramona to tell her she'd made my life a living hell. "Why didn't you call me in the first place?" she asked. "Just sprinkle cayenne pepper all over the dirt. It'll keep the cats away."

I sighed. I hated her. I hated the situation she'd put me in. I hated trying to be productive but ending up wasting time and money and feeling like a useless fool. I'd give it exactly one more try before I gave up for good.

I pulled the planters out of the trash bags and bought another round of dirt and seeds. I planted everything again, this time liberally sprinkling the pots with the orange powder.

And it worked. Forty-eight hours went by, and the pots were untouched by cats.

I'd done it. I'd won. I stood there admiring my handiwork, mentally patting myself on the back and congratulating myself for beating a crew of sick felines. And once again, the little girl rode up. "It was waaay better before," she said. "It's not even pretty now."

"I'll bet your dad likes it, though, doesn't he?"

She nodded. "He doesn't talk about moving any more. He really hopes the pixie dust works."