—an excerpt—
Vincetoxicum rossicum, or dog-strangling vine, is a highly invasive plant alien to Ontario. Its alarming name likely comes from the old botanical nomenclature Cynanchum, which means "dog" and "to poison". This may have been a historical use of the plant.
Vincetta Rossi would never harm an animal. She's not as sure about her father, however.
The dog-strangling vine, which is distantly related to the province's native milkweed, has triangular leaves with sharp points. Its flowers are small, star-shaped, and can be maroon to pink.
Vincetta prefers the dark end of this colour range. She wears it, paints it on the walls of every dumpy apartment she's ever rented.
The plant has slender, bean-like pods. These split open in late summer to release thousands of seeds attached to silky white fluff.
Riding the wind, one such seed landed in Kingston in 1997 and there met a pretty secretary. Nine months later, they planted Vincetta in a crib in the back bedroom of a bungalow on Fifth Avenue. Three growing seasons after that, the secretary left.
The dog-strangling vine came to Ontario from Europe in the late 19th century.
As did Vincetta's great-great-grandfather. A groundskeeper on the sun-kissed Tuscan estates of the rich, he emigrated from Italy a century before she was born.
The plant was imported to adorn garden trellises and walls, to lend an Old World lushness to new Canadian gardens.
Unlike the vine's native Europe, where insects and fungi have evolved to keep it in check, the species has no predators in Ontario. It can grow explosively, scaling and swallowing trees, fences, buildings, and utility poles. In general, any upright structure.
Daniel is the longest-term relationship Vincetta has had. She thinks of him as upstanding.
Dog-strangling vine can adversely affect the surrounding environment. The deep shade it casts hinders the development of other vegetation. Sadly, the endangered monarch butterfly frequently confuses it with the province's own milkweed and lays eggs on this invader. Hatching larvae cannot feed and soon die.
When Vincetta was fourteen, a woman named Stacey married her father. Each night, Monday through Friday, she'd flit to the front door to kiss her new husband and hug him and ask, "How was your day?"
Although she was petite, Stacey stood as tall as a tree as he'd then climb all over her hollering, "Why the hell do you demand conversation the second I get here?", "What do you expect me to say? That work was fun, and Highway 401 deserted?", and "Want me to lie to you?"
While her father spiralled, Vincetta would sit at the dinner table. She'd play with the drop leaf and fold, refold her napkin into triangles with sharp points.
