A wedding gift 46 years ago was the genesis of Claude Graves' rosy obsession. From a dozen Jackson & Perkins hybrid teas, given by the mother of the groom to landscape the newlyweds' home, sprouted a collection of up to 300 bushes in a Richardson back yard.

Claude and Pamela Graves' rose garden, a stunner in spring and fall, is a perennial setting for garden tours, club picnics, weddings and parties. The property is a series of raised beds with regimented rows of roses separated by paths of turf grass. The back fence is a living barrier of climbing roses, each one a different variety, trained up a support system designed by Mr. Graves, an engineer by education.

Mr. Graves' roses have not suffered the fate of most bushes in others' gardens this year, the disfigurement caused by a particularly bad spell of blackspot and powdery mildew. His bushes are fully clothed in uniform green leaves unmarred by the telltale yellowing of blackspot. The blossoms are lush and robust.

His self-described obsessive-compulsive feelings about his roses extend beyond having to own one of almost everything. His specimens also must be flawless.

"Disease-tolerance is an individual thing," he says. "Some people can't tolerate anything on the leaves. The roses would probably survive without spraying, but I like my bushes perfectly clean."

That propensity for perfection stems from a history of showing roses. Hybrid teas are like dogs with champion bloodlines: Judges look for standards of beauty, where the slightest imperfection means you lose.

But hybrid teas also are notorious for being difficult to grow in North Texas, where wet, humid springs can wreak havoc on a rose fancier's dreams of winning a blue ribbon. Hybrid teas being groomed for beauty pageants have to be coddled and protected.

Among Mr. Graves' favorites are heirloom varieties, known for their toughness and resilience in the face of difficult conditions such as drought, disease, poor soils and grower neglect.

"I'm convinced the future of roses is in the EarthKind varieties and other disease-resistant roses that require less maintenance," says Mr. Graves. Yet he's not willing to give up his hybrid teas yet. He'd like to see the national rose garden in Shreveport, site of the American Rose Center, set up a research program to determine which hybrid teas might have some of the hardy characteristics of the EarthKind designees.

The couple moved into their Richardson house in 1992, when the rose growing began in earnest. In addition to buying plants from nurseries and mail-order sources, Mr. Graves acquired garden club door prizes, traded with other fanciers and rooted cuttings from abandoned gardens. "I just became obsessive- compulsive about it," he says. "I went through that got-to-have-one- of-everything phase."

He and his wife, who prepares teas and sweets using rose petals, grow old garden roses, shrub roses and miniatures in addition to the hybrid teas. But lately, Mr. Graves has recognized that 300 roses is too many for the property, and he's pared back to about 250 to give the roses room to develop into the natural, full-blown form. Even at 250 specimens, though, they still have room to cultivate perennials such as hollyhocks, columbine, clematis and amaryllis.

A "mostly retired" entrepreneur, Mr. Graves is active in the Dallas and Collin County rose societies, the Dallas Area Historical Rose Society, American Rose Society and Heritage Rose Foundation. He and his wife travel around the United States and abroad to visit private and public rose gardens.

As long as he's been growing roses and as entrenched as he is in the network of rose societies, his obsession can be traced back to one pivotal fact: "My mother loved roses."

As development spreads and wildlife habitats shrink, deer and rabbits learn suburban neighborhoods are the wild herbivore's equivalent of a convenience store. Succulent green nibbles are always at hand.

Suburban Chicago gardeners Jackie Aven and Sadna Mohan were tired of seeing their gardens destroyed by marauding rabbits, but found other solutions either too impractical or expensive. They put their heads together and invented the BunnyFence, modular metal panels that encircle targeted plants.

"The problem was a common topic at cocktail parties, and we decided to make something better to address it," says Ms. Aven, who is a graphic designer. She drew the prototypes of the panels, and Ms. Mohan, who works in the medical field, networked with contacts in her native India to find a suitable manufacturing facility.

The wire-grid panels in five patterns are stationed to encircle plants with a vase-like shape. The top edge flares to discourage hopping over it.

BunnyFence panels, coated in green, black or white, are $8.99 each (less if you order in bulk). To purchase, e-mail via www.bunnyfence.com or call 630-922-8500.

Erin Covert