My furball staff is great excuse for why I'll never be chosen as garden tour site

May 14, 2011

When our daughter, Amanda, was in elementary school, she and I sometimes would go outside to our backyard garden and play Martha Stewart and Her Daughter. As we strolled among the roses and flowering perennials, I would turn to her and say, in my best Martha-esque voice, “Now identify this plant correctly, dear, using the Latin name, of course.” 

Amanda would reply, in mock horror, “Mother, as if you need to remind me to use the proper Latin name!” Then, in her best Pig Latin, she would make up an excellent flower name – ed-ray ose-ray, for instance -- and we would try very hard not to grin at each other. We were not really members of the Martha fan club. Her seeming lack of joy and humor made me sad. I also wondered how she could possibly produce all those spectacular garden projects by herself – until one day I read that Ms.Stewart had a staff of garden assistants.

One of the 840 reasons that my yard will never appear on a garden tour is that I, too, have a staff. (My husband, Lee, by the way, says he is not staff; he’s just unpaid labor.) Unlike Martha’s, though, my three staff members all have four feet. Two have long tails; the third has a nub of a tail that wiggles when he’s happy.

Now that gardening season has – finally! – arrived, it seems only fair to introduce my staff members. They are my excuse for having a garden that no Arboretum Society will want to photograph. Ever. Any garden project I attempt in our backyard automatically involves the help – and I use this word in its most generous context – of my staff: Kaylee, our elderly golden retriever; Winston Ragsdorf (aka Rags,) our Old English sheepdog, and Benjamin BadKitten, our large, black and brown Maine Coon cat. All three take the term impetuous gardener to new lows. And, unfortunately, everything I write about them is true. 

  

Each has a specialty. Kaylee is the supervisor. If I am working in a patch of spring bulbs, she will park her considerable bulk directly on top of the tulips I’m trying to weed, and…meditate. Sometimes she snores while she meditates. She’s not concerned about squashing the tulips because, since they're not edible, they have no value. Kaylee insists on frequent lunch breaks. Her focus is always: “Feed me; feed me now! I would also enjoy a treat! Five treats would be better!” She can tell time and is seldom off by more than a few minutes when the Magic Hour of 4 p.m. – dinner time –arrives. That dog drives me nuts, and I love her. To see her doggy grin always makes me smile. I wonder if Martha’s staff ever grins at her.

Winston Ragsdorf – Rags –is my landscaper. His favorite word is “garden.” Like many Old English sheepdogs, he is a galumphing clown with big feet, a stump of a tail, and a need to herd and protect. He does his best work when my back is turned. Recently, I was potting herbs into two planters on our patio. Rags was out of my sight for less than five minutes – but in that brief time, he enthusiastically dug out and sent flying an entire flower bed’s worth of mulch onto the grass. I know this because several chunks of the mulch landed in my hair.

Our sheepdog’s work ethic is unmatched. He can demolish a row of tall, blooming hollyhocks (his favorite target,) and then spy a lilac bush that needs pruning. He scoffs at fancy pruning shears; teeth and a strong jaw work just fine, thanks. Then he sees a rosebush that, to his artistic eye, looks too tall. No problem. Soon he is wrestling that bush right out of the ground and presenting it, clamped between his jaws, to me for praise. He does not understand why I yell at him during these horticultural frenzies – but he is quick to forgive and to swipe my face with a big, fat, wet kiss.

In theory, Rag is fiercely protective of me; I am his sheep. But he is afraid of storms and will jump onto my lap at the first rumble of thunder. (He weighs about 90 pounds.) Unlike the omnivorous Kaylee,he is a finicky eater, and will not touch his breakfast or dinner unless I sit next to him, praising him for the superb job he is doing in finishing his meal. Does Martha coddle her staff?

Benjamin BadKitten is my micro-manager and Rags’ best friend. He is six years old, but he will always be our kitten. (We also have two other cats: the crabby Abigail Grump, a long-haired black and white, and Tessa the Vague, a sweet calico whose chandelier is missing more than a few bulbs. Neither of them enjoys gardening, for which I am thankful every day.) Benjamin’s major contribution to the Rozen gardens involves providing them with fertilizer. He also reminds me to stop and smell the roses – or the Badkitten. When I’m on my knees, ready to slip a fragile plant into its new soil, Ben will climb onto my lap, stretch his front paws onto my chest, and demand to be petted. Always, I stop whatever I’m doing and indulge him. He likes the soft leather of my garden gloves against his fur. I like knowing that, in our backyard, the gardens will win no prizes, but my four-footed staff members know they are loved.