When the smoke clears, I'll deal with my garden's clay soil – and my BadKitten's act of rebellion

A dirty haze from still-burning wildfires hangs over much of north Idaho as I write, and I'm making my peace with the early end of this season's garden. The double smack-down of drought and smoke has hit my flowers and vegetables hard. Most of the nearby fires reportedly started from dry lightning strikes, instead of human carelessness. But instead of muttering unpleasantries at the Garden Goddess, I've decided to use these acts of nature as excuses for this year's failures in the vegetable beds – except for the zucchini overload. The Big Zs just smirk at the smoke.

My flower gardens have hung in much longer than the veggies, but they, too, have suffered an attack of the vapors. The pansies started fainting in July, and most of the petals on the phlox, monarda, Canterbury bells, rosa campion, and verbascum have dried in the relentless heat. When the smoke clears out, I'll get an early start on digging shallow trenches along the flower beds for planting bulbs this fall. I'll also re-dig a couple of beds that tanked last spring. Instead of the bright mix of tulips and daffodils I expected, glowing red, purple, yellow and pink in the April sunshine, only a few spindly daffs and a couple of grumpy tulips pushed up through the soil. I'm learning never to underestimate the amount of clay clumping up my gardens. We impetuous gardeners believe that a one-time pass with a rototiller will produce crumbly black gold forever. This has not happened, so I'll also amend the soil this fall with bags of anything promising “clay buster.”

In this summer of drought and smoke, I've been especially grateful for the flocks of finches that perch at our bird feeder and then head to the nearby birdbath for a drink and a splash. I watch these beautiful little creatures of feathers and song from my kitchen window, noting the way they share the perches, and I make sure to freshen their water regularly. The recent day when I walked into our living room and found a scattering of finch feathers on the rug was a painful reminder that I live with a passive-aggressive BadKitten. Except for a couple of small acts of rebellion, my former chief garden staffer had handled his demotion pretty well, I thought. But my black and brown Maine coon cat is a wily beast. He foxed me while I struggled to bring his replacement, Tessa the Vague up to speed on her new duties.

“Speed” is not a word I typically use with Tessa. Her thought process– a vacant stare, followed by a long (really long) pause, until, finally, tentative comprehension dawns is not speedy. Neither is her gait, a stumbling, sideways clunk. So I streamlined her duties: When I'm working in the garden, I told her, come outside and find me, no matter how long the search takes. Then keep me company for awhile, before you wander away on your mission to find the kitchen steps again. Now I'm afraid the week-long disruption of her training, because of the smoky air, might have taken us back to point zero. (And with Tess, point zero goes back a good stretch.)

While my attention was diverted, the BadKitten plotted. He had not caught a bird since Mother's Day, and I hadn't seen him anywhere near the bird feeder in weeks. I've gotten used to his presence indoors – a large, furry mound, asleep on the flowered armchair near his buddy, Rags, our Old English sheepdog. But I should never doubt my BadKitten's IQ. Unlike his adopted aunt Tessa's blank gaze, Benjamin's green eyes gleam with intelligence. Apparently, he felt unappreciated (without bothering to consider for what, exactly, he deserved appreciation,) and decided to remind me that a demoted BadKitten is a dangerous BadKitten. When I discovered the feathers, I also saw my Maine coon cat lying on the rug nearby, front paws crossed, halo slightly askew. “Too bad your slacker of a chief garden staffer wasn't guarding the bird feeder,” he seemed to purr as he regarded the feathers. “Such a mess. The vacuum cleaner's in the hall closet.”

My flowers are grateful dead-heads and I find quiet joy in caring for them

Late August, 2011

It can be easy for impetuous gardeners to get discouraged in late summer, when we realize that our flowers have faded and our once-blooming beds are showing only dried stems and bare spots. In late August, I felt a pang of sadness when I looked out over my suddenly scruffy garden. The fragrant phlox blossoms had dried out in the relentless heat. Only a few petals still clung to the once-dramatic dark blue delphiniums. The roses were drooping, and even the spunky pansy plants had grown leggy and pale.

I knew it was time to give all my perennial flowers a thorough dead-heading. Over a weekend, I snipped off dead flowers to encourage more blooms, cut down some exhausted plants and thanked them for their months of color, pulled weeds, and removed dried leaves and spindly growth from the forget-me-nots and violas that border the flower beds.

I also spent time snipping 12 million dead blooms off the pansies I had planted in patio containers in May. I moved the containers next to the chair where I sit on the patio while Rags, our Old English sheepdog, eats breakfast and dinner. He will not eat unless I sit beside him, encouraging and praising him. Last week, while he nibbled away at his kibble, I dead-headed tiny pansy blossoms – and both of us were happy.

The front yard gardens look perkier now, just as many of us look more presentable after a long-delayed haircut. But after all the cutting-back and dead-heading, the beds’ new bare spots made me sad. I love looking out the kitchen window and seeing the flower gardens filled with blooms – a blowsy, exuberant splash of color.

I have grown flowers for many years. Because we lived on the West Side near Seattle, I was accustomed to buying plants throughout the summer. The mild temperatures all season made it easy to plant waves of perennials. Here in north Idaho, though, I locked myself down during the high heat of mid-July until nearly the end of August, and spent no money on plants. Putting in new flowers in 90-degree days, and expecting them to enjoy baking in the sun, seems mean-spirited.

Now that the calendar will turn to September, I want my flower garden to reflect the colors of autumn: russet, gold, pumpkin, and deep purple. (I have included deep purple in the fall color palette because our Idaho sky often turns to indigo after sunset.) So, after uncharacteristic self-restraint in July and August, I have bought some perennials for my September gardens. I’ve added more monarda, and phlox to fill the bare spots where I dead-headed all the spent blooms and cut down the perennials whose flowering season is over for the year.

I also bought plants to christen the wonderful five-tiered garden box my husband built in our side yard. Purple penstemon and stokesia, orange and gold rudbeckia, and trailing lavender bellflowers will mix with autumn chrysanthemums and pansies there. If I can find an autumn shade of miniature rosebush, I will plant one for drama in the box’s top tier.

Dead-heading the flowers, planting the new bed, hand-watering the garden, refilling the bird bath and the feeders – all bring me a quiet joy. Taking care of living things can be a sacred trust. As I work on my knees, using delicate kitchen scissors on the plants, I remember the fragility of nature, as well as its astonishing power to heal, to inspire, and to offer beauty. Those hours in acts of caretaking remind me why I not only love gardening, but why I need it in my life.

I should have been more bullish on the fertilizer

Writer's note: I wrote this in late August, 2011, when my garden rocked and the Northwest had not been hit by a double smack-down of drought and wildfire smoke.

The limits of my vegetable gardening ability are visible now, in late August. I’m thinking there might be a lesson here for those of us who have impetuous tendencies.

In June I transplanted six pumpkin plants, all of which I grew from seed, into an outdoor raised bed. Four small Cinderella (rouge de printemps variety) pumpkins are turning golden orange out there. None of these gourds shows any promise of growing plump enough to become a coach for a fairy-tale princess. I’m not sure even our neighborhood’s wild rabbit is small enough to be chauffeured from garden to garden in one of my pumpkins. Maybe our little grandsons will enjoy painting these mini-pumpkins for Halloween.

My corn patch is “representative,” a term former Seattle Mariners manager Lou Piniella used regularly as a euphemism for “these guys won’t be heading to the Series any time soon.” The stalks and leaves grew tall and remained dark green for the first month after their transplants from my dining-room table greenhouse. Gradually, though, they have turned a paler shade of green, far too close to chartreuse. Each stalk has produced several ears of corn, with tassels that are slowly turning brown. But the ears aren’t as plump as I’d expected, considering the plants’ spectacular start. Instead of many late-summer corn feasts for our small family, we might be down to only two rounds of hot buttered ears.

I have been faithful about watering the pumpkin and corn beds throughout our hot, dry July and August. The pumpkins, especially, are excellent nags about their need for hydration. I check my gardens every day, and, as soon as I see the pumpkin leaves drooping, I brandish my water wand and perk them up again. So it’s not a lack of watering that has caused this late-season slump. Instead, I think the curse of the impetuous gardener has struck again: a failure to follow through. Specifically, I think I should have relied less on the excellent compost I worked into each bed’s topsoil in June, and added actual fertilizer as the plants matured. (Having written the previous sentence, I am only too aware of the possibilities for some people who read this comment regularly to respond with variations of: “Man, she slings it every week in print. You’d think she could spread a little in her garden, too.”) Fire away, my friends.

Two vegetable beds have been a total success. I’ve been adding thin slices of fresh fennel and Italian basil, grown from seed, to salads this summer, and will soon have home-grown celery. In the same bed are three zucchini plants, which have been pumping out gourds as fast as I can give them away. (Note to self: Next year, plant one zucchini seed. If it doesn’t germinate, say a fervent thank-you to the Garden Goddess.)

The other rockin’ bed is planted with carrots and a small, late-season crop of sugar snap peas. The carrots are not yet ready for picking, but their fern-like tops wave to me every day when I walk by and encourage them. (Recently, I have been getting Facebook messages, asking about the carrots’ estimated maturity date. The sender’s screen name is Petercot N. Tail. I have no plans to “friend” him.)

My lettuce patch is less productive than I’d planned, thanks in part to a cute, long-eared bandit who hops away after sampling the greens. But there is still time to do a second planting. After I sowed the first lettuce seeds in June, my original schedule called for successive plantings in July and August. Instead, I spent most of that time getting our downstairs apartment ready for the arrival of our daughter, son-in-law, and two grandsons – and then playing with the little boys, ages five and three, when they moved in.

Although I’m occasionally buying lettuce at the farmer’s market or grocery store, instead of picking my own every night, I would not trade one minute of grandma time for the finest garden in Idaho. It’s an excellent trade-off, one I’m sure impetuous gardeners (and loving grandparents) would approve. This is another lesson, I think. If we reach the point where we start placing our gardens, or any other avocation, before the relationships in our lives, maybe it’s time to step away from the bag of fertilizer and go read a story to, have tea with, or send a card to someone we care about.

My garden staff takes a vague turn– Does trouble lie ahead?

I'm ready to flap a half-wave at our long summer of heat, drought and savage fires, and welcome autumn, but we still have another month to go. The shriveled state of my own vegetable and flower gardens is not important when people's beloved homes, possessions and land lie scorched and blackened, and smoke hangs over north Idaho like a dirty shroud, turning the setting sun an eerie red. Maybe the Garden Goddess will show some mercy and send us milder days, cooler nights and – should I even risk the jinx? – rain. We don't need just a few minutes of rainfall from a burst thundercloud, but some good, long soakings.

I've cut way back on watering this month, knowing my perennial flowers will have the winter to rest and rebloom next spring. I've surrendered my hopes for the broccoli, asparagus and sugar snap peas, and donated the final (I hope) picking of zucchini to a local food bank. Only the beans and the spindly but spunky tomato plants are still getting regular water. This week I've found one ripening cherry tomato and more than six green ones hanging on in the shadow of their bed mates, the water-hogging sunflower plants. Lately my garden time has focused on dead-heading flower stalks and offering orientation sessions to my new chief garden staffer.

Tessa the Vague, a 14-year-old peach, white and gray calico cat who makes Winnie the Pooh, a “bear of little brain,” look like a Rhodes scholar, earned the job by showing astonishing initiative. This sweet-natured feline needed three years to understand and process the complex workings of the cat door, but once she figured it out, Tessa's world expanded. Now it includes our backyard, the side yard with its raised vegetable beds, and the front yard flower gardens. She, who used to cower under the bed for days, now is often the last of our three cats to come inside after dark. She turns up her nose at the indoor cat box and pees in the outdoor dirt, because she is rugged cat of action, with an important job and many responsibilities. The fact that she has no idea what a “job” is– and would tremble if she understood the implication of “responsibilities” – is fine with me, her immediate supervisor and personnel manager.

I listened to readers who emailed me or posted comments on my Impetuous Gardener blog and hired Tessa the Vague (even though, technically, she didn't actually apply to be my new chief garden staffer.) I chose her because she showed real moxie (without, of course, having a clue what she was doing) and, most important, because she is not Benjamin BadKitten. While her predecessor, who is still-pouting, entered daily napping/meditating/snoring triathlons over the summer, Tess often wandered out to the garden where I was working. She kept her distance from me – unlike BBK, who tended to set up camp on my lap – and observed me with a steady, unblinking stare, which could be interpreted as “I will learn deep green truths from you, mistress of the garden.” The more accurate message is “Have we met? Do you happen to know where I was going? Or why I was going there? Is there a map?”

I'm not sure I would even have considered Tessa as garden staff material until my friend Bill Payne of Moscow, a longtime reader and major fan of Him Who Must not Be Named, suggested it. He thought my BadKitten might benefit from being relieved of his duties, at least temporarily, while I gave Tessa a shot at the big time. When I broached this idea in a column, many of you agreed . And now, here we are, me with a new chief staffer whose elevator doesn't go all the way to the top floor,as my grandma used to say.

And what about Benjamin? He is, as he promised, spending more time with his best buddy, Rags, our frail Old English sheepdog. In fact, Ben is showing so much patience and compassion that he modestly suggested I describe him as the Mother Teresa of neutered male Maine coon cats. Already, though, I'm seeing ominous signs of passive-aggressive response after I followed through on my threat to demote him, as a reader predicted: “I would suggest that Benjamin BadKitten be retained here on a provisional status (rather like probation) this year,” Cathy Willmes wrote. “He should be informed that qualified applicants are standing by to fill his shoes (or paws,) should he slack off on his duties. This way, he can preserve his important dignity – and, if demoted, who knows what really bad behavior could ensue?”

Already, in the first week of Tessa's new tenure, Benjamin has taken over her favorite sleeping spot in the living room. Twice he pooped in the blueberry bed, squeezing his abdominal girth through the decorative wires of the small fence I set up to keep varmints out. I've been taking special care of those blueberry bushes all summer, and my favorite varmint knows it. When I suggested to my new chief staffer that she patrol the blueberry bed for BBK sightings, Tessa blinked at me. “Who is this BadKitten of which you speak? Is there a photo?” They have lived together for ten years. I feel a headache coming on.

Readers' blog comments and emails helped decide choice for my chief garden staffer

No wonder business people say personnel issues rank among their greatest challenges.

Advertising for the job, sorting the resumes, interviewing the most qualified applicants, and making the final hiring decision can all be stressful – and they're dealing with human beings. Imagine how stress levels would rocket into the red zone if the only employment choices were a couple of cats. This – the cat factor – is the muddle I faced as I considered a shakeup in my garden staff.

My current chief staffer, Benjamin BadKitten, a black and brown Maine coon cat, has four years' experience on the job, but this summer he has mostly been a no-show, in daylight hours, at least. He has developed a paunch but no new level of maturity. He still poops in the garden beds, clambers onto my lap while I'm planting or weeding, and demands unlimited attention. Lately, he has been spending more and more time sprawled near his best buddy, our elderly Old English sheepdog, Rags. Those two bonded from the moment we brought Ben home as a tiny kitten. Our normally rambunctious young sheepdog laid a gentle paw on Benjamin's tail, licked his little kitten face, and seemed to smile. The baby BadKitten returned the affection, and this odd couple is still devoted to each other nearly ten years later.

The other applicant is our 14-year-old calico, Tessa the Vague, who stumbled – literally – into consideration when she finally learned to use the cat door. She tripped going down the steps and ended up in the flower garden. She blinked her lovely, jade green eyes, as luminous and empty as marbles, and cautiously tiptoed through the phlox. Unfortunately I was watering the phlox at the time, and by the time Tessa mentally connected the dots between the garden hose and the water lapping about, her paws were soaked and her cognitive capacity had maxed out.

See why I asked you faithful readers to help me decide between those two? And you really did help. Below are some of your thoughts, sent in emails or comments on my Impetuous Gardener blog:

A former personnel manager, who reads my blog from her home in Iowa, wrote: “Tessa sounds like a good companion...but Benjamin may need to up his game to keep his spot as chief staffer. I might need to know the qualifications of your staff positions to make a more effective choice. Is there any need of guarding the garden? Or...knowing where it is? These are important considerations."

 

With Tessa in the competition, knowing where the garden is becomes a crucial requirement. As for guarding the garden, early this summer Benjamin cowered in the pea patch while a pair of quail checked out the newly planted beans and sampled the seeds. (Of course, I'm not at all sure Tessa is even aware of the winged, flying species.)

Patricia Raamot of Pullman succinctly captured my dilemma: “I think Benjamin is out. Why is he lying around so much? The heat? Has he seen a vet? Tessa sounds hopeless. Regarding the zucchini, [Writer's note: I often complain about my zucchini,] I suggested the food bank two years ago. I am 79, and paying $1 for two skinny ones in the store is silly. If I lived in Moscow, I would be over. (In Pullman, no transportation.)” She also included a tasty-sounding recipe for zucchini, which I think even my husband will like.

Anne Shearer, president of the Moscow Garden Club and her kitty, Minnie, both voted for Benjamin. “Tessa sounds like she is too vague, and we feel she isn't really up to the demands of the position. “

Ginny McConnell of Troy wrote, “One more in the plus column for at least a temporary position for Tessa the Vague as Chief Garden Staffer. The BadKitten is needed as a support for his buddy Rags, who now needs him more than ever. He doesn't have time to supervise a garden, as well. Possibly that is the reason he has neglected it. ( I'm putting a positive spin on his laziness!). You know I'm a BIG fan of the BadKitten, but I think it would be a great lesson to him if he were replaced, even if temporarily, by the slow-learning but extremely accommodating Tessa. It should inspire him to try to gain back his old position. When a baseball closer is blowing saves, he is replaced until the manager thinks he has gotten his form back. Benjamin has taken his role for granted and abused it. He needs to be taught this valuable lesson. (And it will add another character to your narrative – how fun! We will get to know Tessa, who has a completely different personality from Ben's. I can only imagine the conniving BadKitten pulling stunts to sabotage Tessa's reign.)"

 

Truer words have seldom been written, BadKitten-wise.

Benjamin trailed early, but his fans poured it on this week to make the final vote very close. The following dictated statement announces the outcome:

 

 “I, Benjamin BadKitten, have begun a voluntary sabbatical leave from the high-stress duties of my permanent position as Chief Staffer of the Rozen Gardens. Although I have been maligned in print, my sabbatical will center on spending more time with my family (all traitors, except my sheepdog.) I wish that dodo-brained interloper, Tessa the Vague, all kinds of luck (she'll need it.) I will, of course, do everything I can to subvert – I mean support – her as she bumbles around in the garden where I have popped and peed for four years. It's mine, and I will return!”

One year of gardening in a new state, so many impetuous plans and mistakes

[Note to readers: This post was originally published as a newspaper column exactly four years ago, on August 13, 2011. With impetuous gardeners, some things never change.]

I have lived in Moscow for one year, and am grateful to the gardeners here in northern Idaho who have encouraged me and given advice about plants that grow well here. Special thanks to the neighbors and passersby who try really hard to keep from laughing when they see me, dirt-splotched and sunburned, digging up and moving entire beds of flowers that I’ve planted in the wrong places.

In this first year, I’ve realized nearly every week how aptly I have named my column: The Impetuous Gardener. Impetuosity has carried me on its fierce wind to three nurseries in one morning and led me up and down each narrow nursery aisle. At each stop, I was wheeling a garden cart, and lovely flowers called “Buy me!” along the way. I also saw some dejected, brown-leafed plants on the clearance table and knew they needed rescuing. (This is why I no longer – ever – stop at animal shelters. Two big dogs and three cats are probably three animals too many at our house already.) I often arrive home with plants filling the cargo space and the floor of my little SUV. Only when I’ve unloaded all those flowers does the common-sense light bulb finally flicker on.

Late in the spring, I dug a new flower bed in a corner of our front lawn. My heart was in the right place, I think. I wanted to give people who walk by a lovely view of delphiniums, roses, snapdragons, and pansies blooming in the sun. The crabapple tree overlooking the new bed had not yet leafed out and thrown the new garden into shade for most of the day. Soon the delphiniums and roses were all but shaking their drooping leaves at me for planting them in that sunless bog.

I often walk past a spectacular English garden in our neighborhood and was invited inside the gates for a delightful tour with the owners. I was so inspired that I vowed to make my own English garden. Never mind that their gardens have taken more than thirty years and are still evolving. I bought more delphinium (and other) plants, dug a new bed in the front-yard sunshine, planted the new ones and transplanted the unhappy ones from the shade. This spurt of energy resulted in one small new garden, sweet, but not dramatic, lush, or even vaguely British. I’m also left with a scraggly, half-empty bed in the shade nearest the sidewalk and another lesson learned in impetuous gardening.

The neighbors' garden also helped me realize we needed a rose arbor arching over our own front walkway. I envisioned red and yellow roses climbing the white lattice, with twining purple clematis for drama. When I mentioned this excellent vision to my husband, he envisioned the heavy labor required to provide concrete footings to support the arbor.

Instead, we bought two light-weight white trellises for the backyard patio, one for the roses, and one for the clematis. (I had already bought the plants and then had the arbor fantasy, so we had to have something for them to climb.) The rose arbor will happen, but not this year – maybe not even this decade.

Being an impetuous gardener can seem like a benign addiction, and most of the time, it is. But, like all addictions, wanting to create beauty can have its dangers. To keep mine in check, I follow a few simple rules:

• I set a specific monthly budget for buying all things garden related – and I stick to it.
• I also never shop for plants with friends. How many of us have, hanging in the depths of our closets, a never-worn outfit that a former BFF assured us looked absolutely fabulous on us? My problem is that my new gardening friends really do know their plants. If they suggested that an acre of perennials would look absolutely stunning in our side yard, I would be tempted. So I shop alone.
• Most important, I live with a wonderful man who knows when to enable my tendencies and when to temper them with reality. Time is the pleasure and bane of impetuous gardening. Sometimes I forget that English gardens should not be planted in a weekend, but over decades of joy in the planning, choosing, planting and nurturing. If my gardens could pop up, lavish and complete in two days, they would have as little heart and soul as the plastic blow-up figures on lawns at Christmastime. In gardens, as in all things worth cherishing, heart and soul take time.

Keeping my garden$ watered; only few more days to vote for Tessa or the BadKitten as chief staffer

Yipes. Our water bill for the 31 days of July arrived this week: $217.40 (not including charges for sewer, garbage and street lights.) The bill is more than twice our normal charge – and probably similar to the surprise many other impetuous gardeners got in the mail. My husband and I don't water our grass, and a timed, nighttime drip system irrigates all of our vegetable beds and some of our flower beds. Even before the bill arrived, I had been watering our two large, front yard flower beds by hand. The only time I took the easy way out and set up an arcing sprinkler, I felt a deluge of guilt when I saw the water pooling on the sidewalk, driveway and into the street. So I retired the sprinkler and rely solely on my trusty hand-held wand for targeted, less wasteful watering. Lee and I try to be responsible, but this summer's drought means we're paying big-time for the privilege of keeping our flowers and vegetables hydrated. I only wish I had more to show for the money, veggie-wise.

 

Because of my unfortunate, though well meant, decision to let a few volunteer sunflowers share space in the tomato patch, the odds of BLTs with home-grown tomatoes are looking even slimmer than usual. A few green cherry tomatoes are hanging on the vines. But above them loom lofty, healthy stalks of golden sunflowers, magnets now for bees and, later, as the seeds ripen, for the small birds I love. Their bed is just below the window of my study, and the plants have grown so tall that I'll have a great view soon of the birds snacking at the Rozen cafe. Meanwhile, the sunflowers' bed mates – my hapless tomato plants – must be cursing me daily for letting the big guys steal all the nutrients and sunlight and suck up most of the precious water.

In our side yard, the raised vegetable beds, also kitted out with a drip irrigation system, are batting below the Mendoza line (.200 for non-baseball fans). Planting three zucchini seeds was two seeds too many for me this year. It took all my willpower not to become a cliché: leaving surprise gifts of enormous green monsters, under cover of darkness, on our neighbors' doorsteps. I grew the Zs for the wrong reason: to avenge last summer's humiliation when the entire crop failed. Pride blanked my memory that my husband truly dislikes the sometimes-mushy results of baked or sauteed squash – and let's not even go near the idea of boiled zucchini. So I'm the only Z-eater left – and have slowly been turning grayish green from too many dinners where it's my main course. I don't eat much sweet stuff, so zucchini bread is out. If our children were small and at home, I would certainly have embraced the brilliant practice of disguising shredded Z in meatloaf, spaghetti sauce and – who knows? maybe oatmeal or mashed potatoes, too. But my husband never complains about my cooking, and I'd feel like a jerk for sneaking his nemesis into the pasta sauce just to use up the latest green torpedo.

The two raised beds of Italian shell and French green beans are growing enthusiastically, but the sugar snap peas look spindly and sparse. It's the result, I think, of early raids by crows or quail, and hanging out at the end of the drip-watering line. By the time the flow reaches their bed, it probably has lost its oomph. As for the broccoli bed, I committed the same mistake there and let a few sunflowers shoot up among them. The brocs rallied more strongly than the tomatoes and formed fat heads last month. But before I could pick even one side dish's worth, the neighborhood rabbit apparently went grocery shopping in the Rozen produce bed. Instead of broccoli heads, I found only gnawed off stalks. Tiny side heads are forming now, but I bet the cute little critter will come back for seconds soon.

We will continue to use our watering system until summer's end, even if the vegetable yield has been puny (except for the dratted zucchini.) Letting the plantings go dry isn't an option– and we'll pay the water bill and be thankful for it. Our alternative, my husband reminded me, is to grow cactus. I vow by the blue delphiniums, yellow and pink Peace roses, and pink, lavender and white Canterbury bells flowering in my garden, I will never grow a prickly, spiny, unfriendly cactus in my Church of Dirt and Flowers. 

 

Readers, you have one more week to vote for who should be my chief garden staffer. Your choices are the incumbent (although, this summer, he has mostly been recumbent,) Benjamin BadKitten, or his challenger, Tessa the Vague, whose name describes her response to her environment. You may vote by posting a comment at the end of this blog post. I will announce he results next weekend– but here's a hint: In early returns, the BadKitten is tanking at the polls. No matter which dubiously qualified candidate you choose, guess who will still be doing doing most of the garden work?

In my home or garden, eccentric pets are part of the family

Note to readers: Although this post was originally written three years ago, it's a recap of the personalities of all four of our family pets -- including the two who are currently competing to be my chief garden staffer: Benjamin BadKitten and Tessa the Vague. You can vote for your choice by posting a comment at the end of this post. (In early voting, the BadKitten is tanking at the polls.)

Readers have been asking lately for an update on my garden staff. After the death of our golden retriever, Kaylee, only two staff members remain: Rags, our 10-year-old Old English sheepdog, and Benjamin BadKitten, age 8 (and currently enjoying Life Number 23 of his allotted nine lives.)

Kaylee’s death has been especially hard on Rags. My heart ached as, for weeks, I watched him make a daily circuit of our backyard, sniffing at each spot on the grass (and there were dozens) where Kaylee had left her mark. Then Rags would lift his big, shaggy head, searching for his friend. Finally he would rest his head on his paws, heave one of his trademark sighs, and close his eyes.

This was the same dog who used to galumph around the yard, knocking me over as I knelt to plant my flowers, chasing Kaylee in their daily game of tag (he always let her win,) and greeting my husband, Lee, every night by stealing the dish towel from the kitchen and waving it, flag-like, with joy.

A month ago, we discovered a large growth on Rags’s abdomen. Lee and I love all our animals so much, and we couldn’t imagine losing another one. We quickly scheduled Rags for veterinary surgery. Afterward, the biopsy report said the growth is benign and not expected to return – and we are thankful beyond words.

His doctor also diagnosed our anxious, protective, sweet-natured sheepdog as showing symptoms of obsessive-compulsive disorder. She prescribed an anti-anxiety drug to stop him from compulsively licking a spot on his leg until the skin is raw. The other alternative was having him wear a big plastic cone around his head for the rest of his life, which he hated and which made me cry in sympathy for him.

So the big guy is on a low dose of medicine and, after a month, is showing flashes of his former goofball personality. In the past week, he knocked over a full bucket of compost I‘d planned to use in a backyard bed, and he peed on a potted, flowering weigela shrub in the backyard. Both incidents made me grin, instead of yell at him.

While Rags’ trouble-making is a welcome sign of his returning exuberance, Benjamin BadKitten has no excuse. Earlier this week, Lee opened the front door to bring in the morning edition of the Daily News and found a goldfinch, neatly delivered postmortem on the porch. Benjamin, a 15-pound brown and black, Maine Coon-type cat, pouted for days after I weeded one of his favorite bird-hunting spots, under the lilac grove in our side yard. If I point out any of his numerous pratfalls during hunting expeditions, he shoots me a glare and begins a vigorous washing of his private parts.

He instinctively knows the most inconvenient time to climb onto my lap when I’m kneeling in the garden. With a flick of his long, fluffy tail, he can send a seedling soaring out of my hand. That leaves me free, of course, to devote myself to a more important garden-related task: petting Benjamin until I have transferred all of the compost, dried grass, leaves, and twigs he has attracted to his fur onto my own jeans.

I adore him. He and Rags have always been best buddies. At times, Benjamin was the only member of our household who could temporarily cheer up our sheepdog after Kaylee’s death. When Rags was recovering from his own surgery and wearing the Cone of Doom, Benjamin would march up to his dog, walk into the cone until he and Rags were nose to nose, and then lick his pal in commiseration. Rags outweighs him by 65 pounds, but the cat is the heavyweight in their friendship.

Lee and I have two more cats, whom I love dearly but write about seldom, because they have no interest in being on my garden staff. Both cats are eleven years old and mainly house cats, although both enjoy a daily trip to the garden for their own personal needs.

Abigail is a beautiful, long-haired, black and white “tuxedo” cat with a grumpy personality and an imperious manner. “Pet me. Now. Scratch my back. Now. Satisfactory. Repeat. Now go away until I summon you again.” Five years ago, she disappeared for three weeks and then showed up on our back deck the day after Thanksgiving, thin and dehydrated, but with her prickly personality intact. I don’t know where she had gone or how she came home, but she is part of our family. A crabby cat is still better than no cat. (Do not ask my husband to agree with that statement. He is a dog person, but our felines think he’s the cat’s meow.)

Our third cat is Tessa the Vague, a lovely little peach and gray calico. Gentle and sweet-natured, Tessa’s calendar has been missing a couple of Tuesdays since the day we brought her home as a kitten. For Tess, every element of the daily routine seems forever new. Often she stares at Lee, as if wondering whether she has met that nice gentleman somewhere. She trips going up a set of stairs, can snag her claw on a smooth hardwood floor, and asks for nothing except to be fed and petted. This seems a reasonable request from a small creature who puts up with Benjamin’s nightly pounces onto her back, and who wakes up each day with fresh delight at her world.

Sheepdog's still with me, but Benjamin BadKitten's job as chief garden staffer depends on you readers

August 1, 2015

A great deal can happen in four weeks, so I'm grateful to let readers know that Rags, our Old English sheepdog, is still with us. Thank you for every message of caring from readers who wrote, emailed or asked in person about his health. I stayed home from our family's July vacation on Priest Lake, to keep Rags stable and secure. Our days followed the pattern he knows: me spending time at my computer, working on writing projects while he slept. After dinner, I read in the living room, with Rags sprawled in front of my chair, doing his usual stellar job of keeping our house and me well guarded.

The big, shaggy guy was so skilled at protection that he literally worked with his eyes shut. Sometimes he even snored. But I knew he was on duty 'round the clock, because, one very late night, he woke me with sharp barks that scared the zucchini out of me. As I grabbed my robe and stumbled to the living room, his staccato barking continued. I gently put my hand on top of his head so he didn't startle, because Rags is nearly blind and deaf, and then looked out our living room window. A midnight dog walker was crossing our street and continuing on his way, with his large, leashed dog jogging ahead of him. The bark-alarm was a false one, but I gave Rags major points for effort and heart, and offered him a peanut butter treat to help him settle back into sleep.

Our sheepdog is nearly 13 years old, and I see him growing a bit more frail each day. But he can still rouse himself when my husband, Lee, comes home from work every night. Rags is still eating, although more sparingly. If he reaches the point where he refuses his specially ordered dog food, I will switch him to homemade meals of scrambled eggs with beef broth, which kept our golden retriever Kaylee, alive in her final days. On most late afternoons, when I guide him outside to the backyard, Rags likes to stand for a moment, facing west, with the sun on his face. He lifts his shaggy head and seems to listen to the wind, as if he is waiting.

While Rags drifts through his days, his faithful buddy usually keeps him company, snoring and spreading cat fur on the living room chair. I refer, of course, to Benjamin BadKitten, my Maine coon cat and chief garden staffer. A staff shakeup may be imminent, though. My BadKitten has been my on-again, off-again chief staffer for more than four years, but his recent employment record is spotty. On the plus side, he has caught no birds since his unfortunate Mother's Day gift to me: a gray and yellow finch. His willingness to stifle his hunting instincts counts a lot with me, and I'm willing to believe this is a conscious act of obedience and goodness, instead of the natural effects of a slightly portly cat reaching middle age. On the red side of the ledger, though, is his lack of interest in helping me in the garden. This summer he has kept me company only once, while I weeded and planted – after I threatened to replace the slacker with the long, plumed tail and round, black and brown tummy.

A lack of qualified candidates has held me back from making the switch. Rags entered permanent emeritus status last year. Abigail Grump, our black and white, long-haired cat, has the brains to take over as garden chief, but lacks the necessary social skills. She'll come out to the flower beds sometimes, select a spot under a spreading phlox plant, and curl up in the sunshine – but if greet her, she'll offer only a crabby “Mmrrrfff” and shut her eyes again. The squirrel that haunts our apple tree is another nonstarter: He would demand I plant nothing but walnut trees and peanut bushes.

But a unique possibility has emerged: Tessa the Vague, our 14-year-old white, peach and gray calico cat. Now that she has learned to use the cat door (after only three years of study,) Tess has become a more confident cat. She will approach me from a distance in the garden, and once came close enough to peer at me with her always-bleary stare and sniff the fingertip I offered in greeting. She is sweet-natured and uncomplaining, and shows no tendency to let fame turn her into a spoiled publicity hound (no names here, but his last name rhymes with GadMitten.) I will wait a week or two to make this important staffing decision, and will rely on readers' opinions: Should I keep Benjamin BadKitten as chief garden staffer, or fire his butt and promote Tessa the Vague? Let me know with your comments on this post.