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.