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.