Getting down in the garden dirt, while politics brew inside

Last week I spent my first afternoon of the year on my knees in the Church of Dirt and Flowers. I felt a powerful joy as I gently removed the blanket of soggy leaves that had protected our flower beds since October. Under the leaf covering, I found emerging tulip and daffodil bulbs and the first green shoots of the perennials I'd planted last year, when I expanded a front-yard bed. I worried whether they would survive last summer's extreme heat and drought and then the shock of hard freezes and snowfalls. The gaillardias' seemingly dead stalks poked up like brown bones among the new bulbs. I thought I'd lost those dark red and gold, daisy-like plants. All of the oriental poppies were showing lacy fronds, but the pale rose-colored potentillas looked dead. When I carefully clipped away the hollow sticks, I saw the lovely surprise of tiny, green leaves, already forming at the base of the gaillardias and potentillas.

 

There is so much hope and wonder in early-season gardening. Every year I feel it, when I reverse my autumn tradition of taking down the garden and, instead, clear away the winter's legacy of rotting leaves and windblown twigs. I use only my hands, protected by thermal gloves, to do the leaf-clearing, because the new growth beneath them is fragile. It seems an annual miracle that these still-young plants can survive the Garden Goddess's whims. The tiny shoots I see in February remind me of the power and beauty of nature's cycles. If ever I lose my thankfulness, if I forget to fall to my knees in the dirt, I know I will lose the true reason I am a gardener., impetuous and imperfect as I am.

 

I worked alone that day as I cleared away the wet mat of leaves. Tessa the Vague, my calico cat, who had been last summer's chief garden staffer, is too frail now to be outdoors in the cold. While I was in the flower bed, Tessa was curled inside on her rug, near the heat register in the living room. The most likely candidate to replace Tess – actually, the only remaining possibility – was perched regally on a stack of boxes in the dining room. Abigail Grump, our long-haired, black and white cat, is solitary by nature and born to the aristocracy. Abby has an expressive vocabulary of meows, which she uses to command me: “Pet me on my head. Feed me. Pet me again. Open the door for me. Even better, why don't you just stand at the door and wait a few hours until I'm ready to come back inside?” When the weather warms to a temperature she finds acceptable, Abby likes to spend her afternoons in peace, under a tall perennial plant in our front garden. She is bossy, imperious, and an accomplished nag. She might deign to accept the role of chief garden staffer, but only if I clearly understand who does the actual gardening, and who does the supervising, ordering-about, and criticizing.

Benjamin BadKitten, my former chief garden staffer in nearly permanent exile these past nine months, is far too busy with his possible new career to consider returning to duty. An editorial page column this week from my Daily News colleague, Jean M. Chapman, sent Benjamin's ego soaring past Pluto. Ms. Chapman, a devoted animal lover, who has two rescued dogs, ended her column with the following thoughts: “We'd get a cat if we could get a 'BadKitten.'One wonders who will end up as the candidate for the Republican Party. There are fewer and fewer good choices. The Democrats aren't much better off. Too bad our dogs and a certain BadKitten can't run. They would up the quality of the pool real fast.”

Imagine the political earthquake at our house when my fluffy, black and brown Maine coon cat heard the news that his name is being mentioned publicly as a presidential candidate. He, of the already magnificent (and delusional) sense of self-importance, immediately began making plans. (He dismissed the possibility of Ms. Chapman's two sweet dogs as serious threats to his nomination and inevitable election, because he has never met a dog he can't dominate. Just ask his best buddy, our 70-pound Old English sheepdog, Rags.) You'll need a political platform, I told him, and talking points for speeches, campaign rallies and debates. “I don't need another platform,” he responded (in his vivid imagination,)lifting his little black nose in the air. “I already have my cat tower for naps, although I'll probably need a fancier one now. And you can just write stuff for me before I make my appearances before the cheering, adoring masses. Just don't write anything about me pooping.” He narrowed his green eyes and looked at me sternly.

Is there anything else I can do for you, President-to-be BadKitten? I asked. He thought for a moment. “Before I start campaigning, I'll need a style update. Buy me a gallon of hairspray: super-mega-hold strength. Then you can help me shellac my tail “ – a long, fat plume of a tail, it is – “over my back and onto my head. The American people are so done with the comb-over. But the tail-over, BadKitten style, will be a huge success. Huuuge. ”