Farewell to Rags, our great-hearted sheepdog

MAY 7

Most dog owners tend to think ours is the best dog in the world, and, of course, all of us are right.

 

We bought him nearly 14 years ago in Seattle and named him Winston Ragsdorf – a suitable British moniker for a pedigreed, Old English sheepdog puppy. He bounced around our living room, wiggling his rump and his nonexistent tail as he made friends with our golden retriever, Kaylee. He'll grow into his dignified name in time, Lee and I told each other. He was bred to be a large, responsible, herding dog, in charge of protecting and guarding his flock. Soon, our curly-haired, gray and white clown would mature and become an example to the older, excitable Kaylee. Winston would show Kaylee how to walk on a leash in a stately, docile manner – instead of mimicking her headlong sprint around our neighborhood, zigzagging to sniff every tree and telephone pole along the way.

This, of course, did not happen. Instead, the three of us – a small woman, clutching a double leash and being towed by an exuberant puppy and a manic dog – drew slowdowns from drivers and grins from passersby as we careened down the block. But I was grinning, too. I loved our dogs' joy. And what was the harm in letting little Winston bound onto my lap at night and settle in, cat-like, while I read? How could I know he would continue this tradition long after he had topped 80 pounds?

On Winston's first Christmas Eve, our family left to attend an evening service. We returned to find our little sheepdog, hunkered down under the library table, with a partially gnawed loaf of sweet bread between his paws. I had left two loaves cooling on a kitchen counter and hadn't considered our puppy's athletic ability. Finally Lee and I accepted reality and rechristened our sheepdog. He was Rags, as adorable as a big, living stuffed animal, buoyant of spirit, loyal and loving of heart, and lacking even one mean – or dignified – bone in his body. We reserved the stern call of “Winston!” for rare times when he did something unsafe – lunging at his only enemy, the UPS truck, for instance.

When we bought a house on two country acres in Kingston, a ferry ride away from Seattle, Rags and Kaylee believed we'd moved them to dog heaven. We hung up the leashes and let our dogs run free, chasing each other down the lane every morning as we collected the daily newspaper, and again in the afternoon for the mail. Long after dark every night, those two would eye each other and race to the back door. We'd let them out and hear them racing down the trail, barking with joy, in pursuit of trespassing (or possibly imaginary) deer, raccoons, or bears. They'd return, bright-eyed and unharmed, ready for their nightly treat and lavish praise for protecting us from wild beasts.

Rags was four when Lee and I were given a tiny, black and brown kitten, with the don't-mess-with-me attitude of a Rottweiler. Kaylee was horrified; Rags, delighted. Our big guy could have flattened that little upstart with one swipe of his large paw. Instead, he allowed Benjamin BadKitten – no other name would suit the trouble-prone fluff ball – literally to climb all over him. Their friendship grew and endured until the final morning of our good dog's life. Those two adored each other, seeking each other out for comfort and support. When the Winter Olympics were on TV, the huge dog and baby cat loved to watch figure skating together. Rags would lie on the floor, staring intently at the moving skaters, and Benjamin would perch over the edge of the TV, watching the action upside-down. As Rags grew older, he and Lee watched Seattle Seahawks football together, but we suspected our sheepdog's heart still belonged to the sequins and skates.

When we moved to Moscow six years ago,he easily cleared the four-foot backyard fence to find us in the front yard. He didn't run away; he wanted only to be near us. Our sheepdog never wanted to be the alpha dog. He deferred gladly to Kaylee – and to his BadKitten. Lee was the true leader of the pack, and I was Ragsy's first sheep. He guarded me fiercely (unless someone actually entered the house.) Our brave dog hid behind me only when confronted by water (he couldn't swim and feared the bathtub) or by any dog who was not Kaylee. When our three young grandchildren arrived, Rags whimpered if they scattered or resisted being herded. He always chose first to protect the smallest, the one he felt needed him most.

I keep a mental picture of him in his “Ragsy pose,” lying on the couch, with his chin resting on his front paws, floppy, white hair in his eyes, and black nose gleaming. I see him gallumphing around our backyard, crashing against my side in the garden and slurping my cheek. I see him bounce up with joy when Lee came home, to begin their nightly bear hug and wrestling match. I hear Rags sigh patiently as the BadKitten waved his tail across his buddy's nose. Our shaggy dog loved us with all his great heart. The final act of love we could give him was to let him go peacefully into the beyond. Rest now, Ragsy, and then jump a fence and race Kaylee down the lane. You were the best dog in the world.

I find surprises in the garden and help Benjamin BadKitten duck a disaster

APRIL 23

Oh, me of little faith. I've spent parts of two recent columns bemoaning the epic failure of the bed of sugar snap peas I planted early this month. Last week, I blamed the neighborhood crows for the legumes' no-show. Those birds with the shiny ebony wings have been hanging around our raised vegetable beds since planting day, and they're smart and wily enough to find and pilfer the newly sprouted peas.Today, though, I'm eating some figurative crow, because at least 14 (of the 100 peas I originally planted) have sprouted and are growing. (It's very lowering to be able to count the number of one's seedlings.) Maybe another few dozen will shoot up in this warm, sunny weather.

I've been neurotic about this because peas are so easy to grow, and I'm a wee bit superstitious about my relationship with the Garden Goddess. Every growing season, I expect her to raise her graceful arms skyward, conjure a small but fierce rain cloud, and center it directly above my head, while chanting, “You are a washout at growing vegetables. Save the peas. Save the pumpkins. Save the zucchini – and, fer pete's sake, find another hobby!”

But the goddess has never actually drowned me, because I think she understands that gardening is more than a hobby for me. Gardening -- from busting my knees as I turn over heavy clods of soil with a spading fork, to kneeling to plant the seeds, to watering and weeding, to doing a happy dance as each tiny seedling emerges – brings joy and peace to my soul. The goddess knows I call it the Church of Dirt and Flowers because my garden is as much of a sanctuary for me as the beautiful church of brick and stained glass where I spend my Sunday mornings and Wednesday evenings teaching and helping to mentor children and teenagers.

After the peas had punted for weeks, the Garden Goddess must have known I needed a boost of hope, and she offered a double shot. First a few pea seedlings emerged, and then, in the next raised bed, I found slender green and purple stalks of asparagus. For the last three summers, as soon as the skinny stalks popped up, they seemed to go immediately to seed. I could pick barely enough to use as roasted garnishes on pasta or seafood, and the bed couldn't be disturbed because of the plants' shallow roots.

 

So last fall, I decided the asparagus had to go. My husband rototilled the entire bed, removing long roots and adding a covering blanket of fallen leaves. I planned to grow pumpkins there this summer. But the surprise appearance of healthy asparagus stalks this week sent me into another dance of joy and served as a reminder that patience in a garden can result in small miracles. Those plants' roots must have gone far deeper than we expected and had survived a machine-made invasion. I tipped my garden chapeau to the feisty asparagus and promised them permanent welcome. (I also wondered if the Garden Goddess was trying to prevent another pumpkin-related humiliation. With that bed filled, I have nowhere to grow jack-o-lanterns this year, and my three grandchildren are all old enough to know that real Halloween pumpkins are bigger than golf balls.)

As I was leaving the raised beds, I turned toward the front yard in time to see a mated pair of mallard ducks waddling across the grass. Ten yards away, in full crouching-lion stance, my Benjamin BadKitten was poised to end up foiled again. The drake, with its iridescent teal colored feathers and broad chest, looked like one tough duck. My Maine coon cat, once a swift and powerful athlete, has lost a couple of moves – and gained a bit more girth – as he nears his eleventh birthday in October. Earlier in his life, if I'd tried to intercept him mid-hunt, he would have streaked away from me and maybe caught the bird. This time, he flattened himself onto the grass and waited for me to hoist him up and cradle him up against my chest. He didn't struggle while I carried him into the house and murmured, “No duck soup for you, pal.” Meanwhile, the mallard couple placidly searched for snails and fallen bird seed, and munched a bit of grass. I hope they found some duckweed.

Afternoon in the garden brings peace to my soul

April 16

Without even a flicker of guilt, I left the chaotic jumble of unpacked boxes in the kitchen and spent a sunny afternoon in my flower garden this week. I needed to clear thoughts that had become as scattered as the disorder on the table, and knew exactly where I'd find clarity and peace: on my knees in the Church of Dirt and Flowers. As I planted red and purple anemones among the newly flowering tulips and daffodils, I could feel the anxiety drift away. It's nearly impossible to hold onto stress when I'm holding a new plant in my cupped hands, ready to set it gently into prepared soil.

As I scooted backwards into the next planting area, I imagined making a new bed of “Blue Diamond” and white “Guardian” delphiniums, to add their clear colors and lacy greenery to the garden this summer. Half an hour later, I'd planted and watered them in a spot where they would stand out among the nearby dusty rose potentilla and purple shades of oriental poppies. Then I rose slowly, because my fragile knees are much older than my spirit, and stepped onto the stone path that winds through the garden. Where would a calming froth of white-flowered “sun roses” be most welcome? Yes, right there, between the coreopsis, with its red-tinged, yellow petals and the lavender Canterbury bells. Part of gardening for me is making pictures, mixing colors and textures of flowers and leaves, while knowing that nothing will ever be – or should ever be – perfect.

As I worked, several neighbors passed by and stopped for brief visits. One offered a reassuring, misery-loves- company story about her own pea patch, which failed to germinate, just as mine did. We compared notes and realized we had probably planted out rebellious peas on the same sunny day – just before a hodgepodge of rain, snow, and cold weather hit Moscow. I also told her about a column I'd read by Susan Mulvihill in the Spokane newspaper. Ms. Mulvihill started her pea plants indoors this season, she wrote, to prevent neighborhood crows from plucking them out of her garden as soon as the peas started to sprout. In our raised beds, my husband had noticed a couple of crows hanging around the newly planted peas, Those birds wily birds were all but polishing their halos in an attempt to look innocent of pea thievery. So maybe, my neighbor and I decided, this one wasn't our fault. (The next day, I bought bird-discouraging garden netting and will spread it over the raised beds immediately after I've planted the next round of vegetables, including another packet of peas.)

Throughout the late afternoon, a flock of finches, many of them bright-feathered, twitted around the bird feeder over my head as I worked. I felt joy and thankfulness that they didn't seem afraid of me. The finches also apparently didn't feel the need to decorate my head as I knelt in the soil below them, as they have done several times to Benjamin BadKitten. I still remember him climbing onto my lap a few summers ago, mewing piteously, as I inspected the glob of bird poop on his brown and black head. I had to shampoo him twice that low-comedy day. After all traces of his first humiliation were gone, my BadKitten returned to the same hunting spot under the bird feeder, and was bombed again. (And this cat thinks he has the mental capacity to run for president.)

By 5:30 that afternoon, my knees were creaking insistently, but I decided I had another half hour of energy left. I put away my planting tools and used a sturdy rake to scratch up and loosened the top layer of soil, and then hauled and spread a light layer of compost over the newly prepped areas. Later in the week, I scatter-planted sweet William, Canterbury bells, delphinium, poppy, and hollyhock seeds in those patches, hoping for an informal, cottage garden look this summer. By the time I'd washed off the clinging bits of compost and garden dirt, I had also washed away the last traces of stress. I was ready to face the kitchen jumble with an organized mind.

Still willing to give peas a chance, but it's deadline time for the lazy legumes

April 9

Over the last few years, I've written about the humiliations and outright failures I've met in trying to grow vegetables. Unless a minor miracle occurs before my column's mid-week deadline, honor compels me to share a lollapalooza of a gardening blunder. Not even one of the sugar snap peas – three rows, planted two weeks ago in a 4x8-foot raised bed – has shown its little green head above ground. Peas like cool weather. They're hardy legumes. They take no special gardening skill: Hoe a straight-ish row, drop in the dried peas at two-inch intervals, cover with a mix of soil and peat moss, water, and, in a few days, as the British say, Bob's your uncle. Those peas are up and climbing.

I planted my peas, however, in late March, just before the Garden Goddess threw down snow, sunshine, wind, rain, snow, rain, graupel, and sun again. I think my peas got confused. (Graupel, by the way, is a weather term I'd never heard of, and surely not experienced, before we moved to Moscow nearly six years ago. Veterans of north Idaho know it's a soft hail – tiny ice balls that fall thickly enough to look like snow on the ground. Graupel is cool – except, apparently, if you're a pea.)

From the day I planted them, I've walked out to the garden bed every afternoon and encouraged them. At first, I didn't try too hard, just offered a confident assurance that I knew those peas would show themselves soon. By week two, they must have heard the desperate note in my voice: Listen, guys, I'm feeling extra pressure this year. We're hosting a reunion of my family here in early July, and most of my relatives are excellent Italian cooks and expert gardener. I'm fine with my cooking cred – planning to make about a thousand homemade ravioli for them – but maybe you've heard that my gardening skills are a little shaky. So I started easy, with you guys, to boost my confidence and make sure I had at least one thriving bed of vegetables when the family's here. So, c'mon, help me out here. Grow, dang it. Grow.

Somewhere under their peat moss blanket, an entire packet of peas was laughing. By late morning of my deadline day, those stubborn little legumes still refused to sprout. Maybe I'll have good news to repeat, pea-wise- next week. More likely, I'll be thankful to have another packet of the same peas in reserve for a second planting.

BadKitten for President update: I'm relieved to report that Benjamin BadKitten has received no further financial contributions to his campaign for the presidency. (Last week a deep-pocketed donor sent a dime and five pennies to the BBK political action committee. My theory is other readers think my black and brown, Maine Coon cat isn't worth two cents.) I've also reminded him about his less than stellar employment history. Fired multiple times as chief garden staffer. Even now, when he's in the public spotlight (a dim 25-watt bulb, but still), he can't be bothered to hoist his ample backside out of the chair and help me rally the peas in the garden. This is not the behavior of a winner.

Major financial donation boosts Benjamin BadKitten's political delusions

April 2

Faithful readers, we have to step out of the garden for today's column. Please loudly hum the CNN fanfare that precedes breaking political news: A spokeswoman for presidential candidate (in his own mind) Benjamin BadKitten announced today the receipt of an unexpected cash donation to his PAC (political action committee.)The mail-in donation was addressed to Benjamin BadKitten PAC, c/o Rozen at the candidate's home. One dime and five pennies were taped to the enclosed note and arranged in a pyramid design. The donor's message read: “To BBK: In your campaign for a Presidential nomination, your campaign must have more funds. TV& newspaper ads are costly. The generous donation enclosed should put you over the top.” The 88-year-old mega-donor received a phone call of thanks from the BadKitten's spokeswoman and manager of the BBK PAC.

BadKitten's spokeswoman noted that the campaign is diligent about following all pertinent federal, state and intergalactic election laws and is meticulous about updating its donors' list as the money rolls in. Besides the cash haul from MegaDonor, BBK also receives weekly in-kind contributions of canned and dry cat food,which he shares with his two feline associates, Tessa the Vague and Abigail Grump. Both cats have been lobbying for appointment to Cabinet posts. Ms. Vague is angling for the cabinet spot where the cat food is stored. Ms. Grump is eager for a position away from the riffraff, where she can lie under a flowering phlox plant, consider environmental policy, and meow crabbily if anybody walks too close to her napping spot.

BBK's choice for secretary of state, Winston Ragsdorf Rozen (an elderly Old English sheepdog, known to his friends as Rags) must decide whether his health will allow him to accept such a stressful position. Rags has barely recovered from the anxiety of having his food and water bowls moved during an ongoing remodeling project. But he is the only one who can calm the BadKitten during a crisis or return him to reality. BBK's spokeswoman has been counting on Rags to persuade the candidate to abandon his latest delusion and retire from politics on his own terms, instead of letting the voters do it for him. But now that big money is in his PAC, the egocentric politician might decide to continue his head trip for awhile longer.

With the receipt of this significant bankroll, the BadKitten expects more donations to flood the Rozen mail slot. (Everybody loves a winner, no matter how unsuited the “winner” is to be leader of the free world.) Because of MegaDonor's intelligence, wisdom, and perspicacity – and not, of course, because of the donated moolah – President-to-be BadKitten has offered her first choice of an ambassadorial post. MegaDonor has chosen Bangladesh, and is doubtless already compiling a travel list of suitable clothing and accessories for her upcoming diplomatic assignment.

While the candidate hallucinates, he has tasked his spokeswoman to come up with a catchy name for his PAC: a name that will inspire trust, hope, and fat wallets. His spokeswoman, however, is more concerned about her candidate's own increasingly fat silhouette. Since he began sampling the in-kind donations of canned cat food (purchased originally to improve the health of Tessa the Vague,) the BadKitten has grown downright tubby. When his spokeswoman suggested a PAC slogan politically refreshing in its honesty, her boss gave it an emphatic four paws down. What's wrong with “Finally, you can be a fat cat AND vote for a fat cat. A real cat. And fat, too”?

Note to readers: My BadKitten's first real donor is a personal friend, who made her donation of 15 cents in a spirit of humor and fun. Any donations BBK receives – and I wouldn't recommend encouraging him – will be donated to a local animal welfare organization.

Finding springtime in new-planted peas and snowflakes on pansies

March 26

 

Before the springtime snow fell, I spent a recent afternoon planting peas in one of our raised garden beds and filling our front-porch planter with bright-petaled flowers. For weeks, I've felt like a goldfinch shut inside a canary cage, wanting so much to fly outside, but needing to take care of a mountain of indoor tasks instead. But finally I could layer up with flannel and fleece and breathe in the familiar scent of peat moss as I gathered my tools from the garden shed. The first raking of soil showed the value of adding fallen leaves and other dirt-boosters, which my husband had tilled into each bed last fall. The soil was damp but light, easy to rake into smooth rows for the “Sugar Lace” snap peas I planted. True to an impetuous gardener's nature, I bought two packages of the peas. The first pack perfectly filled the three rows in the raised bed. So I will mark my calendar and plant the other packet in a few weeks.

Earlier in the day, I'd bought a big bag of peat moss, with an anti-crow strategy in mind. Those beautiful black birds with the raucous caws are very intelligent and observant, and they love newly sprouted peas. I saw a couple of crows (too few to be a murder, but they still made me uneasy,) hanging out in our nearby oak tree and probably noting my pea-planting date on their smart phones. (I use a paper-and-pen planner, which probably tells you who's more likely to outfox whom in the coming pea wars.) To distract the crows, I tossed handfuls of shelled peanuts at the base of the oak tree, out of sight of the raised beds. While my nemeses swooped, cawed, and snagged peanuts, I sprinkled a thin layer of peat moss over the newly planted rows of peas. Let's hope the extra protection will give the defenseless seedlings a little extra time to muscle up.

Rain started falling just as I finished with the peas, so I didn't have to water them, but could move on to my next project: setting pansies and ranunculas into the brick planter on our front porch. The flowers seemed to glow clear red, deep purple, buttercup yellow and misty pink, and I felt the joy that always rushes through me at the season's first planting. For most of my life, autumn has been my favorite season. I love the vivid jewel colors of the leaves, the deep blue of our Idaho sky, and the tang of wood smoke at early dusk. But I've come to see autumn as a foreshadowing of death, the once-glorious leaves browning dry and scattering in a bitter wind; the plants of summer, bare with lost petals, going dormant to their season in the underworld. Now I celebrate the hope of springtime in my garden and my life.

Our Old English sheepdog, Rags, has lived to see a new season, although “see” is an unkind word to use for our blind and frail dog. Rags sleeps through his days now, waking only for slow, unsteady walks to the backyard or to his food and water bowls inside. He still perks up every night when my husband, Lee, comes home from work. But Rags' daily routine has been upset lately because of a remodeling project at our house. His water and food bowls are in new places, and he has to use a different door to reach the backyard and come inside again. Add the whine of a power saw to the disorder, and our big, shaggy dog has reason to be confused. When the noise of the saw seemed too close, Rags howled in fear. So he lay on his couch, with his head on my lap and my hand massaging his neck, until the power tool finally shut down and our good dog could drift into sleep. (Rags later recovered and told his best buddy, Benjamin BadKitten that, if only we had given him a tool belt, he could have helped the remodeling crew.)

After my planting was done and while the rain still fell, I went looking for springtime in my garden, I found it in the tiny red buds of three flowering quince bushes, only thin, slender twigs when I mulched them in October. They, like so many of nature's miracles, are tougher than they seem – and some new spring day, not this year but maybe the next, they will bloom crimson, with golden centers . Near the quince, our blueberry bushes are coming back to life with their own buds, which I hope will flower into berries this summer. I walked into the front garden, bent low and found the surprise of fringed delphinium shoots, pointed threads of phlox , filaments of coreopsis, strawberry-leafed hints of potentilla, and scalloped clusters of poppy leaves. A young man in a vintage Bob Seger t-shirt passed by with two small, leashed dogs, and then turned back to ask about the poppies, because similar plants were growing in his yard, he said. I pulled up a small plant marker, with the “Heartbeat”poppy's Latin name (papaver orientalis) and a photo of deep red petals ringing its black center. He smiled and said, “I thought they were carrots and kept pulling them up.” As he and his friendly dogs went on their way, I paused to feel grateful for another of springtime's gifts: small, memorable conversations with people who pass by while I'm in my Church of Dirt and Flowers.