We have a cat. Maia, named for Zeus' consort and the mother of Hermes. (I was taking Greek Lit the semester that Rob adopted her.) She's a Siamese, which means she is even more disdainful than most cats; in fact, I often say (usually through clenched teeth) that she's the most cat-like of any cat I've ever owned. Her favorite stunt is to enter a room where humans are present, position herself just out of arms' reach, and sit down - facing away from said humans. There is no way to say more clearly, "I am displeased." She is allllll cat.

But she gives us plenty of non-aggravating moments, too. Last year, we trained her to jump through a hula hoop for a kitty treat, a feat she repeated for several friends and family members. She's great company when you're tired of talking to people, as our jobs require that we do all day long; she does meow a lot, but you're free to interpret her speech however you like. And, characteristic of her breed, she is fiercely affectionate towards Rob and me, often waking us in the night with a frenzy of kneading paws and loud purring.

So yes, I am devoted to her in a way that some would consider unhealthy. (We don't have kids. Maybe that helps put all of this in perspective.) But I didn't realized how attached I was until several weeks ago, when we began noticing that she was losing weight. She lost two pounds in about a month's time, a fourth of her body weight; she basically stopped eating, period. Visits to the vet showed she had some kind of an infection, and finally it was traced to kidney disease. Her kidneys were failing, we were told, and she would always be sick, and eventually she would die.

It had been a rough month already; we'd switched food three or four times, tried wet food, tuna, yogurt, all her people-food favorites, in an effort to tempt her. We'd also been giving her pills three times a day. Have you ever tried to give a cat a pill ONE time a day? Just imagine trying to pry open a live oyster with your bare hands. Only inside the oyster, instead of squishy, briny yumminess, there are rows of sharp teeth. And the oyster is flailing around and trying to slice you in half with its claws. Okay, maybe this analogy isn't so relevant, but you get the idea. It took both of us, and often there were tears and/or colorful invocations as we tried to get her to cooperate for her own good.

So after all that, the doctor told me she had kidney disease, and he recommended subcutaneous injections to make sure she was properly hydrated. Subcutaneous injections meaning, putting a needle in the cat's back and holding it there for several minutes while trying to keep most of your skin and clothing intact? I asked. No, actually, I didn't really ask that. I was trying to hide the fact that I was already getting choked up, thinking that this was the beginning of the end. He was telling me to make an appointment with an internist, who could do an ultrasound and find out if there were any other possible causes for the weight loss; I called and booked the appointment, which was $500 just to walk in the door. Then I laid down on the bed with Maia, who appeared blissfully oblivious, and sobbed.

After feeling thoroughly sorry for myself all afternoon, I thought, at least I should do what I can to make her happy while she's with us. Our indoor cat's ultimate goal in life is to spend as much time outside as possible, so I put her leash and harness on and opened the front door, and she scurried out into Kitty Paradise - our humble yard.

I grew teary again as I watched her making her usual rounds - sniffing the dirt, picking her way through flowerbeds, eating grass she would probably throw up later on my Oriental rug. And then, without really intending to, I started weeding one of the beds. It felt good to be able to control something, however insignificant. I went and got my clippers and cut away the spindly sundrops, and I pulled the dead leaves and stalks out of the irises, and I divided the lambs' ears into smaller, prettier chunks. I took all of the dead, sad foliage and stuffed it in the compost bin. As I walked back around the house to rejoin Maia, who was sun-drunk amid the azaleas, I realized I hadn't been sad for almost an hour. It felt so good to be free, just for a moment.

So I guess that's what gardening is all about, for me. It's not that it's some kind of transcendental experience, or a complex and meaningful analogy about life and death. It's just that it's something to do with yourself when you're temporarily unable to handle your own life. Whatever is bugging you, you are free to put it down next to the bed while you weed it. Yank out the crab grass that's crowding your beloved plants. Rearrange and prune with abandon. And when you're done, step back and enjoy your work for a few minutes, before turning back to your life, and your pain, with a fresh perspective.

Dale made a wonderful point in his last post: A hobby that doesn't inspire you is really just taking up time. This is the first year I've tried "real" vegetable gardening, and I think the best lesson I learned all year was to laugh as often as possible. Partly to keep yourself from committing murder with your pruning shears every time your carefully tended plants bite the dust, and partly because it really is funny to be so constantly surprised by the way nature takes its course.

The Accidental Gardener's Almanac looks like your typical schmaltzy stocking-stuffer, the type of thing you'd find in the bargain bin at a big-box bookstore. It's small and short, with a simple illustration on the front. The blurb on the back, though, gives a hint of what's inside: "You too can create a tranquil haven in your own backyard that you'll be too exhausted to appreciate."

Inside is a month-by-month rundown of what can, and probably will, go wrong at some point in your garden. But it's funny pessimism - negativity delivered with an acerbic wit that could only be (and in this case, is) British. Here are some of my favorite quips, along with images from my garden.

January: "Whoever said that watering plants in the midday sun can burn plants must have been suffering from rabies. Water cannot burn anything. In fact, it is widely recognised as an effective way of putting out fires." Of course, the "burning" may not be a problem in cooler climates; in hotter ones, water droplets can have the same effect as a magnifying glass, intensifying the sun's heat and literally burning plant parts.


Image: Sundrops, one of many plants which fell victim to overwatering this summer amid the deluges we had in Maryland.)

April: "Topiary is not a rewarding hobby that allows for creativity and individuality in the garden. It is the recourse of obsessive-compulsives and shows less imagination than a person who collects their toenail clippings and own a large ball made out of rubber bands."


Image: My rosemary bush is almost as tall as I am, but I haven't trimmed it all year. No, I'm not lazy. I just don't want to limit its personal style.

October: "Did you know that bonsai means 'a plant growing in a container'? So if anyone asks you if you've ever kept bonsai you can probably answer 'Yes' truthfully."


Image: This "bonsai" looks especially pretty next to these surprise gifts from the squirrels. The squash plants I raised carefully from seed fell victim to squash vine borers, but the gourd vine I didn't plant was as healthy as could be!

July: "Whoever said that to be happy for an hour you should get drunk but to be happy for a lifetime, plant a garden, missed an obvious opportunity: to get drunk and plant a garden."

Image: No, my husband is not drunk here - just having a beer while cheering me on from the sidelines. And hey, check out the rosemary's "before" photo!

Here's to another season of laughter, sarcasm and fun in the garden. Who knows what surprises the next season will bring?

This is what happens when an English teacher has a lack of books to review and a surplus of bruschetta to eat. Enjoy!

O king and lord of all the garden's fruit,
And harbinger of summer's golden days:
Without the benefit of harp and lute,
Thy lowly servant humbly sings thy praise.
To bubbling sauces thou dost bring rich life;
Or summer soups, sipped slowly by the pool.
Thy slices fall, slain warriors, by my knife;
In sandwiches, thou art the Golden Rule.
I dream of thee as winter's days stretch on
And blanket green with white, bleak mile by mile;
When every vestige of thy root is gone,
Thy scarlet lobes and crevices beguile.
But dreams of thee, like birds, must travel south;
Tomato, thou art happiest in my mouth.

Feeling poetic? Tell us how you feel about the arrival of fall, the end of summer, or whatever the seasons have brought you!