Good morning from Flag. Chaser of squirrels. Sniffer of field mice and moles. Runner-off of rabbits. Finder of turkey eggs. Barker at deer. Leaper at low flying birds. Inspector of anything new on her turf. Greeter of visitors. Racer through garden paths and non-paths. Jumper for treats. Listener to garden exclamations. Licker of faces for those on their knees tilling the soil. Nudger of elbows for petting. Leader on every walk. Lover of her family. Designer of garden topiaries.

Flag's design career began when she more or less destroyed a bushy, six-foot arborvitae shrub by repeatedly leaping up after robins nesting near the top. Last spring, while I was planting and weeding and transplanting and weeding, she was leaping. And leaping. And leaping. While her muscled legs cleared the greenery on the way up, on the way down her paws caught the branches, gradually breaking them until the tree looked like it had been through a shredder. Why did I let her do this? Well...because short of locking her in her kennel, there really was no good way to make her stop. Besides, I knew that she was only doing what instinct told her to do: Birds are the business of English Springer spaniels. She was just doing her job. And since "spring" is part of her job description, springing up five feet or more is what she does best. Because she was only two at the time, she was all about intuition.

I looked at the poor arbor vitae and my first thought was that I should cut it down. It really was too large for its spot among the Asiatic lilies and irises and cone flowers. I had planted it there a few years ago just because I didn't know what else to do with it--it was one of twenty-five seedlings we bought from the local Soil Conservation office, the first twenty of which were carefully placed at the edge of the woods and up near the house. By the time we got to number twenty-one, we were tired. "Just put the rest of them in the garden for now," I probably said to my husband. "We can always move them later". I did not say how much later.

After seven or eight years, the shrub had a five-inch diameter trunk and could have been called a tree. After Flag was done with it, there was nothing to do but get out the lopping pruner. Down came the broken branches, all except for the one-foot segment at the top that Flag hadn't been able to spring to, the segment where the robins, whose little hearts were no doubt pounding frantically, were still nesting. The parents squawked vehemently the whole time I pruned. I promised them I would hurry, partly for their sake and partly because I am probably the only person in the world who could picture herself being attacked by a robin--but I can.

When I finished, I had a big, green lollipop in the garden. Its rough-barked trunk was a beautiful contrast to the waxy ball on top. Its sheen, height and evergreen lifestyle added a certain je ne sais quoi to the garden, all because of Flag's tireless design instincts. A morning with Flag is a very good morning, indeed.