My husband and I have one dog and one thousand worms. The dog lives in the house. The worms live in a plastic bin in the garage. Our dog's name is Cleo. Our worms are yet unnamed (well, most of them).

I have always had a dog. The worms are new.     

Cleo's poop is forbidden in the vegetable garden. The worms' poop will be honored in that same place.

I collect bits of vegetable scraps to feel my little darlings. Do they like cucumber skin or do they want lettuce? Would they prefer cantaloupe or a watermelon rind? I do not think garlic would be good for them, but they will love these Italian roast coffee grounds. Citrus peels? Yes, but only a few. That egg shell needs to be crushed just a bit more before added to the bin.

I buy a bag of dry food, on sale, for the dog.

I carefully spray the worm bedding to make sure it is the perfect dampness, as described in the tons of literature I have read, and read, and read. 

I give Cleo a quick pat on the head, and say, “good girl, now go lay down.”

Am I some sort of nut? Do I need to be turned into PETA or reported to the SPCA? No! I am now a vermiculturist--raising worms in order to collect castings and brew compost tea. The co-workers in my office think I am a bet daft and are hoping I wash my hands frequently; but my grandchildren think I am beyond cool and can't wait to help. 

Cleo is rather bored with the whole thing.

But I am so excited as I am on my way to creating the most lush veggie garden of my life as well as the lives of all my neighbors and fellow gardeners. My homemade compost tea will allow me to finally have garden that looks like the pictures in the catalogs and magazines. My beans are destined to look even better than the ones on the see packages. My tomatoes will draw oooooos and aaaahhhhs by anyone lucky enough to actually see my produce and mmmmms from those extra privileged who actually get to taste. Anyone trying to grow that perfect eggplant will be jealous of my purple jewels. My rows of chard will be the envy of Findhorn. Luther Burbank's ghost will visit my garden in the depths of night just to marvel at its wonder.

Perhaps I am exaggerating a bit. Maybe I have set my goals just a tad too high. Possibly I need to reevaluate my expectations at least a little. I think it is time I take a long, quiet walk with Cleo, leaving the worms to fend for themselves and get my feet back on the ground and head out of the clouds. I just have to make sure I get home in time to finish reading The Carrot Seed to my worms before they go to sleep.