There will be no rolling

Morning sniff walks with the small dog called Maddie are both tedious and fraught. I can only describe Maddie's approach to walking as conflicted. She likes to be in charge. Unfortunately, she's a very small dog. She doesn't see it that way. I can be sure Maddie will do something crazy at least once during our walk. 

We have a routine before we get out the door. First, I say, "Do you want to go for a walk?" I can't be sure but I think Maddie hears that question as bla bla bla walk? She sits on her narrow bony haunches and looks at me with huge brown liquid untrusting eyes. As soon as I pick up the little red harness and leash, she skulks away into the family room, just far enough so she can still see me in case she needs to bolt under the dining room table if I come too close. I dig a little heart-shaped smoky chicken-flavored treat out of the ziplock bag and hold it up. She looks at it, then looks away, then looks sideways at it. She smells it. She wants it. In her mind she's saying, give me that thing, I will rip your lips off, mine, must have it, but wait, no, no, not the evil red constraint on my freedom, no, no, but wait, cookie, mine, in my belly, now!

"Treat!" I say. She knows the word. She gazes back and forth at the little morsel and then at the harness and leash. 

I step back and point to her crate. "Box!" 

She rolls her eyes and slinks into the crate. I kneel down and hold the harness in front of her chest. Up goes her right paw. I quickly position the harness so her foot will come down in the right place. She stiffly raises the other paw, like someone is pulling her marionette strings. I maneuver the harness. Then I lean in and snap the connection at the back of her neck. With one hand I give her the treat. "Good girl!" I say. With my other hand, I grab the leash and connect it to the rings at the back of the harness. She is now my prisoner. 

With that, our fight is over. She plods along with me while I put on my sunglasses and sunhat and grab the front door key. She follows me to the stairs and waits patiently, licking her chops, as I sit on the lowest step and switch my sandals for sneakers. Out the door we go. As soon as the front door closes, she is energized. She strains toward the wide world of enticing smells as I strain to lock the door behind us. 

Mornings in Scottsdale are wondrous. The air is cool and fresh. The sun, my enemy, is still just waking up, a weak imitation of the fierce moisture sucking monster it will soon become. 

Maddie chooses the path and pace. I follow her lead. I know all the routes now. Thanks to Maddie's shrewd discerning nose, I also know all the canine message boards of the neighborhood. Signposts, big metal boxes that proclaim high voltage, don't fence me in, and, of course, the occasional fire hydrant. Certain bushes, rock piles, and clumps of grass are interesting for some reason. At that hour of the morning, sprinkler systems have just watered the many front lawns. The sparkling green is like eye candy to me, a reminder of home. I mean, my former home.

When we get to the green space, the sniff walk takes on new tension. Other dogs are walking their owners along the winding concrete path, and some are not on leash. When I see another dog approaching, I've learned to stop and watch Maddie closely. If she is starting to rev up for a lunge, I rush her up the grassy slopes to let the other dog pass by. Maddie won't take on a really big dog, but dogs her size or smaller are fair game. Sometimes her tail wags, but usually she is on full-body quiver, ready for anything. Her modus operandi is lunge first before they know what hit them. 

At least once per walk, I am yanking the leash so her front feet on off the ground saying "No, no, no, no, be cool, be cool, no barking, chill out," which I am guessing she hears as no no no bla bla bla.

"Oh, is she a rescue?" someone asked today as they called back their tiny spindly legged critter, who I am sure only wanted to say hello. 

I excuse my high strung charge's behavior by saying, "I'm the dogsitter," which is really my way of saying please don't judge me, it's not my fault I haven't done a better job of training and controlling this neurotic chihuahua-poodle nutcase. The dog owner's expression combined confusion, criticism, and pity. Like, that's such a cute dog, what is wrong with you? 

When we are off the main dogpath/bike path and onto the path that goes along the backs of houses, where an alley would go, we both relax and get busy with the business of sniffing. Walk, walk, walk, stop and sniff. Walk, walk, whoa, stop and sniff, something amazing here! Pile of poop! Dead bird! Oh, the odiferous joys!

A dozen times per walk, Maddie gets a look of ecstasy on her face. She stops. Her shoulder goes down. "No, no!" I yell, hauling quickly up on the leash before she does a full-body roll in the grass. "No rolling, there will be no rolling!" I pull her back to her feet. She grins at me and resumes trotting along the verge of the concrete, nose to the ground, tail up sometimes, sometimes tail down, always quivering at the panoply of smells. I assume. After I pick up her leavings, I close my nostrils to all input. 

I think she likes to test my limits. She's already won the fight over the couch (I'm on a foam pad on the floor), and so she probably thinks I'm a pushover for rolling. Wet green muddy grass rich with the fecund smells of dog poop, pee, who knows what else, what could be more fun than to do a full-body roll in that heavenly stink. I've never tried it so I can only guess. 

Brief respite of normal

I've landed in Scottsdale for a couple weeks to serve as the beck-and-call girl for the little dog called Maddie. I'm looking forward to getting some important work done on this visit between feeding the bottomless pit and scooping poop. A little writing, some car stuff, but mainly sleeping. I am appreciating indoor plumbing and fast wifi. On the downside, I'm at the beck and call of a dog with four hollow paws and a delusion that she works for Homeland Security.

On Wednesday I drove Maddie's pet parents to the airport in their Tesla. Yep. I can now claim I have driven a Tesla. One moment I'm homeless, the next I'm driving a . . . well, I'm still homeless, no matter what moment it is. I try not to use the term homeless. I prefer nomad for now. Nomad hints at the potential for adventure that lies around literally every curve in the road, snakes notwithstanding. I'm taking the curves and corners and snakes as they come as I explore the state of Arizona.

Meanwhile, the summer heat is beginning to ramp up. I don't think it's hit triple digits yet here, but it's close. Soon this place will be unlivable for nomads who can't escape the sun. The dry heat saps the moisture from my cells and leaves me listless and weak. On the upside, the repaired backyard pool is a glowing sapphire gem surrounded by blazing hot concrete, inviting me to get lost in the depths while I develop a case of melanoma. 

This dogsit gig is a metaphorical ledge in my nomad free fall. I know it's a short respite. I'll be back in July, but I'm planning what comes in June with a mixture of fear and anticipation. It's all about elevation, people. Soon, I must go up. I admit to feeling some reluctance. Even after just a few days, I'm taking electricity and running water for granted. Those things seem so normal, until you don't have them. 

Autumnal terror in my cold old bones

I know we are supposed to like fall, the time of harvest, first frosts, shorter days, and piles of golden leaves. In another world in another time, if I were another person, maybe I would enjoy this season, but to me it's just a stupid cold prelude to the stupidest coldest season of all, which, of course, is winter, my eternal nemesis.

I hate being cold. 

I'm blogging today from Scottsdale, wrapped up in fleece, sitting at a long imitation farm table in the wooden-floored kitchen (wooden floor real, not fake) looking out the open patio door at a blue pool. The pool has a fake rock fountain that comes on for a couple hours every morning around 8:30. It's a little too loud to be peaceful. It sounds more like a dam has burst upstream and the flood is coming. 

The sky is blue, the sun is shining. You'd think I'd be happy. For a chronic malcontent, there's always something not quite right. Today, it's the wind. The forecast calls for a "breezy" day. The wind is whipping up the trees and bushes, howling above the sound of the overly loud fountain. Tiny yellow leaves are flying like dead gold flies onto the rippling surface of the pool. Underwater, a weird black robo vacuum cruises the pool bottom for what, algae? I don't know. It resembles a slow moving shark. This place is like the set of a horror film. It looks enticing on the surface, but when you look more closely, you see danger lurking behind every overly manicured honeysuckle or potted palm. 

It's never a good sign when the sky is so blue and the wind is so relentless. It's a form of cognitive dissonance, that nature could be so beautiful yet so unsettling. I feel ancient terror in my bones. Right now, I want a cave. A nice dark quiet cave with a roaring bonfire at the entrance to ward off the evil spirits.

A pool guy comes to clean the pool. Yard guys come to mow the lawn and trim the hedges. House cleaners come to clean the house, which is probably why I can find no spray bottles of cleaning fluid anywhere. Apparently they BYOB. Bring your own bleach, something I failed to do. When I was packing to drive here, I thought, I won't need my bottle of Clorox, right? Surely someone who owns a house with a pool is well-stocked with bleach in a bottle. 

Early this morning around 3:00 am, I woke to find Juno's enormous head snuffling on my leg. She rubbed her drooly jowels on my leg, my blanket, the couch. I shoved her away. I knew what she wanted. She was trying to see if I would cave and feed her early. She's cunning in the way dogs who are food motivated learn to induce sleep deprivation in humans. But for me, the long-suffering, easily manipulated human caregiver, I can't be sure that she isn't feeling a need to go outside to pee. Even though she went three hours before, I know how unpredictable my bladder can be, and neither Juno nor I are young pups. So I get up, put on my slippers and bathroom, grab the USB-rechargeable light wand that I carry to illuminate six feet of the yawning dark expanse of backyard lawn, and I go stand by the patio door, waiting for her to follow. 

Juno flops back on her plush round bed, smirking. I flop back on the couch, resigned to being gaslit by a dog. This is my final dogsitting gig. I never imagined it would be so debilitating to live the life of a dog. It's hard enough living my own life. 

Ah, finally, the fountain has subsided for the day. Now all I hear is that relentless desert wind. It's nice to sit in a proper chair to type. However, the chair is too low for the table. Even sitting on two pillows is not enough to keep my shoulder muscles from screaming. My leg feels better, though. Pain is like body hair in the way it travels around, from back to butt to leg to rib. Pretty soon Juno and I will go outside and sit in the sun to warm up. I'll sit on a fancy patio chair, and Juno will lay across one of her many big fleece dog beds. We'll listen to the wind in the trees, soak up some sun, and catch up on our sleep.

I am thankful this house and yard are not my responsibility. As long as the dog is alive and well when I leave tonight, my job is done. I will clean the bathroom and kitchen sink and take out the trash I have generated over the past four days. I will pick up the most recent pile of dog poop. I will replace the cushions on the couch that has ruined my back. As soon as I know the pet parent's plane has safely landed at Sky Harbor, I will put the key under the mat and head off into the night. 

The case of the missing poop

The first time it happened, I thought I was mistaken. I chalked it up to my aging brain. The second time it happened, I began to suspect something was up. The third time, even though I didn't see it happen, I saw the evidence—actually the lack of evidence—and that is how I am almost one hundred percent sure that something that lives in this desert backyard is coming out at night to eat the dog poop. 

The little neurotic dog Maddie is uncertain about a lot of things (which is probably why we get along so well—I can relate), and her anxiety makes her timid or aggressive depending on how powerful she is feeling at the moment (is the other dog bigger or smaller?), but one thing she has no doubt about is the moment when it is time to go out and pee in the pea gravel. The optimal time is 5:00 a.m. before it's light out and she can do her business in the dark corner by the fence. Well, if I weren't standing there wrapped in my sheet and holding a portable light as bright as a laser beam, she could hunch in private, but supposedly there are coyotes. I'm not sure I could fight off a coyote if it had a mind to grab this little nutcase while she's pooping, but I would rush in and do my best. 

Anyway, pooping in the dark is not one of Maddie's privileges. 

A few nights this month, she has rousted me off the couch before 5:00 a.m., more like around 3:00 a.m. As her beck-and-call girl (and as a person who would rather avoid cleaning up a mess in the house), I am happy to fumble for my glasses and my sheet and my blazing laser and follow her outside into the dark. Yes, I'm perpetually sleep deprived on dog schedule. However, on the plus side, I saw the super moon a few nights ago. And lots of stars. No coyotes, though. 

Back to the mystery of the missing poop. According to Maddie, something lives in the overgrown bush by the pomegranate tree, and I think that something emerges undercover of darkness to consume the warm pile of tasty poop after we go back to the couch. Ick, you might say, and I would tend to agree with you. (Oh, the couch isn't so bad, really. Oh, wait. What? Oh, we're talking about the poop.) If you are a thirsty hungry tree rat looking for a late night snack, you might go yum. Nobody is around, and here's my chance!

I'm actually okay with a tree rat (or something approximately that size) eating the poop. It's kind of like the reverse of the shoemaker's elves, who came in the night to do the cobbler a favor. In this case, a critter is scooping the poop for me, and that is not something to complain about, especially if I don't have to see it actually happening. Not picturing that. Nope. 

Maddie knows something lives in the bush. I was told it was a rabbit, but I have not seen any rabbits. I've seen myriad lizards. Could it be lizards eating the poop? I am not an expert on this topic. All I know is what I have seen:  Poop is deposited, and poop disappears. 

The first time it happened, I thought I had picked up the poop and forgotten. That can happen to a person who is getting old, not that I have a birthday coming up or anything. The second time it happened, I began to suspect something was up, and that (thank god) it wasn't my forgetful brain. The third time I went out to scoop the poop and found it MIA confirmed my belief that something has been eating the poop. Hm. I was going to say, if I had more time and more curiosity, I would set up an infrared camera to catch the culprit in the act. But, no. Ick. Ew. Yech. 

In any case, I must bequeath the mystery to the homeowner, who is scheduled to return late tonight. I plan to spend one more night on the couch and leave the doghouse early tomorrow. 

I'm ready to move on. Twenty-three days of nonstop dogsitting has given me time to think. I usually think thinking is overrated, but it's hard to stop once I start, so I've been doing a lot of it, in between napping and sweeping, walking and scooping. I'd like to report that my path has become crystal clear, that my massively overeducated intellect has figured everything out, that the planets have aligned to lead me to a new home, but that would not be the case. 

A few things have become clear, though, from all this time to think. First, I need to find a way to live within my means until I can get my vestibular issue resolved. Second, I really don't want to have a dog. And third, I have way too much stuff in my car. 

More free-falling dog days

Today I'm feeling a little like Dr. Doolittle might have felt. A little bird with a reddish chest was checking me out through the sliding glass door to the back patio, as if it wanted to tell me something. I'm not sure what, I refilled the bird feeder. Earlier this afternoon, the little dog in my care sat on my lap for the first time. I don't know what the bird was thinking but I can certainly read the dog's mind. Food, she's saying. Feed me, I'm hungry. 

For such a little dog, Maddie has four hollow legs. There's no end to her quest to scavenge. If she can't get a treat out of me, she hoovers up peanuts dropped by the birds chomping at the bird feeder. When all else fails, she gnashes down some beatup dried-up limes (or are they lemons, who knows, they are still green) or wizened fallen pomegranates that failed to grow into fruit. Maddie will be last man standing, long after I've moldered into dust for lack of my preferred hothouse diet, because she doesn't care what she eats. I've told her if I happen to die of a stroke or heart attack on the premises, she has my permission to eat my dead body. I think she appreciates the offer.

Speaking of moldering into dust, fall is in the air in Scottsdale. You wouldn't know it by the afternoon triple digits, but the mornings are the clue:  The air is almost cold. Well, 75°F feels cold to me these days. My internal thermostat is off. So are my sleep rhythms. Well, admit it, everything in my life is off. When it all goes off the rails, you have to wonder if perhaps you got onto a different track when you weren't paying attention. 

Early in the morning, the neighborhood is quiet. All the air conditioning units have fallen silent. During the day, the neighborhood sounds like an RV park full of rumbling generators, the loudest of which is our AC unit sitting against the house outside. It probably needs some attention, but it works, thank God. The cold air thrums and bumps through air ducts buried in the walls, sounding like a marching drum corps, and spews out through vents under the ceiling, to drift gently toward the floor, the counters, the couch where we are dozing. Gradually, over the course of the night, the house settles. The fridge stops feeling compelled to make ice. The AC unit sighs for the final time around 5:00 a.m. The house holds the heat of the daytime, but I imagine the walls are breathing as the house dreams.

Maddie is a good sleeper until about 5:30 a.m., when she leaps off the couch and twitches vigorously, making her collar and I.D. tag jangle. That is my cue to leap off the couch, fumble for my glasses and sandals, and follow her to the back door. I bring along my camping headlamp so I can see her as she beelines into the gravel labyrinth. I don't think she cares if coyotes could be in the neighborhood. She's a dog on a mission. 

She's efficient at that hour, unlike any other hour. Most of the time she wanders around sniffing things. It's her nature to sniff. However, she understands darkness is for sleeping. It doesn't take her long to do her business. I can practically see her dust off her hands as she trots back inside and heads to the couch. Me, I detour to the bathroom, where it takes me longer to do my business, being still half asleep, not to mention on heart pills. By the time I get back to the couch, she's commandeered the center cushion and is pretending to be completely out. I have to fit myself around her, which I do, no complaints. I am her beck and call girl. When I fall into the temptation of wondering about the purpose of my life, which I do hourly, I keep reminding myself, I live to serve the small dog who made my day.

Pool noodle ponderings

My life has become a dog’s life. After four cool, cloudy, intermittently rainy days in the Coconino National Forest parked under some pines just off Fire Road 518, I returned to Scottsdale to resume the final four days of my dogsitting job for the big dog Juno. On Monday, Juno’s parent departed for a European vacation, and after a long week of sleep deprivation, on Friday, I packed up and cleared out, making way for the daughter to take over dogcare duties. I like the big dog, but no more 5 am feedings of raw meat, yay.

Now I’m at the house of the little dog, Maddie, whose 7 am feeding time is a lot more civilized. The weather here at Maddie's house is as uncivilized as it was at Juno’s house, though (no surprise considering they are only a mile apart.) Outside, it’s currently 101°F, heading toward 106°F, which is better than yesterday’s 111°F, no whining. You might ask, who can live in this heat? I’ll tell you who. People who don’t live in their cars.

Safely ensconced in a large solid house with air conditiong and a refrigerator that spits out crushed or cubed ice at a push of a button, I now have a few weeks to ponder the state of my life, but I don’t really see the point. Pondering has never solved anything, in my limited experience of six-plus decades on the planet. Probably I feel this way because I am not a great thinker. Great thinkers have solved many of humanity’s problems, the only downside being that they have often been put to death for their forward thinking and willingness to improve things. Other than a disturbing tendency of the mob to reject anything new or different, being a great thinker is probably really great. I think. I don’t know from firsthand knowledge, so please leave your pitchfork at home after you read this blogpost. I come in peace.

My life is less than a hill of beans compared to the tragedies facing people in other parts of the world. It feels like the height of white American progressive bleeding heart liberalism to be so self-obsessed when so many are suffering. The realization almost makes me want to give up blogging altogether. Like, what is the point? Nobody cares, nothing changes, and I could use my life energy in ways that are more planet-saving than what I am doing now. My footprint is small, but it could be smaller. For example, I confess, I still have stuff in storage, which I hope to be reunited with someday, call me a selfish American piglet. I can dream. 

I was going to visit the home improvement store this morning, which is so close I could walk there, but I won’t, because I’m not quite ready to die under the blazing sun. The idea of uncovering the windows of my car and driving the few blocks to mix with a crowd of Sunday shoppers intent on getting their charcoal briquets and pool noodles seemed really unappealing, especially since I am once again masking up to go into public places. I haven’t entirely given up on remaining COVID-free.

Speaking of pool noodles, I’ve discovered there is a marked difference in quality between Walmart’s pool noodles and Home Depot’s pool noodles. For three times as much money ($2.98 compared to $1.00), with the Home Depot pool noodle, you definitely get three times the quality. I don’t have a pool, but I do have a butt, and sitting on a DIY toilet seat padded with sections of Walmart pool noodle compared to a seat padded with Home Depot pool noodle pieces really proved the old adage, you get what you pay for. I don’t put much stock in pondering, but as I sat in my car in the forest, I had time to give this situation some thought. Maybe if my butt were slightly less wide, the lesser quality noodle would have held up to the strain, perhaps be less inclined to split and fall apart. It’s so hard to know the perfect ratio of butt width to pool-noodle strength. However, one thing I know, if your butt is the slightest bit sweaty, you can expect pool noodle to adhere. This is the little-known drawback of making a toilet seat out of pool noodles. I offer this nugget of wisdom for your future car camping endeavors. I’m not a great thinker, as I said, but I have an appreciation for the basics in life, like DIY toilet seats. Thus, I continue my quest to improve my car camping experience.

Meanwhile, whenever I’m not working on my next book or scratching a small dog’s tummy, I am wondering what the hell I’m doing here and what happens next.

Time to stop making sense

In my fledgling career as an amateur dogsitter, I can now claim to have cared for three dogs. Juno is the biggest dog, so far. She's an 11-year-old, slow-moving Rhodesian Ridgeback whose head is bigger than mine. She's old and arthritic, which means she doesn't go for walks and she sleeps most of the time. Except during the night, of course, when her bladder or bowels say it's time to go outside (rarely at the same time). 

My schedule is out the window when it comes to taking care of Juno. The dog's 5 am and 5 pm feeding schedule drives the entire show. The feeding schedule drives the poop and pee schedule. I have no choice, unless I want to experience the consequences, which I don't want to do, so I have my alarm set for 5 am. 

It's still dark here at 5 am but dogs' stomachs have their own internal driving force, and I live to serve, so I stagger off the couch and head for the fancy open-concept kitchen and the stainless steel fridge, where I rummage for the frozen veggies that make up one third of this dog's meal. The veggies go into the microwave to thaw. While that is happening, I put my head lamp on my head, click it to the dim setting, and grab a couple training treats, which I use to bribe Juno to go pee. She does, thankfully—like most of us, she'll do anything for treats. I admire the tepid air and the amazing array of stars overhead while she squats in the grass. Then we rush back inside for the main event. 

I get the other two elements of her meal out of the fridge: a huge round flat slab of raw hamburger and a raw chicken drumstick. These two things go into a big metal bowl.

By this point, Juno is going insane. Oh, have I mentioned, I am currently adhering to a vegan lifestyle? 

The thawed veggies get dumped into the metal bowl with the two hunks of raw meat. After a dousing of water from the reverse osmosis filtered water spigot, I feed Juno her two arthritis meds (wondering if they would do anything for my hip arthritis), and then we go outside onto the patio. 

Juno knows to sit, and I've learned to hold the dish high over my head so she doesn't knock it out of my hand. I set the dish on the Mexican tile flagstones, and Juno goes to town. It's a little disturbing to watch her polish off an entire chicken leg in two crunchy bites. She could probably do that to my hand, if she got a hankering for old lady bones. While she eats, I put the raw stuff back in the fridge. I make sure I have enough meat thawed for the next several meals. Finally, I clean up the dark granite countertops with antiseptic wipes, hoping none of that raw meat juice got on anything I care about. 

Juno returns in about 30 seconds. Her dish is licked clean. Juno goes back to bed on her 4-foot wide round cushion, and I wash out the metal bowl, wondering if it's worth going back to bed myself, or if I should just stay up for the sunrise. Usually I just lay there in the dark and listen to the AC system clicking on and ramping up as if we are about to be shot into orbit. 

Speaking of AC, I don't understand how it works, if it's me (residual hot flashes), or if the house is trying to kill me. Sometimes it seems hot in here, and sometimes it seems cold. Yesterday, I couldn't take having freezing feet when it's 108°F outside, so I nudged the thermostat from 78°F to 80°F. It seems better today.

In the evening, at 5 pm, we repeat the entire meal preparation process, sans the pills, and sans me going back to bed to try to catch a few more hours of shut-eye. By evening I'm in a bleary daze, wondering how I got here and where I'm going to end up next. I know that around 1 am, Juno, the pony-sized dog, is going to shake herself and head to the patio door, where she will poke at the glass with one huge black claw. I'm right behind with my head lamp, the beck and call girl for the creature temporarily at the center of my existence. 

I think back sometimes to the arc of this blog. Few of you are around anymore to reflect with me on the vagaries of this journey. This blog started out as a place to rant about the travesties of earning my PhD, oh woe is me, alas, alackaday. After some wandering aimlessly, the blog centered on the decline of my mother into dementia, and eventually her death. After that, what was there to talk about but me, as usual: downsizing, moving, searching for home, healthcare, and hoping to find my balance. It's hard to look back and see not an arc but a line. It all depends on what label I put on the y-axis, though, doesn't it? If I put financial success on that axis, the line descends into negative territory. Danger, Will Robinson! But if I put freedom on that axis, the line shoots out the top of the chart. 

The question remains: Would you rather be safe or would you rather be happy? It's really hard to find the intersection of both. 

Hot in dog city

I'm happy to report Maya the dog survived her three days under my care. It was touch and go at first. The first two visits did not go well. The dog (who has mobility problems) would not get out of her "crate," which is what the owner calls the space under the stairs where the dog sleeps on a giant round furry dog bed on the floor behind a baby gate. The dog growled at me, even when I used my most saccharine nonthreatening wheedlesome voice: "Come on, Maya, don't you want to go outside?" 

By the third visit, Maya was starting to catch on. Plus, I think she was feeling some internal pressure. Even though she has a serious hitch in her gitalong, she beat me to the back door. As soon as I dragged it open, she flew past me, hunched over in the rocky gravel flowerbed, and added a big pile of stuff to the toxic waste dump alongside the house. A few seconds later, she squatted again, and then she was wagging her tail, all happy, like, yay, who are you, great, you are my new best friend! 

As soon as she realized I was all she was going to get, and that I was the bringer of food twice a day, she settled in and became positively friendly. We found our rhythm. I let her out, she did her business, and then I sat next to her bed on a soft pair of smaller dog beds (relics of her deceased dog buddy), and read news articles from NPR and CNN, aloud, because what else was I going to do? I had to do something. The owner in her instructions had suggested I "play" with the dog. I'm not sure what kind of play she meant. I looked around and saw no toys, and Maya did not seem inclined toward physical amusements, given she could barely walk. So, I thought news articles might suffice. 

I was relieved to be relieved of duty today when the family returned in their jumbo-size travel trailer and heavy-duty dusty black pickup. I gave back the house key and got a little glimpse into the lives of a family much richer than my own. Visiting their house was like visiting a zoo, to be honest. What family uses Alexas to wake them up at 7:00 am, even on Sunday? Now I know how to tell Alexa to turn off the damn alarm clock. 

Speaking of zoos, walking across the street from Dog #1's house to Dog #2's house and back five times a day for three days gave me some insight into the neighborhood. That's what, like thirty times? The inhabitants of this neighborhood are elusive creatures, only coming out in the early morning hours to walk their dogs. I never, not once, saw another person out walking on the street after 7:00 am. It's only maybe fifty yards from one house to the other, but I could see in all directions, and nobody but me, ever, walked outside. I saw a pool maintenance truck parked at the curb one day, and on another day I saw a person using a leaf blower in a yard. Other than that, the only signs of life were a few cars driving by, whose drivers usually waved at me. I wonder what they thought when they saw me, an oldish white lady in a sunhat, shuffling purposely across the street under the blazing sun. 

Even after dark, nobody is out on the streets. I can understand why. The air here is suffocating. I can almost feel the moisture being extracted from my eyeballs every time I go outside. The dark night air is velvety soft after the sun sets, but that doesn't make it dreamy and pleasant. Under the softness of the air, you know the desert is trying to kill you. 

I sometimes stood in the street and marveled at the perfect houses. I felt as if I were in a model town whose inhabitants had all been beamed up to the mothership. The lovely outdoor landscaping lights illuminate tall cactuses and agaves, looking like a set for a House Beautiful photo shoot, but where are the people? Occasionally I heard water splashing from behind tall concrete walls. I wonder, maybe you know the answer to this, do they make pool coolers to cool off your swimming pool on hot days? They should. I picture giant ice cubes. 

Every time I came back from visiting Dog #2, Dog #1 would sniff me with great curiosity. I felt a bit embarrassed, as if I were being unfaithful. I apologized to Maddie for two-timing her, but she didn't seem to mind. In fact, I think she kind of preferred me smelling like a dog. 

Dogsitting for the extra dog was not hard physical work but it required some attention to time management. I set alarms on my phone and tasks on my calendar. The consequences of missing a visit would be unacceptable, mainly because I would have to clean up the resulting mess, so I kept my eye on the clock constantly. The upshot of my vigilance was that I was exhausted all the time. These three days were a constant emotional drain, and from this experience, now I know I am not destined to be a dogsitter. 

In fact, it's time to start applying for jobs. The delusion that I can live within my means with the current housing shortage is going to make me sick and then it's going to kill me. The miracle of subsidized HUD housing has failed to materialize. Apparently, I have too much income. I'm not needy enough, or I failed to grovel enough, or something. It doesn't help that my former landlords failed to send whatever documentation was requested of them. Well, you know what they say: When one HUD door closes, maybe some stupid ass job door opens. I'm hoping. I'm not quite ready to give up on life, so I'm throwing myself on the mercy of the Universe in hopes of a miracle in the form of a job. So much for retiring to a cute little apartment in the desert and writing books. 

One thing I realized as I traipsed around this rich enclave: This neighborhood is just an upscale version of the weird Disneyland mobile home park in Tucson. The houses are stick-built solid and some of the front lawns are actual real live green grass, watered with real water, but the artifice of the lifestyle is the same. The mobile homes decorate their front gravel patches with lighthouses, metal javelinas, and pin-wheels. These guys in Scottsdale decorate their front patios with fountains, fancy lighting, and expensive wicker table and chair sets. It's Tucson with a few extra degrees of heat and a few extra zeros after the property values. 

It's all unsustainable. When every single day is over 111°F, you have to conclude that humans don't belong here. The earth does not care that you need water to survive. If you can't survive on nectar and prickly pear, then you should not be here. I can imagine a time in the not-too-distant future when the acquifer is drained and taps will stop flowing. The pools will evaporate, then gape and crack. The mourning doves will gradually move in under the eaves, despite the spikes you placed there to keep them out. Dust will collect in all the crevices of the marble floor tiles when the air conditioners break down and people and parts can't be found to fix them. New inhabitants will replace the old ones who flee to cooler climes: First lizards, then rabbits, then coyotes, searching for shelter from the sun. 

Dog days

I seem to have become a commodity among an underground network of neighborhood dog owners who need a dogsitter. I picture these dog owners talking on the phone: A friend of ours . . . do you want me to ask? Maybe she will . . . And I'm like, okay, I guess, whatever. Let's meet and see if your dog likes me.

So far, in addition to the dog I'm sitting now, I've met a big dog named Juno and a medium big dog named Maya. Both dogs in their earlier years probably could have dragged me off my feet and into the underbrush in pursuit of whatever lizard or rabbit or bird happened to capture their attention. Now, these dogs are old, weary, and slow, with gray muzzles and hitches in their gitalongs. I probably could walk them if they could walk, but they can't, not very well, so the dogsitting job consists of feeding them whatever weird food they require for their sensitive stomachs and letting them out to relieve themselves in the backyard, where the landscaper picks up the piles of poop.

This place (Scottsdale) is so weird. So is this life, come to think of it.

You probably remember, I'm a cat person. You've never heard me mention a dog, unless it was my brother's dog. These dog owners have kids but they don't seem to have cats. I'm not sure why, although I suspect it has something to do with their fear of cat stink in their homes. I try to be understanding, but it confounds me that they would choose to have dogs that need walking when they live in a desert city that regularly achieves 110°F in the summer. I mean, I ask you. Wouldn't you rather scoop a few turds out of a litter box than walk a dog at oh-dark thirty every morning? 

I like dogs well enough. I've met a few in my time. In addition to a zoofull of cats, my brother in Portland has raised up a succession of dogs: Ireland, Jack, Lola, Lucy, and now Maddie. I might have missed one or two. We never had dogs when we were growing up, though, so I don't know how he figured out it would be fun to have a dog. Maybe it's because he lives in a high-crime area. In that case, a watch dog makes sense.

Here in this weird enclave in Scottsdale, people leave their doors unlocked. I know. Shocking. I would never, not my door, not anyone's door, but clearly, I don't trust my neighbors . . . or anyone else, really, now that I think of it, probably because I know some people who cannot be trusted. Hm. I never, not if I'm going further than the twenty paces to the trash bin. The way my luck goes sometimes, the one random day some random hungry drug addict-type dude tests the unlocked door and helps themself to some chow (and our laptops), the blame naturally would fall on me. 

So, no. Never. Maybe it's because I used to live in downtown Los Angeles. Anyway, don't assume, that's my motto. My other motto is, if you can't be bothered to lock it up, don't complain later when it's gone. Clearly, the Universe thought someone else needed that thing more than you needed it.

Of course, locking up is no guarantee of security. A determined intruder will intrude no matter how loudly this anxious little chihuahua-poodle screams. However, it's kind of reassuring (and entertaining) to have a four-legged alarm system. Homeland security to the rescue! Trash truck, look out! Smaller dog walking by, beware, could be trouble! I try to offer praise. Dogs take their job seriously, and I want them to know I appreciate their dedication. I've known some cats who were pretty good, but dogs really have honed homeland security to a fine art. 

I'm feeling somewhat untethered these days, so it's good to have a focus. Centering my life on a dog is not a bad thing, especially if I am lucky enough to be able to stay in a lovely air-conditioned house with a washing machine that looks like it could launch me into outerspace. I'm a little nervous, though, I have to confess. Taking care of a friend's dog is one thing. Taking care of strangers' dogs in unfamiliar homes is another thing entirely. Yes, the network has vetted us both, but still. I'm an unknown quantity, and so is the dog owner. I know how I felt about my cat. I'm guessing dog owners are just as . . . devoted? 

Every time I left town, which was as infrequently as I could manage, I was always thinking of my cat and wondering how he was doing, whether my mother was giving him enough love when she dropped in to feed him, whether he was lonely, whether he would hate me when I got home. I'd give just about anything to see my cat again. I loved my mother, but I miss my cat every day. 

How can a pet parent stand to leave, knowing there is a possibility their beloved pet might not be alive when they get back? 

That's a lot of pressure on a dogsitter.