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. 

Reality and wishful thinking walk into a bar

You know how you have a picture in your head of what something will be like after you buy it, and then after you buy it, you realize it is nothing at all like they promised it would be? Like that InstaPot thing, for instance, that was supposed to make all our meals so healthy we would be size 2 in a matter of weeks. Or like those shoes with the toes that were supposed to make us run faster so we feel safe to finally run that marathon before we turn forty without totally embarrassing ourselves. Or like that move to a new state we were sure was going to transform us into a completely different somehow cooler person. That kind of mental picture.

Pictures like that are definitely mental, and so is believing that those pictures could come close to representing reality. The truth is, the InstaPot is not a magic dietary aid—the equation is still calories in, calories out, no matter how we cook it, and what's so great about being a size 2, anyway? Those shoes with the bizarre toes aren't cool and they won't help us run even down to the corner 7-11 if we trip on a curb and fall along the way (I know, it happened to a friend of mine). And I'm here to tell you, moving to a new state is not a cure for anything. Wherever we go, there we are. 

I had this mental image that after I moved to Tucson, I'd go shopping at a mall or thrift store for a new summer wardrobe consisting of soft linens and cottons in dusky desert colors. I'd toss out all my old ratty t-shirts and baggy underwear and get clothes my sister would approve of. I'd get some espadrilles, with low heels, of course, or some leather huaraches in honor of my proximity to Mexico. I'd wear them with socks, of course, because well, I'm still an Oregonian, but I'd do it with pizzazz and panache. 

I pictured myself wearing those new shoes while sitting on a deck or patio sipping iced coffee in the balmy shade, writing my novel on my new laptop. I envisioned myself driving my pristine white Dodge Caravan on adventures around the city, learning my way and finding the hidden gems that only the locals know. I imagined taking tours of apartment buildings, admiring their tubs and closets and basking in the endless supply of frigid air blasting from strategically placed air conditioner vents.

After three weeks in paradise, it is clear to me that in the matchup between dreams and reality, reality wins every time. It's the nature of reality to not be swayed, bribed, or otherwise influenced by the dreams we have in our tiny fuzzy heads. 

Reality is a mixed bag. Yes, I sip iced coffee, but did you know coffee is a diuretic? I'd do better just drinking lots and lots of water. However, the water here tastes like chlorinated salty vinegar. I'm finding ginger and turmeric herbal tea makes a drinkable concoction when cold. My wrists are emaciated but my ankles are swollen, a weird combination that tells me I'm dehydrated and I have high blood pressure. I applied to move my Obamacare from Oregon to Arizona. Arizona Medicaid is unable to verify my identity. I am waiting for them to reject me so I can choose another health insurance company through the marketplace and find a primary care doctor. Hope I live that long.

On the bright side, the car is running great, except for the ubiquitous check engine light, which came on again despite spending $50 on premium gas. I should have known the mechanic-in-a-can remedy wasn't aligned with reality. Wishful thinking goes down for the count once again.

On another sunny note, I found an apartment I might want to live in not far from the trailer park. The property management company wanted an application first before they agreed to show me the unit. No doubt trying to weed out the losers. That is a good strategy on their part. I might be one of those losers, by their rulebook. My income is low and they will discover that I'm a credit history ghost. I'm pretty sure that is why Arizona Medicaid cannot verify my identity. As far as the credit agencies go, I don't exist. Oh, and I can't open a bank account here until I have a "permanent" address. I guess the banks have caught on to people living in UPS Store mailboxes. 

On the brighter side, I have been working on my novel. Why not? It's way too hot to go out except to forage for food at a grocery store. Going shopping for clothes seems like an impossibly heavy lift. I have clothes but they are packed away under boxes in the storage unit. My entire life is in boxes in that storage unit. It's great I have all my stuff, and why did I pay to ship all that crap down here again? I'm forgetting why an IBICO machine was so precious to me. 

Now I sound like I'm complaining, don't I? Well, I am. The joke is on me, for sure. The image I had in my head of a new life in Tucson is unfolding a little differently than I pictured. On the bright side, I'm sure I do not want to return to Portland. At least there is one place on the planet I know I don't belong. Meanwhile, I'm living a life I barely recognize in an amazing yet surreal trailer park in a beautiful yet strangely unfriendly city. Reality and wishful thinking bellying up at the bar. 

Starting a new life in the desert

Howdy Blogbots. At long last, I'm coming to you from beautiful northwest Tucson. It really truly finally happened. As promised, I moved. It happened fast. On Wednesday, April 21, I took a deep breath and unplugged from the internet. I spent a feverish day loading up my minivan with as much stuff as I could fit and still leave room for me to drive. That night, I slept snuggled in the reclined passenger seat. Apart from setting off the car alarm when I made my final trip to the bathroom, everything went smoothly. I drove away from Portland at daybreak on Thursday, April 22. 

After a three-day road trip through the nether regions of the American West (perhaps the topic of another blog post, yes, I got lost several times), I arrived at my friend's house in Tucson on Saturday afternoon, more or less intact, and have been trying to find myself ever since. 

I've had a lot of alone time to figure things out. My friend and her partner left on Sunday in their fabulous RV with their orange cat who rides shotgun above the cab. I've spent the past week alternating between driving my minivan in circles (which I call "learning the city") and hunkering in the cool burrow of their mobile home. With only myself to talk to, I'm fully present and feeling things.

The first two days, the weather was lovely, blue sky and sunshine, not too hot. The next two days, thunderstorms blew in and dumped bands of torrential rain across the trailer park, rattling the awnings and turning the sky an ominous gray. It was cold. I was glad I hadn't tossed my fleece into the U-Box. The City of Tucson upped the chlorine content of the city water supply. For a couple days, I thought I was drinking from a swimming pool. I looked up how to neutralize chlorine in tap water: You can boil it at least twenty minutes, let it stand (could take days or longer to dissipate), or you could add ascorbic acid, also known as vitamin C. After a few days, the chlorine is gone, and that is how I realized that rainstorms upset the quality of the City's water supply.

When I'm feeling discombobulated, which I am right now, lost and confused, I turn to my routines and task lists to ground me and give me structure. My routines are shot to hell, starting with waking at dawn. I've never been a morning person! But as soon as the first white-winged dove starts chortling, my eyes pop open. One particular dove is getting under my skin: I can almost make out what she is singing: It's either Give us this day or Hang up and drive. I have no opinion on religious white-winged doves, it's the repetition at 6:30 a.m. that I find irksome. So my routines are toast, how about my task list? Thanks for asking. My task list evolves daily. I managed to find my dinky bottle of white-out, thank god. My calendar is getting pretty crusty as things keep changing. For instance, I successfully applied for an Arizona driver's license, but I have to wait to register the car until I get the title from the State of Oregon in about three more months. I can't get a local bank account until I get the driver's license. I couldn't get the driver's license until I got a street address. See how that works? White-out is my little helper.

I'm house-sitting in an amazing over-55 gated trailer park. The trailers butt up close to each other, all painted in pale shades of taupe, gray, and peach. All the front yards are filled with rocks and various types of cacti. Some of the saguaros are home to multiple cactus wrens. There are mourning doves and white-winged doves all over the place. I saw four Grendel's quail marching in a row across the street. Rabbits noodle around in the gravel. 

It's an orderly but strangely silent community. Other than the Neighborhood Watch person Linda, who drove over to me in the golf cart on the second day I was here to find out who I was and what I was doing in their community, I rarely see anyone. In fact, since the day my friends left, I have had no interactions with anyone in the trailer park, other than to wave at a gentleman who drove by in the golf cart (husband of Linda, I believe). The house is on a cul-de-sac, so I know he received a call from someone across the way. Suspicious activity, better check it out. I was outside organizing the boxes in my car in preparation for taking them to my new storage unit. That is how I know people are watching me, even though I don't see them. I don't tend to peer into their windows. 

Tonight I decided I would give them something to talk about and even call the golf cart dude if they felt inclined. I put on my sneakers, a long-sleeved shirt, and a sunhat. I brought my mp3 player and strapped a mask around my neck. I locked the kitchen door behind me (I don't trust anyone) and went out into the breezy 88°F evening sunshine. I walked in the middle of the narrow Disneyland-esque street, admiring the twirling pinwheels and spiky cacti, smiling to show I was not a threat. I did not dance, nor did I flip anyone off, as I walked past a dozen or so mobile homes to the secret gate leading onto the bike path along the Rillito River. My friend left me a key to the lock that leads from the trailer park onto the bike path. In moments, I was through the gate, free.

I walked to the west toward the setting sun and then turned around and walked to the east, taking photos of cacti, mountains, the Rillito River, and the Tucson Mall. The river bed is wide, dry, and overgrown with shrubby trees. I wish I'd thought to see if it filled with water those two days we had rain. I imagine it's pretty spectacular when the water starts flowing. Now it's like the ghost of a river, all sandy bed, rocks, and beat up plastic bottles, chairs, and bags. I saw a jack rabbit. I guess it was a jack rabbit. It definitely wasn't a plump fluff ball like the rabbits in the trailer park. He posed, and I took his picture.

It felt good to be out walking. Distances are less than I imagined. This area of northwest Tucson is consumer heaven, if you like shopping, which I don't, all stores, strip malls, and wide traffic lanes occupied by speeding SUVs. I'm learning the grid of streets in the area. On Friday I found my way to the vaccination site at the University of Arizona. On the way back, I stopped at Trader Joe's for Vitamin C tablets, just in case I need to treat the drinking water again. Before she left, my friend warned me to pound down the water and she wasn't kidding. With relative humidity in the single digits, everything desiccates quickly to a husk, including human bodies, especially if there is a breeze. Today there's a red flag fire warning in Southwest Arizona. Fire danger is everywhere, and in the desert, water is a scarce resource.

So, in other news, the check engine light came on again on Friday. I'm hoping it's just the gas cap, you know, maybe I didn't get it all the way screwed on—it's been twenty-four years since I pumped my own gas. The gas cap is new. But you know how it is with cars. And teeth. They rarely heal themselves. 

Tomorrow the plan is to deal with reality as it comes at me, like we all do, the way we all meet the bumps and potholes in whatever road we travel.