Member-only story
Living and Dying in the Desert
Who was really dying?
I was walking down the same roads in the foothills that I’d walked since childhood. I heard the crunch of the gravel with each footfall. The sun was warm on my face even in early December. I held my cellphone to my ear as my mom’s rescue Pit Bull, Fannie, lagged behind me for a moment. That’s when I saw the truck make a quick turn and come to a sudden stop close beside me.
The man inside was middle-aged and wore glasses. He lowered the passenger side window and said, “Your dog left a mess back there.” I replied, “Oh! I’ll go back and get it.” He fired back at me, “Your dog took a dump back there and you didn’t even stop to pick it up!”
I rarely ever raise my voice at anyone, but I was taken aback by his anger and responded pretty forcefully with, “My mom just died and I’m talking to my sister. I was a little distracted!” At that he yelled, “People die! So what? Go clean up your dog’s mess!” and sped off.
My mother loved those desert foothills. She’d made our family home a haven for the wildlife there. With abundant birdfeeders, water dishes, and scraps of vegetables within view of the house; quail, cactus wrens, songbirds, cardinals, hummingbirds, and bunnies were constant visitors. She tended her terracotta pots of flowers for as long as she was physically able; then our dear…
