A Walk With My Dogs in a Phoenix Suburb
People & houses & block walls & birds — also, American flags
I open my front door and peer around carefully, keeping my two pups in check. The largest, Biscuit — a rottweiler mix — reacts to strange dogs and Amazon drivers, and I want no drama today. The morning is warm. No one is coming. We make our way to the street, where Biscuit takes the lead, as always. Birdie, my little chiweenie gal, hustles to keep up with me.
“To the left,” I say, letting the dogs know which direction we’ll take. Biscuit obeys, then pauses slyly next to the neighbor’s front lawn.
“Sidewalk rules!” I draw him closer. No peeing on neighbors’ plants.
Together we make our way down the sidewalk, passing one house, then another. A few doors down, a neighbor has a sign, “Trump Was Right,” in his front window. A while back, he put that sign up for one day, then took it down. This time the sign’s been up for two weeks. Election season is coming.
I wasn’t surprised to learn that this neighbor holds conservative views. He flies an American flag — of course — and drives a gas-hungry Hummer. In our politically purple neighborhood, I cannot be shocked by his politics, but I do feel a pang for the immigrant family living next-door to him.
We pass more houses, most with well-kept yards, some risking HOA letters. One yard is more bedecked than the others — the plastic flowers, pinwheels and ladybug rocks make me think retiree. It’s the only other house in the row flying an American flag, and among the yard’s many “welcome” signs is a small banner with the words “Trump 2024. Keep America Great.” A sticker in the pickup truck’s window reads “FJB — Go Brandon.”
As a progressive, pro-choice, bisexual woman who will vote for Biden again, I wouldn’t feel at all “welcome” at that house, in spite of the flowery greetings.
A few weeks ago I met this same neighbor at the box where we get our mail. She is indeed older and struggles to get around, even with a cane. It struck me anew how exceedingly vulnerable many of Trump’s followers are, in need of the very safety nets their political party despises.
The dogs and I leave the house behind and arrive at the end of the street — a precarious place. An overgrown shrub blocks my view of the sidewalk. I stop, lean forward and glance around, looking for dogs and pedestrians. If someone is near, I’ll pull Biscuit back and put him into a “sit.” No one has ever found Birdie alarming, so she won’t need to sit, which works out well for both of us, since she doesn’t listen to me.
Today the sidewalk is mercifully empty, so we turn left again, and Biscuit and Birdie explore a lantana bush on community property. While they search for scents and leave their own, I glance across at the “lake” — a human-made reservoir where treated water can sink back into the desert. The shore is surrounded by grass and small trees, along with a bench or two.
Turtles have found their way to the lake, and it’s stocked with catch/release fish. In the winter, flocks of waterfowl congregate — egrets, Canada geese. Now, in late spring, they’ve all moved on, except for our resident ducks — a pair of glossy, busy black quackers who’ve been here over a year.
They worry me, those ducks in love, surrounded by so many people. Perhaps most humans are thoughtful and decent. Some, though, are absolute rot. Still, I’ve watched those ducks waddle across the road during rush-hour traffic. The cars stopped and waited, so I might be wrong. Maybe my species is grand.
Today the ducks are in the lake’s center, paddling in the full sun. I draw my dogs back onto the sidewalk, and we stroll a bit farther down, making another left-hand turn onto community grass. On our right is the neighborhood’s main road. Every so often cars pass. To our left, a six-foot concrete-block fence backs the houses we’ve passed.
Now, finally, I can let Biscuit’s leash out (keeping it on my wrist, though). He and Birdie drag me from bush to bush, threatening to pull my arms off. This is their moment — their daily pleasure — picking up scents from the park.
Birdie is rolling now — her favorite pastime. Biscuit leaves mark after mark. Above us a turkey vulture circles, throwing its dark shadow down.
This green belt is a magnet for nature. Every morning I see new signs of what’s occurred overnight. Today I find a half-eaten dove carcass. (“Leave it!” I say to the dogs.) Sometimes we pass a patch of scattered fur — soft, like a cat’s or a rabbit’s. I’ve seen coyotes in this green belt, sprinting for home at sunrise, and once I found a nine-inch tail feather left by a Great Horned Owl.
At this time of year, I often see eggshells strewn about the grass. Birds are the loudest and boldest creatures enjoying this neighborhood park. Northern Mockingbirds, Curved-Bill Thrashers, Say’s Phoebes — I’ve looked them up. Hummingbirds, doves and Great-Tailed Grackles, falcons and even roadrunners.
The desert is only blocks away, and it doesn’t have daily watering.
I look up and see the San Tan Mountains, looming above the rooftops. Gray-brown and rugged and ancient and wise. As Birdie rolls again in the grass, I peer up at the mountain, longing to pull myself up those slopes and poke around in the gullies. My current health, though, won’t allow it. Walks such as this must suffice.
“This way,” I say, and the dogs and I wander on, passing behind our own house. The block wall ends. We turn left again, passing the children’s playground, which is mercifully covered with a sunshade. Stinging-hot slides are no fun.
We’re nearing the green belt’s bottle-neck entrance when I notice somebody coming — a boy with a backpack. I pull the dogs away so they won’t frighten the child.
The boy looks over, we greet one another, and as he passes on, it strikes me (as it has before) how diverse my community has become. I’ve lived here, now, for 20 years. I’ve watched the change firsthand. Many people from many backgrounds call this place their home — a heterogeneous mix of humanity. I find that this makes me glad.
But I also sense an undercurrent — election-year tension, mistrust.
The dogs and I leave the green belt behind. We’re next to the house beside ours. As we pass it, I notice two U.S. flags standing upright in a pot. I wonder what those two flags mean — what message I should take from that. I hate having to think this way, and push the thought aside.
Another left turn into my driveway. The dogs are panting and hot. I open the door and cool air greets us. Gratefully, we step inside.
