The Yappy McGees

One of my favorite things since moving to Arizona has been having my morning coffee outside before the rest of the world wakes up. Usually around 6 or 6:30, I settle into my little courtyard, watch the sun rise, listen to the birds in my backyard, and just take a few minutes to ground myself before the day begins.

It's my Zen time, which is a lovely way of saying I sit quietly for a few minutes, while getting charged up on caffiene and pretend I'm someone who has mastered inner peace. But, it's something I never really had before, and I've come to treasure that time. I've even noticed that on mornings when I don't get out there, my day doesn't seem to start quite as well.

Now, before I go any further, I need to explain our living situation. When we moved to Arizona, we decided to rent and found a brand-new community of individual homes, or casitas, as we like to call them here in the Southwest. Which is really just a fancy way of saying "small house," but it makes our rental sound like a vacation property, and I'm perfectly fine with that. Anyway, when we moved in, I'm guessing the community was only about half full, and the casita directly behind ours, which shares a wall with our outdoor courtyard, was empty.

It stayed empty for a little over a year, and I can tell you that with absolute certainty because, in a completely normal and not-at-all obsessive manner, I checked the community's interactive rental map every week to see if anyone had rented it. Sometimes I checked more than once. You know, just keeping an eye on things. As one does when one has absolutely no control over the situation but would like to think they are completely in control.

For an entire year, I had my own little corner of tranquility, where the loudest interruption was usually a hummingbird. It was amazing!

I'm sure you can probably guess where this is going.

About two months ago, during one of my perfectly reasonable weekly inspections of the rental map, that little box behind our house suddenly showed as rented. My first thought was, Oh no! But then I reminded myself of something I've been trying to embrace lately. Things happen for a reason. How many times in my life have I made a plan, only to have God or the universe look at it and say, "That's adorable. But no."

So I decided to be open-minded. Maybe another couple around our age would move in. Maybe we'd become great friends. Maybe this was the universe's way of bringing wonderful new people into our lives. I told myself to just settle down and see what happened. So I waited.

One day, we spotted a couple out back. They looked a little younger than us, but not by much. Mentally, I gave a little fist pump. Yes! This was looking promising. Then moving day arrived, and we noticed they had a child who looked to be around ten. Okay, no problem. Kids are great. This was all going just fine.

Now, let me just remind you again that we rent. I have absolutely no say in who moves into the casita behind us. Nobody asked for my opinion, nobody needs my approval, and frankly, nobody should want it. Yet there I was, mentally reviewing every new development as though I were chairing the neighborhood admissions committee. I'd been keeping a running assessment of the whole family in my head, and so far, I had no objections. Not that anyone cared.

Then it happened. I walked outside and was immediately greeted by what sounded like a very enthusiastic little dog announcing my arrival to the entire neighborhood. Hmmm, well, that was unexpected.

Now, before anyone comes after me, let me explain that I've had dogs almost my entire life. We had two crazy Labs for most of my daughter's childhood, and we lost our last one only two years ago. I still miss having a dog around. I love dogs. I really do. But I've also gotten pretty attached to my little backyard sanctuary, where the biggest disturbance used to be a bird getting into an argument with another bird.

So I had a little talk with Mrs. Kravitz, who had somehow taken up residence in my head (that's a Bewitched reference for you younger readers.) I told her, "The dog was in a new home. She was probably nervous, confused, and trying to figure out where she was. Of course she was barking. Give her some time." I reminded myself that there was probably a lesson in all of this. There always seems to be.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks have now turned into a couple of months. Somewhere along the way, I discovered there wasn't just one but two little dogs. I've affectionately named them the Yappy McGees, and they've appointed themselves head of security for the entire neighborhood. Their owners leave the back door open so the dogs can come and go as they please. When I say open, I don't mean the screen door is closed. I mean both doors are wide open, and the Yappy McGees have unrestricted access to the great outdoors and their very important neighborhood security duties.

I don't blame the dogs. They're doing what dogs do. I don't even blame the owners. Back on the East Coast, I used to leave our back door open so our dogs could wander in and out, too. At least until the day a bird flew into the house, but that's another story entirely. The truth is, nobody is really doing anything outrageous here. A family moved into a home. They have a child and two dogs. The dogs bark. Life goes on.

But here's the part I find interesting. I've spent the past year learning to appreciate the little things. The birds, the sunrise, the quiet, the simple pleasure of sitting outside with a cup of coffee and absolutely nowhere else I need to be. I've also been trying to become more accepting of things I can't control, to stop assuming every unexpected change is necessarily a bad one, and to trust that sometimes life has something in mind that I haven't figured out yet. I'm making excellent progress with all of that right up until somebody's dog starts barking.

The funny thing is, not much about my morning routine has actually changed.. I still enjoy my coffee, watch the sunrise, and look for my hummingbirds. The dogs haven't taken any of that away from me. But I would be lying if I said I didn't occasionally sit there wondering what happened to my lovely little world of peace and quiet. Then I catch myself wondering whether the peace was really coming from the quiet or from the way I felt when I was sitting there. Because if my sense of peace depends on everyone around me behaving exactly the way I'd prefer, I'm probably going to have a pretty difficult time holding on to it.

That's an annoying realization, by the way. I was really hoping the lesson would involve somebody else changing their behavior.

Of course, it's entirely possible there's no grand lesson here at all. Maybe two perfectly nice people moved in behind us with their child and their dogs, and I'm just a woman who got a little too attached to having an empty house on the other side of her courtyard wall. I suppose that's worth considering, too

The good news is that the Yappy McGees and I seem to be coming to some sort of understanding. I've discovered that if I sit quietly enough, they don't realize I'm out there, and we can all enjoy our mornings in peace. So I'm still having my coffee, watching the sunrise, and enjoying my birds. It's just a slightly different version of the peaceful mornings I've come to love.

I'm rather impressed with my newfound ability to sit perfectly still without making a sound. I've been trying to master meditation for years, and apparently all I needed was a little motivation. Who knew the secret to inner peace was convincing two little dogs I'm a remarkably life-like garden gnome?

Plot twist: I came out here to find myself. I guess the trick is making sure nobody else can find me.