Move to the Desert Was for the Dogs

I haven’t told you this before because I am not sure that Peaches can’t read. Peaches is my small dog, named for her color, that of a juicy summer peach. She is what is called a mixed breed. You cannot call her a mutt or a mongrel because she is far too refined.

There was talk when I picked her up from a floor full of puffballs the same color that her mother had been a bichon frise and her father a runner for a bookie. The bichon frise is a small white dog with the long hair covering its ears in the style of Elizabeth Barrett Browning. They’re often pictured on the laps of elegantly gowned court ladies of the 16th and 17th centuries.

I have just about given up the idea of the bichon frise mother, even though I was assured of this by the dog groomer who called me when he fell heir to the litter. He knew that my beloved schnauzer had died and that I would take anything with fur and a tail.

Peaches has been a successful dog and, to my stunned surprise, her medical records show that she is 9 years old. That means the move to the desert was as hard on her as it was on me. She hated moving.

First we stayed with Jean Erck, and Peaches soon enjoyed it. She liked, especially, the silk velvet Oriental rugs and the velvet-covered couch. She does like a touch or two of elegance around her. This is not a dog who would happily curl up on a gunnysack.

To my intense relief, she did not commit a gross social error during our three-month encampment--and this in spite of the fact that she was used to having a dog door in Pasadena so she could come and go at will.

Jean has a patio area that adjoins her sliding glass door, and then there is a generous strip of verdant lawn between the patio and the fence surrounding one of the La Quinta golf courses.

She also has an excellent knack for suggesting just the right moment for Peaches to leave the room. Jean will say, “Come on, Peaches, let’s go,” in a bubbly voice suggesting that they are going to do something wonderful. Peaches happily trots behind her and accomplishes the mission.

When our house was finally ready, Peaches and I moved into the dirt. The back yard is a paved patio area and plain dirt. Peaches went outside and turned smartly around and came back in. She looked at me as if I were out of my mind to even suggest attending to her personal needs in this place.

My friend Walt Wagner installed a dog door and Peaches bit him when he tried to encourage her through. It is the first time she has ever bitten anyone. She bit me, too. In a couple of days, she was going in and out of the dog door, with her shoulders slumped and her attitude poor.

During this period, we went to call on Jean and Peaches happily followed Jean out on to the nice, fresh, green grass.

One evening, we were out when the wind was blowing straight down from the snow-topped mountains, and it was even hard to stand up. Peaches refused to get in the car with me, shattering what little faith I had left in my judgment for having moved.

But, now all is well, although Peaches still thinks we were ill-advised to leave Jean’s beautiful house.

Now, I have grass in the front, applied in squares like big green crackers. I’m thinking of having some put in the back yard, at least in one corner. I think Peaches might accept that, although I still think it’s Jean’s party voice that does the trick.