Ever since I moved to the desert, the house directly behind me has been empty. I say empty, because no one is quite certain what the status is. All indicators lead to the conclusion that the house has not been occupied for a very, very long time. So "abandoned" does this house appear, that a certain neighbor decided to cull her cacti from the property, landscaping most of her acreage for a song. These mature and well-developed cacti would have cost oodles had she paid retail. In repayment for this self-appointed favor, she left a mountain of dirt and yard debris in their place. Who would know? The house was abandoned after all.
I knew the owner lived out of state, and it was rumored that it was part of an inheritance. I also knew that a certain tree on the property was thriving. Upon inspection, I found the water hose turned to a steady drip, providing its life-sustaining water supply. Other than that, there have been no signs of life. Zip.
That the house is abandoned and neglected is apparent. The garage is collapsing, and the house is looking pitiful. There’s a huge old-fashioned satellite dish on the property, circa 1970s, and a very cool, but dilapidated birdhouse.
My neighborhood has no HOA so you can pretty much do whatever you please here with impunity. An abandoned house is no big deal, even if it is rat infested. There is no health department within 1,000 miles who would give a rat’s ass, let alone conduct an inspection and actually do anything. So, even though thoughts of doing something myself have passed through on occasion, I have acted on none of them. Of course, this leaves room for others to operate, namely the cacti-culling neighbor and Suzy.
Suzy took it upon herself to write the owner, providing photos of the house in varying stages of decomposition, pointing out that it appeared neglected, and suggested the possibility of caretaking the property for a certain rent. Along with the letter and photos was her contact info. The outraged and livid owner called her promptly to read her the riot act. He fussed and fumed and accused her of trespassing on private property (which we all had done for varying reasons). He screamed and protested that the house was not abandoned; in fact, he said he checked up on it periodically and knew the neighbors. Well, he doesn’t know me. And I’m certain he doesn’t know the cacti-culling neighbor. Any person in their right mind would have apologized and hung up as quickly as possible. Not Suzy. She let him blow off steam and to his surprise, she didn’t hang up, nor did she interrupt him. What started out as a big mistake ended up as a 3-hour conversation about animal rights, a subject dear to the hearts of both of them. The owner, a trial attorney, Ph.D., Renaissance man, and now lover and guardian of pigeons, was a lot like us. People pissed him off. Animals didn’t. Animals had gotten a shitty deal, and humans had given it to them. That’s the short version.
The house is not for sale, nor is it for rent. It is one day to become a pigeon sanctuary, even though the Sonoran Desert has no pigeons. You may find a cropping of birds in Tucson, but they were undoubtedly smuggled in from San Francisco.
I’m certain the story has just begun.
