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Welcome to the Neighborhood
This is my suburban New Mexico version of Ram Dass’s “We’re all just walking each other home” — with dogs — and I think both John and Ruth would understand.
My neighbors are the best. Today, when Rillo runs over to pee on their bushes, they greet him warmly. “He’s such a mellow, old fellow,” Lou says, with affection — then switches his focus to the dog. “Hey buddy, you’re seventy-seven years old!” A fact that is true, in dog years. Rillo sticks his head in through the gate of their charming courtyard garden and sniffs their little dog, Toti, a small, black, fluff-ball, ancestry unknown.
Suddenly, Kathy retreats to her kitchen and returns with a gallon-size Ziplock of dog treats for Rillo. I graciously accept when she explains that Toti has recently had most of her teeth removed. I respond sympathetically, sharing that I’ve begun cooking Rillo’s food from scratch — a mix of ground turkey, rice, sweet potatoes, green peas, and blueberries, with a couple of tablespoons of fish oil. I add that it’s soft, and Toti might like to try it.
“Do you need some ground turkey to make more?” Kathy asks me. “My neighbor just gave us twelve pounds (!!!) of ground turkey. It’s still good — just reached its sell-by date.” I take two frosty packages and hold…
