Across the street from me lives a somewhat elderly woman named Anne. She lives alone in an apartment above a two-car garage. The garage is behind the back yard of the main house, which faces the street that crosses mine.
Anne loves dogs and she makes a living house-sitting and caring for them. She does not have a dog of her own so she visits my girls daily. With a pocketful of biscuits for them. When Cheyenne or Dixie see her, they are all tail wags and barks of excitement. Anne and I visit at the gate while the Chey and Dix feast on their treats. Our conversations are not deep or overly personal, the weather, our plans for the day, goings on in the neighborhood.
Sometimes, Dixie is too energetic, loud and, I assume, annoying for Cheyenne, so Anne will wait for Dixie to get down the stairs to the gate, hand her a treat, and then toss a bone on the porch for Cheyenne.
Nice lady, Anne.
Two weeks ago, the house and its garage went up for sale. There's a lot of work that needs to be done to that house, there's roof and foundation damage. It's unlikely someone will buy it and pour the necessary money into the repairs; more likely, a builder will snatch it up and raze it. It's an uncomfortable waiting game for Anne. I look across at her apartment every day, hoping to see her and wondering what the future holds.
