Celeste is one of my oldest and dearest friends from college It seems we were always destined to be apart. Each summer, she would depart for El Paso, a place near and dear to her heart where she once lived and many of her friends continued to reside. We would write each other occasionally during her summer escapades or whatever she was doing back there in the hot desert climes of Texas. When fall brought her back to the U. we would resume our friendship once more.
Looking back, I've concluded friends are the ones who can tell you when you're full of crap, which Celeste did quite often. Believe me, people who don't tell you when you're full of crap aren't doing you any favors. Celeste could point this out to me in a way that caused me to pause and reflect upon my behavior rather than defend it blindly. (Wives replace friends in your later life. They are the ones who remind you about the crap except they are not so delicate about it. Men are never really in a position to tell their wives they are full of crap because they simply never are. Crap seems to be specifically gender-tied to men. But I digress . . . )
As was foretold by our early separations during college, our adult lives have followed the same path. Currently, Celeste has settled in the isolated desert of Arizona somewhere near Kingman. She is building her dream house there, but has met with some of the realities of the harsh environment there. She recently wrote me about some of the pitfalls of desert life. Without her permission I include it here:
My morning routine was interrupted when my peripheral vision caught Jack and Buddy, our dogs, quietly roaming through the side yard. I watched them for a moment and then saw Twilight, one of our cats, stretched out across his favorite nap spot. The sadness was almost immediate. I knew he was dead. Still, I walked out to him. He was on his side, his eyes half closed and his tail extended behind him as if pulled straight by a playful child. He would have jumped and sprinted had he been alive. I didn't touch him.
Cats are necessary on our ten acres surrounded by miles of desert. The cute, cup-eared, kangaroo rats ubiquitous in our area, draw Mohave rattlesnakes. The cats keep the scurrying mouse-like kangaroos in check. This is not to say we and our animals live a Mohave-free life. The tell-tale puncture wounds on Twilight's lip and nose confirmed one of the snakes got him. Green hued, Mohaves kill with one of the most lethal venoms of U.S. snakes.
The snake that killed Twilight is resting between garlic chicken and Lean Cuisines in the freezer waiting to be turned into a hat band or such. We aren't always able to get the perpetrator, but it helps a bit when we can. Coyotes and rattlesnakes are the prime predators. Gone are cats Sheba, Tom, Mama Cat, Sunny, and others. Sage, our beloved dog was lost to a mountain lion, and Buddy, who came after, both were bitten. Chickens Bandit, Samantha Jane, Sunny Skies, and Little Red, succumbed and chicks disappear before they can be named.
Their deaths are inevitable in this unyielding environment where coyotes and snakes must kill to live . We know this, but each is missed and mourned and a small tragedy.
