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In the 10 years that my dog Rex and I have been together (and that constitutes nearly the entirety of his life and a quarter of mine), we have moved 10 times. The reasons for this had more to do with indecision than instability, but I admit it wasn’t ideal. We went from a farm in rural Nebraska (Rex’s first place of residence, hence my ongoing guilt that his life has been all downhill from there) to a friend’s house in suburban Nebraska and then to Los Angeles, where we lived in a studio apartment in the Santa Monica Mountains for four months and in a sublet near Venice Beach for three months. Then we went back to Nebraska and lived briefly on another farm before moving to a house in town. After several months, we moved back to California, where we lived in another sublet in the Hollywood Hills and then a rented house in the Los Angeles neighborhood of Silver Lake. Finally, I got serious and bought a house. It was tiny and lacking in many amenities, but it was near the dog park.
Throughout all these moves, Rex never wandered off, had an accident, chewed on anything he shouldn’t have or refused a meal. Docile to the extreme and a nonbarker (at 12 weeks old, he barked nonstop for an entire day and then gave it up completely), he’s more than just a good traveler — he’s a canine Zen master. He can lower your blood pressure simply by leaning against your leg. He can saunter past a yard of frothing, gasping, yapping Chihuahuas and not so much as glance in their direction. Despite some well-meaning advice early on in my moving adventures, I never for one second entertained the thought of not taking him along.
I have, however, occasionally allowed myself to think about how many more housing options would have been available to me sans pet, especially an 85-pound yak-like sheepdog like Rex. As any dog owner who’s ever been in need of a rental knows, it’s not the house that matters, but the area that surrounds it. You need some form of yard — a strip of grass, a cluster of bushes, a patch of dirt. Ideally, this area is fenced. The neighborhood needs to be relatively pedestrian-friendly, since it’s nice to be able to walk the dog without butting up against a freeway or a crack house. Moreover, you need a landlord who isn’t going to look at a shedding, slobbering yak/dog and tell you they’d rent to a high school punk band before letting that beast walk on their newly refinished floors. In other words, you have to rent from other dog people. And dog people tend to have dog properties.
How can you tell a dog property? If you’re more concerned about where your dog goes to the bathroom than where you go to the bathroom, chances are you’ll wind up in such a place. If it’s a stand-alone house, the floors will be scuffed and the grass will be brown. If it’s a multi-unit situation, most of the neighbors will have dogs themselves, and while this may at first seem like an asset — “We all pet-sit for each other when we go out of town!” — the place will inevitably come to feel like a combination of kennel and psychiatric institution. The woman with three small dogs will be crazy in a nervous way. The woman with three large dogs will be crazy in a politically strident way. There will probably be a guy with a parrot.
If you’re in a sublet, as I was too many times, the primary tenant’s dogs will sometimes come with the deal. Such was the case in the Hollywood Hills house, where a Border Collie and an Australian Shepherd ascended and descended the stairs all night as though they were training for a boxing match. During the day, they hurled themselves in and out of the dog door until I had no choice but to close it, which caused them to whine like toddlers. Rex, naturally, just stood there and stared at them blankly, the canine equivalent to shaking your head in pity.
Which I swear is what he did to me when I uprooted him for the 11th time recently. After I got married (to a man who dreams of moving overseas and imagines Rex is up to it), I sold my house and rejoined (temporarily, we hope) the ranks of the renters. And, yes, this is a dog property. There’s no dishwasher but the landlady likes dogs, and that matters more. The yard looks like hell, but all I care is that it’s there. I may still be indecisive about my housing, but I know this much about my home: It’s where the dog is.
Photo: Alexandra Dean Grossi