Planning 101: Housesitting

So, we’ve had a housesitter lined up to stay here at the ranch and take care of the dogs while we’re in China since January. He’s a buddy of R.’s, who works piecemeal jobs at archaeological digs all over the southwest, so he doesn’t need to be anywhere at any particular time…and we’re paying him. Decently.

And then we get our TA. We’re leaving on Friday. And guess what? Random archaeological dude informs us he took a random archaeological job starting today. TODAY. He’ll be out of town for three weeks. Digging. Randomly. Somewhere that doesn’t involve the ranch. Um, hello? CCAA? See what the hell your delay hath wrought?

Yeah, so. Being college professors, we do what college professors do when they’re going out of town: exploit some students. We called up a couple of our best (best=trustworthy, smart, drug-free, stable, low maintenance) women students and asked if they wanted to stay at the ranch for four weeks, with free vehicle and gas money, and make some buckos taking care of the dogs and the garden. We got two yesses. They get to be housemates.

One of them asked if she could come over for the ‘infomercial’ on taking care of the dogs and house on Saturday because her parents were in town, visiting, and they wanted to see the ranch. Okay, so, here we go, two college professors employed (well, I’m only adjunctly-employed) by the little liberal arts, nutty crunchy, private, progressive college in town that’s costing these parents about $25,000 a year, and they want to come hear about how my littlest Jack Russell still has trouble holding her bowels longer than two minutes after eating her kibble?

EGADS. This was odd. Very, very odd. Bizarro odd.

And I found myself editing. Big-time. I mean, this visit was more like entertaining than trying to bring the housesitter up-to-speed on what she needs to know to survive here for four weeks. I refrained from mentioning the dog’s bowel issue–because who talks about finding occasional turds on the carpet when you’re trying to make polite conversation with your guests? I also didn’t mention that the scorpions come out during the first week or so of May and–ooops–we didn’t have time to get the spray-guy here (yes, we SPRAY for scorpions, on an otherwise organic farm…so, shoot me), so be careful about little brown critters that come up through the drains and scurry past while holding their tails in the air. Nor did I mention that our big dog will want to take the head off of any errant thing that moves forward up the driveway towards His House, including–potentially–their daughter.

I DID, however, mention snakes. I felt it was my obligation to give a little bit of warning that the rattlers come out from hibernation in about two weeks, and they flock to the gardens around the house looking for water. You should have seen the look on the faces of the Whidbey Island parents. And the nervous laughter when I told the story of this guy:

I’ve posted his picture before on the blog, but I actually did tell the story to the Housesitter’s Parents on Saturday, so I thought it deserved a replay…the rattlesnake in the driveway with the rabbit stuck out of his mouth. Not a happy reptile to be surprised in his moment of disarrangement, so to speak. I’m leaving you with the poem I wrote about this encounter because I’m out of witty things to say. Tomorrow: intinerary, baby!

Snake Swallow

Rattle, marimba shake along
the spine of dusk—

the shuddering world of a snake’s tail,
rabbit stuck out

its unhinged mouth, and Fear, the bedfellow
with cold hands, coaches us.

He says, purge wonder. Don’t play hard-to-get
with the facts. Run,

run. Judging from the tail jabber,
the snake regrets

its divided instincts—to eat or to defend—
fangs sunk in fur scabbard,

lucky clench. Once, the life of a small gray bird
went out in a hand,

shudder carried around, shadow against palm.
When the dog went down,

this same hand cupped its basin of scent
around the dog’s nose

as death slid in. Not how or why—but where,
where does the snake wait,

its body a cursive black letter? Skin recoils, flows
backward on gravel.

Scales plump, mouth draws over prey slowly,
as scouts inch up a hill.

Wonder rests at the edge of trees, rocks, weeds—
at what the dark takes in.