Desert Dogs and Dawn with Biscotti

 Desert Dog Dharma (Prescott Dispatches)

May 25–26

Beamer is snoring next to me like an old accordion left out in a rainstorm—wheezing in rhythm, punctuated by the occasional twitch of his hind leg, which I can only assume means he’s chasing those white-tailed rabbits we keep passing on the roads here in Prescott. Either that, or he’s being chased by one—possibly the size of a Buick. Hard to tell with dreams.

He’s making fast friends with the two local Heelers, both female, that my friends own.. There’s no awkward romance in the air, thank God. Beamer, bless him, leans more toward the gentlemanly appreciation of other fellas anyway, but this week he’s gone full-on frat brother with the girls, trotting after them like he’s already been elected third-in-command of their dusty dog senate.

Convincing him to return to the camper at night has become a theatrical production. I call him. He sits. Contemplates life. Maybe hums a little  tune. I call again. He moves forward four inches and sits again, as if the journey is simply too much. Finally, with the same energy I use to summon the will to put on pants, I bark, “Get your fluffy butt in here,” and he flops back inside with the dramatics of a Shakespearean actor nearing retirement. The camper, his trailer of exile.

He is, at this point, filthy. Dirtier than a politician in an election year. He rolls in driveway dust like it’s a religious experience. His once-soft fur is now some hybrid shade between “Golden Earth” and “Burnt Umber with Dog Drool Highlights.” Last night he brought not one but two sticks into the courtyard like a toddler showing off macaroni art. He held a full-blown chew fest, making splinters while we sat around the table. At home, he wouldn’t dream of such behavior. Here? He’s gone full cowboy.

May 26 – At Dawn, With Biscotti

I woke up with the light seeping in through my camper window. Beamer had already handled his morning duties and curled back into a cinnamon roll of corgi contentment. I sat with my coffee and one—okay, maybe three—almond biscotti, attempting to wrangle the week into words.

Connection’s been the theme. Not the polite, weather-worn pleasantries about knees and news cycles, but real conversations—the kind that open doors you didn’t even know were locked. Soul chats. Gut-spillers. Just the real stuff.

I’m not looking for a romance novel ending. I’ve burned that book, underlined the good parts, and donated it to the thrift store of life. What I do miss is fun, intellectual companionship. Someone to brainstorm with. Someone to hatch wild ideas with over coffee and better intentions. Someone to say, “What if we did this wild creative thing?” and then actually try it.

I’m tempted to apologize for getting too personal here, like I should be tossing you a clever travel anecdote instead of a confession. But hey—Brené Brown says vulnerability is the birthplace of creativity, empathy, courage, and all those other squishy, hard-earned human things.

So here we are. 

The weather’s been forgiving—warm sun, cold nights, just enough chill to justify both my Pendleton blanket and sleeping bag. The heater stays off, the windows stay open, and the coyotes sing me lullabies. The camper’s still a puzzle box but the pump works. The toilet flushes. And that, friends, is grace enough for now. This evening I’m headed to a dog training with one of my friends. “Justin” Beamer has to stay home, I’m afraid. I’ll try to post a few photos soon. Not really taking any here. I’m certain I will in Santa Fe. 

Down the dusty road we go…………….