Heading north on Campbell, Hooper decided he would make a quick stop for a cup of iced coffee at Cafe Joe. He was on his way to a new landscaping job, this one thanks to Rick, who often recommended Hooper to wealthy clients. When Hooper first arrived in town, he had quickly identified Rick's nursery as the best place to buy native plants; then he offered to help out for a month without pay just to get acquainted with the strange new vegetation. Eventually Rick was paying him a decent wage for part-time work while Hooper got his own business going, and by the end of the first year, he was on his own. Hooper recommended the nursery to anyone who would listen, and gave Rick free advertising on the Stone Soup's photocopied playbills.

“Hey, Sally. Peter.” He greeted the two employees behind the counter. Both were in their twenties, and Peter, over six feet tall, towered over Sally, whose scruffy short hair was white-blond today—a change from the orange last week.

“Hey, Hoop, check it out,” said Peter. He stopped slicing tomatoes and gestured with his large knife. “I just saw a big box full of junk out in the alley. Might be a few props there for you.”

“Thanks, Peter, I'll take a look.” He paid for his drink and thanked Sally, who had filled up his plastic travel mug without having to ask what he wanted.

Hooper went out to his truck, an '83 Dodge with a large lined bed that could carry all he needed for his jobs. Since most residences he dealt with had xeriscaped yards, he didn't often need his power mower—so different from his jobs back east, where he had often used a riding a mower on large, lush lawns. He had lock boxes for his pruning tools, hooks for his shovels and rakes, and a system of bungee cords for securing potted cacti and other plants. Though old, the truck was solid, without a trace of rust. He had retrofitted it for air conditioning and spruced it up with a respectable paint job, creamy white, with his business logo, “Terra Firma,” stenciled on the door. Having invested a fair amount of money, thought, and hope into this truck, he had developed an unconscious habit of giving the logo a pat for luck when he climbed into the cab.

In the passenger seat, Cosmo greeted him by panting. He rubbed her ears, drove around to the alley, and parked with the motor running. Peeking in a box next to the dumpster, he found an old colander, some mason jars, and an ugly ceramic lamp. He threw a crumpled lampshade in the dumpster and revealed a few books, a dishcloth. Although he doubted he could use any of this, he didn't have time now to sort through it. He tossed the box in the truck bed and drove off.

It was early June. A month ago, the palo verde trees had dusted the foothills with bright yellow, but now nothing much was in bloom. Some white flowers still perched on the top of the saguaros but would soon give way to pods of purple fruit; red flags still waved from the skinny arms of the ocotillo; and yellow and orange petals clung to the prickly pear. The weather was getter hotter and Hooper knew this would be the last morning he could bring Cosmo on a job. Very soon the temperature would be one hundred something, and she would be camped out in front of the cooler or in the shady spots in the yard.

“You'll have to take it easy this summer,” Hooper said to the dog. “Do you remember last year, how hot it was? Maybe we can go up to Mt. Lemmon for some hikes in the pine trees. Last time we went up there, there was snow on the ground. That was fun, wasn't it?” He laughed at the memory of Cosmo flopping in the snow, rolling around in it, and diving after sticks her masters tossed. He promised her they would do that more often this year.

He slowed down as the road climbed. The street signs up here were tucked away or non-existent, emphasizing the exclusivity of the neighborhood. Turning off onto Calle Campesino, he laughed at Cosmo, who squirmed and trilled in anticipation of a new place to explore. Slowing considerably for some sharp curves, he turned onto a dirt road, crossed the rocky dip of an arroyo, and pulled into the driveway of the second house on the left. Trailing a cloud of dust, he parked in a small bit of shade under a palo verde.

“You stay here until I get things squared away. This woman said it was okay to bring you, but let's make sure.” Aside from the palo verde, the yard was practically barren of vegetation. A few straggly prickly pear cacti lined the drive, and a cluster of fishhook cacti huddled near the front door. The house was brick, one-level, square, and unremarkable; but the woman who stepped out the door was striking. Statuesque, dressed in a silky, eggplant-purple pantsuit, she wore her steel gray hair in a stylish chignon.

“I'm sorry.” Five minutes, by his watch. “I'm Margaret, Margaret Mopp.” It was only then he realized why that name had sounded familiar on the phone; she was Margaret of Margaret's Place, the most exclusive dress store in town. No wonder she dropped the last name: it sounded more like a doll's name than a businesswoman's.

Most people waited to know him before they mentioned it. “It's a childhood nick-name. My friends used to tease me about my laugh—sort of a whoop, I guess. Hooper just stuck.”

“I see. Let me show you around.” She turned with a wave of her hand. “My husband and I just bought this place. It is an absolute disgrace—but it has a fabulous view. At any rate, I wasn't interested in one of these ready-made monstrosities they're building in subdivisions, so close together. And this house appealed to me.” As she led him around to the back of the house, he saw that his first impression of a small house was false: it actually rambled on and included a separate guest home off to one side that looked nearly as large as his own.

“We have a nice courtyard on the other side,” she said, “but that's taken care of.” They reached the rear of the house, where a large, lattice-shaded deck afforded an unobstructed view of both the Catalina mountains to the north and, to the south, the city and valley.

“We just built the deck, so we need something of interest here and around the spa. I'm looking for an artistic touch. Dramatic, but not showy.”

“I think I see what you mean. Something to give color and variety, a nice mix of flowering desert plants. But the view is the thing, isn't it? You don't need to upstage it.”

“Yes, this has a lot of possibilities. I think I could do some nice things for you.” Something about her patrician tone brought out the rascal in him, and he considered putting in a spiny hedge, a jumping cholla that would branch out onto her patio, or something like an ornamental cherry, which made a big mess.

“I'd like to look around to get a sense of the space and get down some ideas, if that's okay. Then I can work out a plan and give you a free estimate in the next day or two. You can decide then if it's what you'd like.”

Margaret still did not seem wholly convinced. “All right. That's fine. By the way, I have an appointment I didn't know about when we scheduled, so you'll have to excuse me. You may stay and look around, however, if you need to.”

“Oh, your dog! Why didn't you say so?” She walked quickly to the front of the house and leaned her face in the open window of the cab. “Oh, dook at de sweetums! Is dis de widdle binkie woos?” Cosmo flicked out her tongue but Margaret backed off. “No licking, pookies, you'll muss my makeup.”

“Yes,” Hooper said, perplexed. “Lovely.” Margaret turned back to him, businesslike again. “Look around, then, and let me know as soon as possible.” She shook his hand, more firmly this time, and disappeared into the house. Hooper let the dog out and they wandered back to the deck. He heard her car pull out.

“Widdle Binkie Woos. Is that what you like to be called?” Cosmo wagged her tail at him. “You're shameless, my dog, absolutely shameless.” He sat down on the deck and motioned for her to sit down next to him. “Did you fall for that line? You think you could be in a fashion show, trotting down the runway? You'd run away with her in a minute, wouldn't you?”

Cosmo licked his face mightily. “No, I didn't think so. You're my dog, Cosmo, you big fur-ball. You and me and Tillie, pal: we're a team. Don't you forget.” Hooper scratched her head thoroughly, considered the view for a few moments, and then went to work.

Maria hadn't met anyone since Nick had moved out nine months ago. She'd dated now and then, with no great luck or interest. She went out once with a rabbi whose lecture she attended at the Unitarian church; he took her to a Star Trek movie, during which he had held her hand. He may have thought that quaint but she thought it seemed needy. She dated a handsome bartender, but the only stories he could tell involved sports or his more pathetic patrons. A man she met while hiking was charming, but had a slight allergic reaction to her dogs; however, she suspected that the real reason he stopped calling was that he just wasn't interested. Other men she talked to seemed literally to back away when she told them she had a Ph.D. in anthropology.

Tonight she was not going to mention that. If anyone asked, she'd simply say she worked in an office on campus; at any rate, she'd done her best not to look unapproachable. She was wearing a silk black blouse, with two buttons undone, and tight black jeans that brought attention to her hips. She'd done her hair in a braid to show off eight of her best turquoise and silver earrings.

As she crossed the lobby of the Hotel Congress, she noticed she attracted a few glances. Striding confidently into the nightclub, she ordered a rum and coke at the bar, then turned to survey the scene. The opening band, Bauhaus, was just starting their set, an hour later than advertised. The room was filling up ready for the headliner band, and she already had her eye on a few interesting-looking men. Among them was a tall, sandy-haired man with a full mustache, who caught her eye and moved toward her.

“The trickster is a prominent figure in Native America folklore. Usually he's Coyote. He's a kind of Everyman who plays tricks on others, but he's so self-important and gullible he ends up—”

“Not really.” He smiled. Beautiful teeth. “I miss her, and she's mine, so I'm going to get her back.” He took a drink from his glass and spit out a wedge of lime. “I found out where she lives, and now she knows I know.”

“I'm not an brute. I'm not just going to drag her out of there. I want her to come home of her own accord.” Maria looked at his glass as though to say, You've had too much to drink. “Club soda,” he said with a grin. “So long,” she said, smiling back, and squeezed her way into the crowd.

For Bauhaus, the evening was fairly disastrous, even by their standards. They were used to dealing with an incompetent sound crew—the club boys would have trouble setting up tapes for a third grade dance class—but the crowd was clearly anxious for The Dregs to start. Usually Bauhaus played for community college kids and a small set of groupies, but tonight the concertgoers were louder and rougher. Donna noticed a lot of seriously dyed hair, black and silver eye make-up, and young men who greeted each other by pounding each other's fist above their heads. During the sound check Crash broke a string and was jeered.

Once the band started playing, they were all out of sync, trying too hard. Crash got the set mixed up and started with the wrong beat. A drunk guy, arguing with the bartender, briefly diverted people's attention, so they scarcely noticed when the song ended. Walt was singing off-key and Donna, who was lead vocal on most of the songs, heard her voice strain and reach because of a mild head cold. And although she was usually quite focused, all these distractions made her aware of a man in the crowd who seemed to be staring at her. It was not a friendly stare, but intense, and he had a mustache. She didn't trust men with mustaches. She knew this was entirely irrational, but she would forever associate them with the first cop who gave her a ticket. She noticed him leaving as they finished the last bars of their last song; she couldn't wait to get out of there herself.

That same night, Barry was at one of his favorite spots in the Rincons. The trail was close to town but hardly anyone went there. The first part of the trail was long and rocky, with very little shade or interesting plants, so it wasn't too appealing to most people. He had several places he liked to camp and, as the shadows grew longer, he settled on one that was nestled in a canyon, on the west side so the sun would hit him early. A patch of flat ground was good enough for him to throw down his hard foam pad and lightweight sleeping bag, eat his crackers, peaches, cheese, and a cold can of beans. As the sky darkened, he listened to the coyotes' lullaby and savored a joint.

It had been a hot day, but the evening was pleasant. He lay on his back for a long time, adrift, staring up at the sky. The night was so clear he could see the Milky Way. He'd learned a Cherokee story about the galaxy from an old girlfriend, a former camp counselor. As he recalled it, when the people found some of their ground corn missing one morning, they decided to lie in wait for the culprit, and that night they found a dog eating their corn. They chased him away and he ran north, but he had stepped in the meal and left a trail behind him, the Milky Way: In the Cherokee language, Where the Dog Ran.

Dogs could be sneaky, he thought sleepily, but humans probably think that only because we're so insecure. He remembered being on the schoolyard, in second grade or so, and finding a bee on the clover. Thinking it was hurt, he picked it up to take it to the teacher—or the nurse, even; who knows what was in his seven-year-old head?—but of course the bee stung him. He'd felt first betrayed and then angry, as though the bee had acted maliciously, and it wasn't until high school biology that he started to realize that living creatures must be true to themselves, must act according to their nature, and for that he admired them greatly.

Waking early to a pale and cool light, he cocked his ear for animal sounds. The Inca doves cooed, a cardinal whistled. He had learned to unfocus his eyes to pick up movement and sometimes spotted peccary or mule deer foraging for food. A few jackrabbits bounded along, flashing their white rumps. Then came a family of scurrying quail, chattering and bobbing their head plumes. A little one passed right by Barry's foot, so that he almost missed, out of the corner of his eye, a flash of golden fur down in the canyon.

His back stiffened and his heart raced. A mountain lion? That would be a rare sight. But then he caught a glimpse of a coyote lower in the canyon, and knew it wouldn't be so cavalier with a mountain lion nearby. Even though he hadn't seen the animal completely, he felt a sudden, strange sense of recognition—almost like deja vu. An unexpected flush of well-being flowed through him like an electrical impulse. Sitting cross-legged, he felt as though his tailbone were snaking toward the center of the earth, so firmly was he grounded in place. His mind was whirring like a hummingbird's wings and he seemed to hear a faint crackling as the sun's ray first rays spilled over the top of the ridge. The flora was animated by a multitude of creatures with wings, hoofs, fur, scales, tails, carapace, and antennae; they scrambled and darted, stalked and burrowed, hopped, flew, and slithered.

That same morning Hooper said to Tillie, “Let's go!” and she happily jumped in the truck with him, not knowing their destination but enjoying the surprise. He took her to Target, which meant an infrequent buying adventure.

“I thought we'd look for a lamp,” Hooper said on their way in the store. They had been talking about getting a better reading light for the living room. When he picked out a pole lamp with three moveable shades, however, Tillie involuntarily made a face.

“Yeah, but it's this cool sort of retro blue color.” How could she not like this lamp? He knew he had a talent for decorating; he knew it would perk up the living room.

“We don't need to spend a lot of money.” She was annoyed by his melodramatic tone; he had his feelings hurt so easily. “Maybe we could look around, that's all.” She bit her tongue as soon as she'd said that: Hooper hated looking around. “Can we at least see what else is here?”

When they left the store it was even hotter than when they went in. On the drive home the sun reflected blindingly off the cars in front of them, and Hooper swore, having forgotten his sunglasses at home. He swore at a driver who changed lanes in front of him. They were stopping at nearly every traffic light and Tillie felt a trickle of sweat slide down her chest. She turned on the air conditioning.

Once home, Hooper went outside to look for Cosmo. Tillie heard him call, then shout the dog's name. This was unusual: Cosmo should either be under the pomegranate or behind the oleanders. Tillie stepped outside and watched Hooper check the gates: both were secure. He looked in the sliding glass window of Barry's house, but there was no sign. Tillie suddenly feared that he would say, “Our dog is gone.”

It didn't take long for them to break the stunning spell. Hooper brought the bike out from the extra bedroom and Tillie grabbed her car keys. It is only a matter of time, she thought. This was a kind of trial, something they would talk about in the future, saying, “That was scary; we thought we'd lost her.” They would just have to go through the routine of searching for her, and then they would have her back.

Hooper rode up one block to Speedway, scanning along the gutters and the middle of the street. He was sure he'd find a bloody mass of yellow fur, ignobly marked with tire tracks, and that would be it. He'd have to figure out how to get her body home. He could carry her if he had to. Crossing Campbell, he barely missed being hit by a right-turner, but he didn't yell at the driver and throw up his hand as he usually did.

He rode along the route they walked to the university, along the grassy mall. There were a few dogs on campus, but not his dog. Even at a far distance he could see none was his dog. He rode all around the buildings, calling her name, imagining her fate. Fraternity boys might have picked her up and taken her home. They would turn her into a dog claimed by everyone and owned by no one. They'd let her roam the neighborhood, give her Cheetos and other crap in return for a bit of affection. Or perhaps an administrator coming in for a few extra Saturday hours thought the dog would make a good companion for the teenage daughter who rarely talked with her parents anymore. He cursed himself for not putting her collar back on after he'd brushed her fur the night before. It was hopeless. But he kept riding, asking anyone he passed if they had seen a yellow dog, a blond dog, a golden retrieverish dog about so big.

Meanwhile, Tillie cruised the neighborhood in the car, tracing the route they sometimes took through the neighborhood and to the empty lot by the Episcopal Church. She looked down driveways, in bushes, any place where a sniffing dog on holiday would pause. Then she circled by the park, got out of the car and walked around. She began to realize how big a search this could be. The dog could be anywhere.

After an hour she went home. She would walk to the church again later, or she and Hooper could switch the bike and car. She was dripping sweat; it must be a hundred already, before noon. She wondered if Cosmo were thirsty and thought, where would a dog in a fur coat go on a day like this?

After an hour Hooper went home. Maybe Barry took her out for a walk, he thought. He allowed himself one crumb of hope that the dog would be waiting in the back yard, wagging her tail and laughing at him. She was not. Barry was home, and he hadn't seen her. Hooper poured two glasses of water from the jug in the fridge, gave one to Tillie and gulped the other, then filled it and drained it again.

“Would you write this out, please? Your writing is nicer. Leave room for a photograph, okay? and then say, 'Lost dog, retriever mix, reward.' With our phone number. Do we have any pictures of her?” Without waiting for an answer, he pulled out the latest photo album, where he had dozens to choose from.

We'll find her.” She tried to sound reassuring. “She's probably at the travel agent's, booking a flight to Alaska or the Pacific Northwest. Someplace cool.”

She turned on the cooler and sat at the kitchen table with her glass of ice water. “Shit,” she said aloud. Damn that dog. What was Cosmo thinking? How did she even get out? Why would she want to? Hooper will be devastated, she thought, and for his sake especially she offered a heart-felt, agnostic prayer that Cosmo would come home soon. Of course she would come home. Why wouldn't she? Yet all over town you saw Lost Dog flyers stapled to telephone poles, taped to light standards and tacked up on the co-op bulletin board, and they always bore a pall of desperation and despair. The papers grew brittle and torn, and you had to wonder if the owners ever found their Brandy or their Buttons, or if they were still living with emptiness and a mystery.

As soon as he heard that Cosmo was missing, Barry sprang into action with the zeal of an eco-warrior. Hopping on his bike when he was done with teaching and his own labs, he rode around for a couple hours every day that week. He rode around the apartment complexes where a lot of students lived and approached them in the parking lot or laundry room. Flashing a copy of the flyer, he asked, “Have you seen this dog?” He rode down alleys and through parking lots, behind restaurants. Not many people ventured out on the baking sidewalks, but he'd stop to ask anyone he saw getting into a car or checking the mail at the curb. He got hot and sweaty and always drank the two quart jugs of water he carried with him. At night he fell asleep immediately, without even thinking about Anita.

The Landscape