Stepdog by Mireya Navarro

husband, and that was all I cared about.
    The Highlands was a planned community in upper Santa Ynez Canyon, surrounded by Topanga State Park. It was beautiful and quiet. About two miles up the canyon, it felt relaxing and separate from the cares of the city. We were definitely above the hustle and bustle of Los Angeles, and far, far away from New York. No more honking, sirens, train horns, and shouts of “Move it!”
    â€œIt’s like going to the Hamptons,” Jim said.
    The houses were certainly almost as humongous and expensive. Jim was selling his charming town house for an absurd amount of money, so we could afford more absurd. As we looked at houses built in the 1970s, Jim was keeping his eyes peeled for nice office space. I focused on the backyard. I yearned for sun and fresh air and a yard big enough for dinners, for reading and sunbathing. As a bonus, the yard could also keep Eddie out of my hair. Maybe he’d like it well enough to stay outside most of the time?
    â€œYou can’t leave dogs out in the canyon,” Jim informed me. “Coyotes.”
    Oh.
    It took a few months and a bidding war, but we found our love nest. I was pretty sure it would be the biggest home I’d ever have—a 1975, 3,200-square-foot house within walking distance of Jim’s former town house. It was a typical California-style, open-plan, two-story house, L-shaped, around a small enclosed backyard with a lawn and a brick patio under a pergola covered with vines. The bedrooms and Jim’s office—which would do double duty as a den/TV room—were upstairs. I planned to turn a downstairs bedroom into my office, and the family room off the kitchen would become a big dining room. It had a fireplace. I envisioned many happy dinners in that dining room.
    A fireplace. A backyard. His-and-hers bathroom sinks. I had arrived!
    One night before our move, we were in the kitchen in Jim’s town house, where my adorable fiancé was seasoning chicken breasts with soy sauce to get them ready for the grill. I gently brought up some rules for our dog. As if his pampered life with Jim could get any better, Eddie would now have a full backyard to romp around.
    â€œHoney, Eddie is going to have to be retrained. I don’t want him in our bedroom or my office or on any of the furniture.”
    â€œOf course not. I’ll take care of it.”
    â€œAnd I don’t think it’s a great idea to let him go in the backyard.”
    â€œNo, no. I’ll walk him just like I walk him now.”
    â€œActually, while we get the new lawn he shouldn’t go into the backyard at all. All he’ll do is bring dirt into the house.”
    â€œYep.”
    I loved this man so.
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    W e moved into our new home on a Friday and spent the day directing movers and unpacking. The house looked great, with newly refinished hardwood floors and one wall in each room painted a pastel color, my Miami-influenced idea. After the movers cleared out, we brought the kids and the dog home. When we opened the front door—zoom!—Arielle and Henry ran up to their bedrooms as Eddie excitedly followed. For a while, all we heard was thump-thump-thump on the cream-colored carpet, even with bare feet and paws. Eddie discovered that the short, zigzag staircase to the bedrooms and den could be navigated in a nanosecond. He kept running upstairs and then downstairs, pausing just long enough for an obsessive sniff. Jim was somewhere outside, behind the garage, talking to neighbors, and I roamed around the huge space, stepping around the boxes, a bit disoriented, not exactly sure where to start or what to do.
    Soon the kids opened the sliding door to the backyard to check it out, with Eddie on their heels. The kids lost interest the minute they stepped out, but lingered long enough for Eddie to get his paws coated in brown dirt. He tracked the dirt back indoors and left a train of paw prints