The trails of life have always intrigued me. This one rises and falls along the eastern edge of the Desert Botanical Garden near my home.
In the eight-plus years I’ve lived in Arizona, I imagine I have frequented this trail of mesquite trees and Palo Verdes hundreds of times on hot, warm and coolish days with my husband and friends–and on my own.
Today, while Tom headed to the gym, I walked it alone. Slowly. It gave me much-needed time to heal from fever and congestion that knocked me for a loop for thirty-six hours.
But today my temperature is normal. I’m feeling much better. It’s a sunny seventy-three-degree morning in Scottsdale, Arizona.
Walking this trail of life, I had a few minutes to reflect on the joy of completing another book … the afterglow of releasing Sixty-Something Days into the world.
Already a few readers have sent me notes telling me how much they are enjoying the book and how much it is resonating with them.
Receiving these messages of encouragement never gets old. Along the trails of life, we all need encouragement, support, and validation.
In the late 1970s, I interviewed my father’s older sister, Aunt Thelma, for a college folklore project. Sitting across the table from me in her suburban north St. Louis kitchen, she waxed on about her philosophy of life.
“Honey, we’re all just ships passing in the night,” Thelma offered with a faraway look in her eyes. “We have to make the most of the time we have together.”
My beloved, charismatic, animal-loving aunt has been gone for twenty-six years. I miss her, but I don’t think about her often. However, she is on my mind this week.
Not because she died in October 1999. Instead, it is the wisdom of her words that apply to a recent development in my life.
Poly–the gray-and-white stray cat I’ve written about frequently–has disappeared. She’s been gone for about a month. None of our neighbors have seen her recently either.
It’s possible that she has become someone’s indoor cat, but I doubt she would stand for that. She is/was a free spirit.
Instead, I fear she may be a casualty of a series of monsoon storms that swept through the Phoenix area in late September and early October. Or, perhaps, a random coyote nabbed her.
I miss our morning moments together … seeing her curled on the blue cushion of one of our wicker chairs beneath our kitchen window.
I miss watching her twirling acrobatics on our sidewalk, hearing her frantic meows as Tom or I opened another can of Sheba sustainable tuna and spooned it into a chipped ramakin for her to devour on our kitchen floor.
If Poly is gone permanently, she certainly added a playful, natural dimension of love to our Polynesian Paradise community, since early May 2021 when I first spotted her peering down at me from a neighbor’s roof.
If you follow my blog, you know Poly inspired a litany of cat tales that appeared here. They are warm and silly Arizona chapters I never would have imagined writing a decade ago.
It is ironic that Poly vanished about the time I completed the manuscript for my latest book, Sixty-Something Days, which is now in the final stages of production. I will publish it sometime in November.
The good news is several stories of my feral friend appear prominently in the book. The time we spent together, like two ships passing in the night, will have a literary life, because she has added an unexpected dimension to my Arizona sunset years.
Now–on this bewitching Friday as my book follows Poly’s example and prepares to set sail–that unlikely bond between two men and a lovable, mysterious feline character will exist on the pages for anyone who cares to read about it.
She’s survived another summer in the Valley of the Sun. Living life on the lam.
Climbing walls and trees. Stalking birds, lizards, and rodents. Dodging haboobs, monsoons, and ICE agents. Ducking in and out of covered patios … sleeping on weathered blue cushions melting into wicker chairs outside our front door.
Poly is her given name. Given by me to her. No doubt, she has other assumed names from other presumed cat lovers in our Polynesian Paradise condo community.
I hardly consider her a stray anymore, because we are three years into our relationship … our parlor game of fancy treats followed by quick goodbyes.
In 2022, she wouldn’t get close enough to touch. Tom and I left kibble outside our door in the same chipped dish you see here. She ate quickly, then darted off … back into her Sonoran neverland.
But in 2025 we have reached a deeper level of closeness, intimacy, love perhaps. Maybe she’s been reading the news and needs comforting. I know I do.
Every morning around 6, Tom or I open the security door and look for her. Nine out of ten days, she hops down from that day’s pre-selected chair, meows as she glides and stretches on the mat in our foyer.
She trails around our legs, marks our shoes and furniture with the scent of her furry face, and shimmies up and down as Tom or I (we take turns) prepare her dish of Sheba cuts in gravy with sustainable salmon.
The frequency and volume of meows increase as the dish comes close to the floor. Poly purrs loudly, then polishes that off in less than a minute. Her eyes sparkle with gratitude.
Lately, she’s been staying longer after her meal. Sometimes returning later in the morning or evening for a second round of treats. Dry savory salmon-flavor Temptations for the cat that deserves the best.
On September 1, at 11:13 a.m., Poly allowed me to sit on the floor and give her love. I patted her head, back, and tail as we talked about her morning … our day.
Then, I placed brunch before her and captured this kitty-calendar portrait of Poly, our cagey Sonoran friend, modeling in the kitchen on our new, natural oak flooring.
After she consumed her meal and licked her paws, she glided and sniffed through our bedroom, den, and sunroom.
Poly then departed through the front door, left ajar for her safe departure (she is a free spirit, after all!) back into the wild of intense sun, hissing sprinklers, spiky cacti, and random critters (animals and humans) … all of us living each day, giving and taking what we can, embracing or deflecting each moment as it comes.
Jeremy’s Scottsdale boutique—southwestern decor and inspirational gifts staged under a vaulted ceiling—survived the pandemic. Barely.
Ten thousand stimulus dollars and the generosity of two tanned-and-moneyed benefactors kept his business afloat.
By August 2025, the store’s cycles—busy mild winters; slow sizzling summers—felt normal again. Jeremy did not.
Like the discarded sneaker he passed on the shoulder of Hayden Road heading to work that morning, Jeremy had no mate. At thirty-seven, he felt alone in his fortunate life.
At four p.m., Jeremy wrapped a batik hummingbird plaque for a browsing customer flowing in lavender linen.
As she left, he decided to close early, gathered artsy pillows—Serenity, Tranquility, and Prosperity inscribed in cursive—closed horizontal blinds, and shut off the lights and ceiling fans.
After he adjusted his visor, locked the door, walked to his parking space, and tossed his cushions next to his golf clubs in the backseat of his SUV, Jeremy drove north toward the freshly painted apricot walls of his north Scottsdale condo.
Fifty yards ahead on the shoulder of the road, Nate—a forlorn figure limping in worn flipflops and sporting a ragged, sleeveless Phoenix Suns jersey—caught Jeremy’s attention.
In the dusty desert breeze, Nate balanced a crumpled plea, “Just a Meal,” scribbled on cardboard in black marker.
A stream of drivers rode by. Jeremy did not.
He pressed a button to lower the passenger-side window and applied his brakes.
“Get outta the heat. I’ll spring for a meal,” Jeremy offered.
“Uh … okay,” Nate reached for his tattered suitcase, climbed into the air-conditioned silver interior, and wedged his bag between his knees.
Nate’s weary smile and scrawny build fooled Jeremy momentarily. He imagined his brother David had resurfaced as a ghostly hologram.
“You remind me of …” Jeremy steered through a construction zone “… someone I knew who vanished during Covid.”
Defeated at twenty-nine, Nate conceded “I’ve got my own pitiful story.”
“No judgements here.” Jeremy dodged Nate’s revelation. “Burger and fries?” They approached a drive-up window.
“Bottle of water too.” Nate craved cool liquid to soothe his blistered lips and parched throat.
Jeremy placed their order, paid a rumpled attendant, and edged forward. Another uniformed teen leaned out to hand the food and water to Jeremy. He passed them to Nate.
“Social services could help you,” Jeremy nudged.
“They’re invisible. Just like me,” Nate snapped. He tightened his grip on the sack that held his meal. “Let me out here.”
“Wait. Take one of these,” Jeremy pulled over abruptly. He reached into the backseat and tossed Prosperity in Nate’s direction. “They aren’t selling anyway. Stop by my shop … Daydreamers on Fifth Avenue. I’ll help you find a job.”
Nate paused to consider Jeremy’s offer, shielded his eyes, juggled his dinner, jammed Prosperity into his zipper-less bag next to his single sneaker, and stepped to the curb.
In the cocoon of his aloneness, Jeremy sighed. He closed the passenger door, eased into the right lane, and headed home.
Mark Johnson Stories 