This morning, after having convinced myself that it is impossible for me to find a nice house this late in the moving season, I wrote down the address of the only house for rent that seemed to match our criteria on craigslist and called Baby Mike to schedule a go-see around 7 pm. 20 years old, Mike is the youngest member of my friend circle; I met him through one of my best friends, Carole, who had him as a student in one of her classes and decided to take him under her wings after he highly impressed her with his writing a few semesters ago. We started calling him Baby Mike, as we do with most of our friends under 23, and the name somehow stuck. Anyway, I knew that Mike was looking for a place to live in Ferndale since the beginning of summer but had never considered him as a roommate until my latest housing crisis broke out. However, when Jane asked me to move out, he was pretty much the only person I could think of that needed a place that soon. Oh, and not to mention that he works at the Michigan Humane Society (a respectable animal shelter) and has helped me whenever I had questions about raising a puppy since the day I adopted Dziga; so when I apologetically warned him about Dziga's latest antics over the phone, he told me not to worry since he deals with much worse at the shelter every day.
Anyway, at around 7 pm, we went to see the house, whose only appealing feature was the vast back yard that seemed perfect for the dogs (Mike has an old shepherd mix that gets along with Dziga-bear). Considerably underwhelmed, we decided to drive around the neighborhood to see if there were any houses for rent by any chance. Of course, the west side of Woodward in Ferndale is much nicer than the east and people do not put their houses up for rent much. The only signs you see are sale notices that belong to realtors. That said, after driving around a couple of blocks, we suddenly noticed a hauntingly beautiful old house with a Tudor-like architecture for rent. Out of sheer curiosity (since the two story house looked too big and nice to be reasonably priced), we took the number and called the landlord on the spot. A talkative old lady answered the phone and immediately got into a long and detailed conversation, which must have lasted at least 20 minutes, with me. Her name was Marilyn, yes like Marilyn Monroe, but she was much more beautiful, at least considering that Monroe is dead. I am senile, she said, but I am sure I look much better than dead people. She told me that the house was built in the 20s and both the upper and lower flats were for rent so we could take the lower. The place has all hardwood floors, a dining room attached to the living room, a renovated kitchen with all kinds of new appliances (Do I like to cook? I said sometimes and she quickly noted that her niece was keen on putting in a microwave, a dishwasher, and new stuff for cooking), 2 bedrooms, a big garage, and a lovely backyard. She was delighted to hear that I own a bouvier since she had one that lived until the age of 14 once - when she got hers, there were only 500 Bouviers des Frandres in the entire country, you know -, so I didn't feel the need to elaborate on how much of a troublemaker Dziga is, assuming that she is well acquainted with the stubborn breed. Marilyn's niece, the actual owner of the house, owns a dog, who is about to have a hip surgery, too, a chow mix that allegedly looks like a lion, -We are dog people, she reiterated a few times -, so she doesn't think Chris the niece will have a problem with our furry companions. The conversation didn't sound like it was going to end but eventually, she told us to go around the back to see the yard and said she hoped we'd take the place. Mike and I walked around and after seeing the antiquated door with a mosaic glass panel, old style windows with fancy handles on them and the gorgeous backyard, we decided that we want the house even without seeing it. We peeked in from the windows and the floors looked recently finished and the walls freshly painted. I still don't know if all that can be real and we might actually get a chance to live in a house so special but once back home, I immediately called the niece and told her that we are interested. Being extremely excited, I sounded a little retarded, mumbling words and confirming my name as Sonia when she asked. I wish the owner was Marilyn so I could simply tell her that some like it Tudor; I am sure she'd understand and let us have the place without further questions but it's up to Chris now. Let's hope she calls back tomorrow and it's written in the stars and I can move into a house that is simply magical.
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