I slept alone in my room as a child, hidden beneath the covers with a hole small enough to breathe. I wasn't afraid of darkness; I felt terrified of the dangers that accompanied darkness, the monsters, the intruders, and lightning on stormy nights. Hidden beneath the covers, I felt safe in my cocoon.

The wildest animal I encountered in the city was a desert tortoise. It belonged to the neighbor at the end of our street and went missing after digging a hole under their backyard fence. We discovered it crawling up our driveway toward our open garage.

I stuffed him into a pillowcase and drove to a lonely stretch of desert highway. With one hand on the wheel and an eye on the rear-view mirror, I hurled the demon out the window. He bounced hard and tumbled through Sagebrush until he slammed into a Joshua Tree.

When we lived in the city, we removed the lawn and installed a large above-ground pool, leaving our Schnauzer with only a flower bed for relief. We built a redwood deck that hugged the pool on two sides and connected to our spa. Patio furniture, matching umbrellas, and landscape lights enhanced the glamour of our Queen’s Palms, Birds of Paradise, and a Spanish-style fountain. We had created Shangri-la on our cul-de-sac.

I stuffed him into a pillowcase and drove to a lonely stretch of desert highway. With one hand on the wheel and an eye on the rear-view mirror, I hurled the demon out the window. He bounced hard and tumbled through Sagebrush until he slammed into a Joshua Tree.

After the Erskine Creek Fire of 2016, the feral cat population dwindled to one: a cat called Nobody.

His name is Luke, but I call him Hernia Dog.

When Luke was a puppy, he had a hernia that protruded from his underbelly like a fifth appendage. Liz and her friend, Kat, had visited a breeder outside of Bakersfield. While Kat got acquainted with her new energetic puppy, Liz noticed its calm, defective litter mate and asked about him. The breeder said euthanasia; nobody wants a hernia dog.

The most famous cat of Cook Peak was Sheldon. We rescued him from Hart Park in Bakersfield on a hot July evening at dusk. Often we took the scenic route home through the park, hoping to see the peacocks roaming alongside the road. Near the old train bridge, there was an enormous clutter of cats. Among them were raccoons, skunks, and a chihuahua all waiting for the do-gooders who arrived each night to feed them. We parked to watch the show and went home with a cat.

When we lived in the city, we had a gardener like everyone else. Ours arrived in his beat-up Chevy and trailer on Friday mornings at 9:00 a.m. sharp. After mowing, edging, and trimming our yard, he walked down the street to his next account and so on until the yards he tended on our cul-de-sac were immaculate by noon.

Every horse we’ve owned was old and free: first Silverado, then Tulsa. When Silverado died, a neighbor gave Liz our third free horse, Amber, an Arabian mare. Tulsa and Amber were inseparable, destined to live out their lives at Cook Peak.

Liz chose the larger bedroom. The spacious walk-in closet and a window view of the lake—visible only on tiptoes—made her pre-teen decision easy. She covered her walls with boy band posters and filled her shelves with knick-knacks from her fleeting childhood.

Every girl should own a horse. Before we moved to Cook Peak, the only horse I owned was made of plastic. My wildest dream came true when my grandparents gave me their horse; an Arabian named Silverado. I was the happiest girl in the universe because I owned a horse.