I’m About to be Homeless… Again

I’m about to become homeless.

Again.

It’s not the first time I’ve been without a place to live. In fact, this will be my fifth house-less stint.  But please don’t be feeling sorry for me just yet.

For a woman like me, even writing the word  h-o-m-e-l-e-s-s  fills my belly with a million excited tingles.

Let me explain… 

Right now, I’m siting in my hanging egg chair with my laptop on my lap. The Aussie winter sun peeks over Bald Hill and lands on my black fleece pants. It makes me feel warm, almost cosy, which is a nice respite from the last few days of icky cold. 

As I take a breath and pause, I listen to the sounds around me; a “trink…trink…trink” from the old tap to my right, as its persistent drip lands on soggy grass. Hundreds of birds singing their unique melodies, and a distant hammer executing short bursts. 

It’s the same chair I’ve sat in since I lived in this house, the same blanket in my lap, the same laptop, and the same symphony of sound. Almost everything is the same as it ever was, even the way the sun warms my skin. 

But there is one thing that is not the same: There is no Bobo at my feet. 

Bobo hanging in our writing spot, a few weeks before he passed

I feel an empty sensation almost everywhere I go now. When I drive my van down the same roads we always went, there is no warm body to reach behind and pet. When I wake in the same comfy bed, there is no wagging tail and staring eyes to greet. There’s no giant sigh or soft snore to keep me company as I fall asleep at night, and no doggy prints beside me as I walk along our favourite beach.

From the outside, everything seems the same. But in my heart, everything has changed. 

The odd thing is, I’d been worrying about Bobo dying for years. In fact, I first started obsessing about the end of his life when he was only three. I was in a cream-walled veterinary office looking at a slide of x-ray’s as a tall thin man in a white coat pointed out Bobo’s hopelessly flawed hips. “He’ll need both hips replaced in a few years,” he’d said then. I had cried, certain that this youthful ball of fur I was beginning to love would leave me too soon. 

Basically, I spent a decade worrying about his death. Meanwhile, Bobo went on to climb mountains in those hips; he surfed waves and ran through snow. He hiked multiple days in backpacks. Toward the end he walked softly beside me, until eventually, he died a distinguished and well-lived old man in those supposedly hopeless hips. 

Us at the peak of Sunrise Bowl. Hike up, snowboard down.

Over the last year or two, as he slowed, I started to keep a secret list. 

I called it my “Apres Bobo list” and it contained all the things I couldn’t do because I had a dog: like world travel, living abroad, and long silent retreats.  One day I added to the list “take Bobo’s ashes to all of his favourite places”. I knew that losing him would be one of the hardest things I’d have to face, and I wanted to be ready to embrace the freedom that his death would bring. 

On his last day, as we lay on the floor of the vet’s office together, I knew in my heart that I would follow through on my list. For the first few weeks, I let myself grieve and lay around in bed and I gave myself space from making any rash decisions. Then, as life inevitably returned to “normal” it hit me: while the life we lived together would appear the same, it could never exist again. 

His body could never be in the physical present. I had only the memories of him in the past. 

And those I could take anywhere.  

One of my favourite memories

So, last week, I decided. On August first, when my rental lease runs out, I’m packing up my things and moving out. 

And this time, I’m not moving “in” anywhere. 

To be honest with you, the happiest times in my life have been when I’ve been homeless; which until now always meant living on the road. Our first homeless stint we lived in a tacoma for nine months, and the second time we glamped it up: living in a Casita trailer pulled by that same Tacoma for ten months. The third stint we travelled Australia in a tiny white van for six months, and on our last semi-homeless stint we based out of Mum’s house and in the van. I say we, because I didn’t do it alone: I had Bobo with me every time. 

This will be my first time being homeless without him. Which means this time I’ll be doing it different…

instead of hitting the road, I’ll be hitting the plane. 

I’m not even totally sure what that means yet. I don’t really feel like knowing. My first stop is back to Mum’s for a month and after that a few places are calling my name. Santa Cruz and Tahoe, and Hawaii too. Of course, there are all of Bobo’s favourite hikes and ski hills to take his ashes to. After that maybe Kerala in India, Cloud Nine in the Phillipines, or Sri Lanka’s south.

I don’t know, really. 

All I know is that I am free to place Bobo in my heart, and take us wherever the hell I want. 

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