Man's best easy target

Readers who are regular to Alaska Commons probably already know that my wife, Heather, and I are currently shopping around for our first house. That's right, Anchorage, buckle up: We might be coming to a neighborhood near you!

It's been such an odd adventure; looking at different areas of town, comparing what architectural treasures and tragedies lie within the four walls of assorted abodes, soaking in what Assembly candidate signs were spiked into front yards, discovering the sad reality of our foreclosure culture (about 90 percent of the houses we've seen are foreclosures, and a good number of those are walkaways)... This whole experience has been quite a trip.

One day was a bit different.

The hunt started off just the same as every other time. We met with our real estate agent in the driveway of the first house on the agenda. She, as always, pleasantly showed us around, telling us the pros and cons of the layout, the water heater, the area, blah blah blah. I don't say blah blah blah in a derogatory sense, she truly cares about finding us "the" home. She even added us on Facebook! (Hi!)

The difference between today and other days clocked in at the second home we looked at. I'm not going to go into where it was, because, sadly, it could be the house next to you. It could be any house in America. And that reality is what inspired me to write about our experience, which really struck me. Deeply.

Nothing about the particular house was drastically different from the scores of other houses we had taken in, over the span of a couple of months. I always wish that red flags weren't metaphoric, that there would be a giant red flag in the front yard to warn people, but this was a pleasant, clean front lawn, with the last of the past week's snow melting away into already healthy looking green grass, which ascended all the way up the path to the walls and windows of the split level home. Another car was waiting, with the engine on, in the driveway. As we walked past, the passengers -- an older couple, probably in their 60s -- revealed themselves to us, saying that they were waiting for their agent to arrive to show the house.

As anyone would, we reacted very much in the vein of "Neener neener, we're here first!" Granted, it was completely in our own heads, but it happened. I now became very interested; invested in this house. This had to be the one, because someone else might want it, maybe.

I'm weird.

Dogs were barking. Frantically. As we waited to see if anyone was home, I listened to the barks and immediately was able to peg one as a Chihuahua and the other a similarly small breed. Obviously, the tenants had placed a contingent of attack schnauzers to ward off any pesky home buyers.

When we finally established that no one was home, and our real estate agent used her key to let us in, we were greeted by the aforementioned Chihuahua and a Yorkshire terrier, both very stressed out, and both in very tight pink shirts. As usual to the breeds, the Yorkshire barked to display bravado, and then immediately changed his tune to jumping up on us and seeking petting, while the Chihuahua kept up the offensive while waiting for opportunities to leap, teeth deep, at our ankles.

Looking around the living room, there were boxes everywhere. People were moving out, so, totally normal, right? Well, there's a difference between packing and collecting, and 30 seconds separated us from the falsehood of the concept of moving and the reality that we were in the home of a "hoarder."

It was bizarre. Honestly, I've stayed at some weird houses during my tenure as a musician, crashing wherever we could. And stories I've heard from friends... Seriously, sit me down and ask me about the Cat Shit Nazi. Wow. But, if you've ever stayed in a place that isn't quite right, you know after that 30 seconds that, yeppers, something isn't quite right.

The place was cluttered beyond logic, but also clean. This wasn't neglected; the kitchen looked better than some of the kitchens that are actually being marketed by homeowners doing that "Alaskan" thing that I like to call "cashing out and moving to Arizona." And the yard was orgasmic. The kind that I could actually play fetch with my half-whippet dog in, finally allowing her to reach full speed. I miss giving her that opportunity to an extent that it makes my heart hurt.