When my husband and I moved from the urban city of Mesa, Arizona to our small mountain community, we decided to keep our home and turn it into a rental.
Frankly, I was unsure how well I would adjust to small town living. Also, we wanted the security of having a home in the Valley of the Sun (aka, the greater Phoenix area) should we ever need to return.
Being a landlord ranks right up there with going to the dentist. Not fun, but it’s got to be done. At least 98% of the time rentals are easy, as long as nothing breaks and you’ve attracted the right tenants who pay on time, won’t trash your house and don’t harass the neighbors.
The other 2% of the time comes when tenants move out and you must find new ones. Once the house is clean, small repairs done and a good going-over is accomplished, it’s time to place an ad in the newspaper and on Craig’s List. I dread these times.
Answering phone calls, asking questions to get a feel for a person while making sure not to violate the federal Fair Housing Act, and showing the house is time consuming. Then there are the conversations that prove truth is stranger than fiction.
I go into my spiel. Three bedrooms, 2.5 bathrooms, the monthly rent, the security deposit, the non-refundable credit check, blah, blah, blah. Then I take a deep breath and wait. Depending on the caller, next up might be odd question time or sob story.
Yesterday a woman called asking how much the additional security deposit was for pets.
“How many pets and what are they?” I ask.
“Just two cats…and some ducks and chickens,” she says.
Out of curiosity, I ask how many ducks and chickens. She responds with a little sigh, “Three ducks and about 10 chickens. But they’re all small.”
I explain the house is in an urban residential subdivision on a golf course with desert landscaping and a homeowner’s association that doesn’t allow farm animals. The HOA hates barking dogs, RVs, trailers and boats. The HOA president would flip if his morning wake-up call consisted of a rooster crowing at the crack of dawn.
I ask if she is currently renting a place in the city where she can have her animals. She tells me yes, but her landlord raised the rent. Now it’s my turn to sigh.
“Well, good luck on your housing search,” I say, frustrated because I’m now worrying about some stranger’s pet fowl.
I hang up the phone, giggling. I think to myself, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, just be sure it can make the rent. I wonder; did Old McDonald actually own his farm? I’m thinking about re-writing the classic children’s song from the landlord’s perspective.
(I took an oil painting class last summer from a wonderful teacher named Cyd Totten. She teaches art at a private girls high school in Phoenix and spends summers at her house in Pine. It was a weeklong class where we painted on her deck while she taught us about color and form. Since I have a contemporary rooster-themed kitchen, I wanted to paint a cute little chicken. Mind you, I am not a painter, but I do *love* color. 90% of this canvas was done with a palette knife using colors I custom-bended.)
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