Somewhere around 10:30 or so every evening, my dog, Cooper, lets me know that he has to go out. By this time, Jason has been in bed for several hours, and usually even Juliette has said her goodnight. I will be sitting alone on my living-room couch, the room dark except for the one dim lamp on the side table. Sometimes I'm writing and sometimes screwing around on the Internet. Sometimes I'm just putting off going to bed. The house is quiet, except for the sound of Cooper breathing, and the occasional smack of Jason's foot against the side of his crib as he rolls over in his sleep. I'm usually oblivious to the world, ensconced in whatever it is I'm doing on my computer. Then I'll catch a glimpse of movement out of the corner of my eye, and I look over to see Cooper staring at me expectantly.

"Do you have to go outside?" I ask? He responds by running to the back door and sitting, his nose pointed at the door handle.

I unlatch the door and slide it and the screen open. "OK," I say, and Cooper rushes out, his fur tickling my leg as he brushes by me.

As I step outside, my yard is a featureless shadow—my eyes haven't adjusted yet, and not much light makes it out from the lamp in the living room. I step over to the edge of the patio, feeling the cool grit and cracks in the concrete under my feet. I cock my ear toward the side yard where Cooper does his business, listening for the telltale trickle. The evening air is cool but not cold, and has that subtle scent that I can never quite pinpoint or define, other than "Southern California on a summer night."

In front of me is the fence that separates my yard from the neighbor, which reaches to just below my eye level. There are never many stars out, and never any really bright ones, not like the ones I used to see back home. But when I look out over the tops of the yards in my neighborhood, south toward the shops and movie theater, eventually toward downtown and then Mexico, there's this soft orange glow that warms the bottom of the marine layer fog, silhouetting the rooftops and palm trees and eucalyptus that surround my house.

Looking out at that light, the surest sign that I live in a city now and not the little country town where I grew up, I sometimes feel like I ought to feel resentment or disdain. After all, this is another part of what we call "pollution." I never do, though. I just can't deny the beauty of it, different from what I ought to be used to, what ought to feel normal and right. A sense of peace, calmness comes with that sight.

I've been realizing that this moment has become one of the high points of most of my days. I rarely think about it until it's happening, and my immediate reaction when I notice Cooper looking at me is annoyance at being interrupted. Then I step outside and my attitude shifts.

It's a lonely time, though. I always find myself wishing that someone were still awake to share it with me, someone other than the dog, who, well-meaning and affectionate though he is, can't really appreciate the spectacle. At least he can't tell me about it.

It's usually not long before I close up my laptop and head to bed. When I slide under the covers, the sheets are already warm from the heat of Juliette's sleeping body. It's not as familiar or fulfilling as a hug, but I don't want to wake her, so it will do.