Animals

This is a buck in Finland.

Supposedly, forest officials coat their antlers with glow-in-the-dark paint so they’re easier to see on a dark road, the goal being to save their lives along with the poor, unsuspecting motorists they have the misfortune to encounter.

As you can imagine, so many thoughts ran through my head when I saw this:

1. Man, being lit up like they’re sporting two freaking light-sabers on their heads— that’s either a boon or a drag on their sex lives. Curious to hear about that.
2. The internet is full of big fat lying liars who lie, so if this isn’t real, bummer. (Finnish readers, let us know).
3. Where was this when we rode our motorcycle through the dark pine forests of the Great Northwest back in 2005 and I found out I could possibly meet my maker as a result of one bad decision made by one of these majestic creatures?

Anyway, here’s how that went. Warning, I did not handle it well.

Excerpt from Overcoming My Fear Of Bambi , Part I

“One day in central Oregon, if I remember correctly, we saw remnants on the road of a deer who’d met the front bumper of a logging truck at 65 mph.

Then another. Then a third. Being someone who likes their animals fully assembled, I was traumatized.

The next day we encountered the remnants of a red pickup truck at a gas station. Barely recognizable, it had been totaled on all four sides by a huge buck who’d gone up and over the front hood and windshield, its legs making contact with the side panels on its way down the back and straight to heaven.

“What happens if we hit a deer?” I asked at lunch while picking all the good bits out of my salad.

My husband looked at me with a mix of curiosity and exasperation, as if I’d just botched the punchline of a joke (which I do, always) before slowly putting down his fork. Shaking his head, he fiddled with his paper napkin (he HATES paper napkins, he’s French) before letting out a long sigh.

“Well…” he hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “If I have the chance I will try to slow down, I won’t jam on the brakes and I won’t swerve to get out of the way because THAT will kill us for sure.”

I stopped chewing.

Now he was gathering a full head of steam, gesturing with both hands, “WHEN we hit it, the deer will die, the guts will splatter all over us, it’ll total the front of the bike, but we should live.”

Shit. I dropped my fork on the floor as he kept talking. No five-second rule. No kidding.

“If it’s an Elk or a Moose, I’ll do all the same things, I’ll slow down and go straight ahead, but that’s a huge animal.” Now he had that same glint in his eye the salty old sea captain in Jaws had right before he got eaten by the shark. “You can kiss your ass goodbye,” he hissed, “Because we’ll all die.” Then he picked up his fork and took a big bite of steak.

“Looks like rain,” somebody next to us said.
Cloudy with a chance of body parts, Is what I heard.

I began to wail, “Wait, what?! You mean…we could DIE!”

He stopped chewing. “Let me get this straight?” He asked, “It never occurred to you that you could die on a motorcycle?” Now he was laughing.

“Well… no.” I wasn’t lying, until that day it had never occurred to me. Embarrassed, I felt the need to clarify, “Certainly not at the hands of a Bambi.”

My fate suddenly uncertain, I stopped a passing waitress and ordered a hot fudge sundae.

He went on to explain that the greatest threat was at dusk and dawn when the wildlife was most active. Apparently, that is when the highest incidents of vehicle-versus-fauna accidents occur.

My husband has this theory about accidents. They are a series of random events that converge at the same time and place. If you remove ONE component, the accident cannot occur. For instance, if you forget something and run back into the house delaying your departure by five minutes, that will either place you on or remove you from the accident timeline.

It had now become my mission to remove us from that timeline. New rule: No riding before nine in the morning and kickstands down by five in the evening, otherwise known as dawn and dusk.

Suddenly my beautiful pine forests were filled with terrifying, four-legged terrorists ready to leap out at any moment and render us dead.

Why I Ride is all about the experience. “It’s about LIVING life.”

Hadn’t I just said that to the person who asked me if I was afraid of riding on the back of a bike?

Now I found myself marinating in fear for tens of hours a day, my eyes darting around wildly, searching for animals lurking in the landscape, ready to leap.

Cute became creepy.

Fuck I hate fear, it changes you. It was changing me…”

You can read the rest at Overcoming My Fear Of Bambi, Part II

Overcoming My Fear Of Bambi , Part II

I think we can all agree that the world has gone freaking crazy.

Like flip city crazy.

Whether I’m in the line at the market, pumping gas or flipping someone off, gently reminding them it’s not okay to text and drive—I swear–there’s a special brand of madness out there.

This weekend it felt different, more virulent than the generic cray, cray we’ve been living with for close to a year. You know what I mean—the up is down, black is white, and truth are lies reality that we are all attempting to navigate without losing our minds.

“Snap out of it!”

And we can’t even blame the full moon you guys, it’s too early!

Friends told me that they argued almost to the point of a duel at dawn over issues they barely care about.

Insecurity loomed large.

Our mail carrier (who drives at a glacial pace) got broadsided at the end of our block.

And I ate pie. All weekend. Like, the entire pie.

That wasn’t the only display of cray at our house this weekend. The wildlife, which you know if you read this blog has overrun our house, well, it upped the ante.

“We have a crazy squirrel”, Raphael informed me as we sat down to play cards on the patio Saturday afternoon.

“That sounds like an understatement. Have you met the squirrels around here?”

“I’m not kidding”, he continued, unamused by me. “It either has rabies or it ate some rat poison.”

“Wow. Those are terrible odds”, I replied, trying my best to stiffel a giggle. “Hey, how can you tell when a squirrel is…you know…crazy?” I was trying to make a point. I knew the squirrel hadn’t eaten poison. After the summer we all had, the entire neighborhood has rat fatigue. All our poison stations are empty. Besides, as intended, the openings are too small for the squirrels to get to the poison.

I know these things. Raphael does not.

“All I can say is it’s not acting normal.”

No one is acting normal anymore. No one.
Not our elected officials, not our relatives, not even our beloved national pastime! When the final score of a five-plus hour World Series Game is more like a football score—12-13. Normal is so far in the rearview mirror it has disappeared on the horizon.

Besides, what is normal squirrel behavior anyway? My observation has been that they run around our backyard like lunatics, hiding peanuts and fucking like…squirrels. Not a bad gig.

When I pressed him for details he just said it was acting “weird”, taunting the dog and then barely making a clean get-away.

I brushed it off. I had to survive. My experience with the fauna in our neighborhood this year has given me a form of PTSD.

Raccoons, and skunks and rats—oh my!

I just couldn’t wrap my brain around the fact that the squirrels had now jumped the track.

Now, let me set the scene for this last part.
There’s a dog running around and two adults enjoying a couple of hours of cards. There’s music playing both inside and outside and patio doors open to catch a rare, cool, late October breeze.

In a nutshell…a peanut shell—there’s noise, activity, and broad daylight…and a crazy-ass squirrel lurking inside under a cabinet like Kato from the Pink Panther, waiting for us to come back in the house.

When we did—all hell broke loose. The house went full metal cray.

“That damn squirrel is in here!” Raphael yelled as he held Ruby back by the collar.

There was screaming. Even from the squirrel.

It ran into the fireplace and hid (not very well I might add) among the twigs and leaves I collect throughout the year for kindling.

The dreaded boom came out. The death broom. But Raphael was able to quickly sweep the daft little fellow back onto the patio where he stopped, fixed his hair, and did the Macarena.

Great! Now the wildlife is nuts. What’s next? Attack of the killer gardenia?

I give up.

Carry on,
xox

We killed an animal on Saturday night. We had to. It was lurking in our bedroom without having been invited.

When I say we killed it I mean my husband did.

I hate killing things.

I carry spiders outside. I insisted on catch and release of the skunks that were torturing our dog earlier this year, and I absolutely refuse to let my husband shoot the crows even though one of them barfed up the nauseatingly smelly guts of partially digested roadkill all over my car windshield the other day.

So, yeah. Even when you provoke me—I won’t kill you. Well, not intentionally. At least not until this year.

If you read this blog you know how real the struggle has been to eradicate our rat infestation. For the past year, we could give that temple in India, the one devoted to rats, a run for the title of Most Rat Infested place on Earth.

We have an exterminator on salary, we were forced to cut the gorgeous Bougainvillea on our back fence down to the nub after they ignored all of our eviction notices, and I myself chased one out of the house in a drugged up stupor (me, not the rat—long story) which was asinine because it probably had survivor sex and three weeks later—more rats!

Even our beloved housekeeper, Maria (aka The Rat Assassin) has tears tattooed on her face like murders do in prison.

It all started while I was brushing my teeth before bed on Saturday night. I tend to wander while I brush and so I saw the little fucker out of the corner of my eye at the exact same moment as our dog Ruby and my husband Raphael. They were on the bed engaged an almost inappropriate display of affection when Ruby went all meerkat. (That’s what we call it when her head shoots up at attention and she starts frantically sniffing the air.)

“Uh oh,” I heard my husband utter as the three of us simultaneously spotted the rat running along the wall across from the bed. Does anyone else here feel like “Uh oh” is the understatement of the year when you discover a rat had taken up residence in your bedroom—at ten o’clock at night?

“Awwwww, fuck!” I yelled, spitting toothpaste everywhere. (A much more appropriate response, don’t you think?)
“How did he get in?
How long has he been in here?
Where has he been hiding?
OH shit! Do you think he’s been living under the BED?”

My husband wasn’t even listening. He was up getting a weapon.
I ran to spit and rinse. Then I dashed out of the room shutting the door behind me to keep the rat bastard contained…IN MY BEDROOM!

A grenade, I thought. I have to find a grenade. If that rat has been living under my bed well…maybe napalm. Clearly, we have to napalm the place and start over. Duh.

Ruby and I cowered, she outside and me in a dark hallway while my brave and heroic husband did broom battle with the rat. We could hear it and I have to tell you despite what you’re thinking—it actually sounded like a fair fight. When we timidly tiptoed back inside after being given the all clear, we were both traumatized—pale and shaky.

Even my husband who has put many a dying animal out its misery was affected. “I killed an animal tonight,” he said. He doesn’t usually say shit like that. It was weighing on him.

As I saged every freakin’ corner of that room to dispel the dead animal juju, so I could merely entertain the idea of sleep—I wondered why in the hell animals put us in such a horrible position?

I remembered hitting a squirrel after it froze and then at the last-minute made the shitty, life-ending decision to run under my left rear tire. That dull thump, thump, haunted me for weeks. Once we saw a man finishing off a dear after it ran in front of his car, demoing the front end. I was even reminded of a conversation I had with a lovely woman at a party recently who was grieving the loss of their family dog who suffered from cancer and had to be put down.

Why do these animals use us as their exit strategy? It sucks. Hard.

Why do they choose to cross a highway at all? What in the name of God is so important they have to get to the other side?

Why do they cross streets in the first place? The memo that explains how deadly cars hitting soft, furry bodies can be has had decades to circulate.

Why do they linger when they’re sick? Why do they force us into making such a horrendous decision?

And why for the love of all things holy is the entire great outdoors not enough for a rat to enjoy? Why did it have to come inside—into our bedroom?

These are just a few of life’s great questions. If you have a clue I’d love to hear it.

Carry on,
xox

“A bambiraptor is a savage baby deer.”
~ Alan Davies

I was randomly thinking about deer the other day. Don’t ask me why. I think it was prompted by a deer siting at the top of Beverly Glen a month or so ago but I can’t be sure.

Anyway, as we slowly wove our way up the canyon in a single file line (otherwise known as rush hour), I spied a deer casually teetering (if that’s even possible), on an impossibly vertical slope to my right.

Chewing lazily, she seemed to be sizing things up.

Should she stay and enjoy her snack until those things with wheels and bumpers and angry people inside that could kill her were gone? Or should she take her chances and make a run for it?

I could see her thinking about it and that made me mad.

Deer and cars don’t mix. Cars should be viewed with the same trepidation as any natural predator. Think wolf or coyote or Elmer Fudd. But they aren’t and you can just see it in their dark little Bambi eyes.

They are not the least bit afraid of cars.

They either have such an inflated sense of their own speed and agility that they’re convinced they can dash across a street without being hit OR they are in dire need of a Deer Newsletter that informs them of the dangers that living in the city can present.

Either way, evolution has failed them.

Cars are not a novelty. Cars have been around for tens of deer generations. They should run in the other direction the moment they smell traffic instead of eyeballing the wildflowers that grow on the other side of the street. When they see poor Bob laying there, yet another unfortunate victim of roadkill, they should have a family meeting where they yell and smoke too many Marlboro as they instill fear into the hearts of their baby does and sassy teenage bucks.

Maybe they do and nobody cares.

Every deer thinks that it won’t happen to them. Famous last words, right Bob?

I’m like a deer. We all are. You can tell me stuff is dangerous and I’ll just shrug and figure I’ll take my chances.
Sound familiar?

But maybe the deer have it right? Maybe we should ignore the stupid newsletter with page after page of what will kill us. Maybe we should just live our lives with curiosity about those flowers that grow on the other side of the street.

I don’t know. I can’t be sure any of it makes sense.

All I know is that some things aren’t worth dying for…and deer need to learn to read traffic better.

Carry on,
xox

I rest my case!

Dear Brave Ones,
Give it to m straight—Have you guys ever done this? Please tell me you have!
Carry on,
xox

As I wove around the corner, snaking my way slowly down the hill through the canyon to my hike this morning—I spotted it.

Something wounded or dead right smack dab in the middle of the road.

Immediately my heart sank a little and my body tensed as I straightened in my seat and turned down the radio in order to get a better look. That is essential. My eyes see better in complete silence and the days of multi-tasking are over for me. I can barely drive and apply mascara anymore. I used to be a pro. Now I suck.

Besides, the music was too cheery, too hip-hoppy, for such a morbid scene.

I craned my neck like Gumby or someone equally bendy to get a better look. From a distance, it appeared to be an animal. With black fur. In a pool of blood. Something larger than a cat and smaller than a dingo. Perhaps it was a skunk or a possum? They never seem to get the memo explaining how paved roads known as streets—filled with cars—lead to death.

It was often out of view, hidden by the other cars as we wound our way, bumper to bumper, to our respective destinations.

That’s when my monkey mind took over. This was a living creature. Cut down in its prime. Maybe it was a mother scavenging food for her babies in the dry brush of the drought-ravaged hillsides. Single mothers can never catch a break!

It was someone’s baby. Another animal’s friend. They had frolicked and played and in all of the excitement, it had forgotten to look both ways. It was then that its luck had run out. Splat!

There it is! I could see it again. Is it moving? Oh, dear lord, no!
Why aren’t people stopping?! Someone needs to take it for help, or drag it to the side of the road at the very least!

I’ll do it!

I was quickly working myself into one hell of a lather.

When I get close, I’ll stop my car and block traffic in order to access the animal’s well-being. Someone must! I decided.

If you hear of the murder of a woman in yoga pants in the Hollywood Hills by a mob of angry commuters in Friday morning gridlock—it’s me.

When the poor creature came back into view it looked to be lying still. “Oh thank God it’s dead”, I muttered aloud. That is not a sentence that feels good coming out. It is something you never want to hear yourself say. But I meant it. It looked like its suffering had ended.

“Why the fuck is everybody running over it?” was the next thing I heard my mouth say. Because it was true.! Forget stopping, no one was even swerving to miss it. In their rush to get wherever they were going, they were running directly over the poor thing.

I don’t care if it’s a dead possum. Swerve around it all of you accomplices to murder!

It was disrespectful, to say the least.

The time of reckoning had come. Ten minutes had passed and I was almost upon it.

Do I look and ruin my morning?
Or do I turn my head and look away?
Do steal a quick glance and say a little prayer?
Or do I stare and gross myself out?

I looked. Right at it. And I tried to swerve to miss it but I couldn’t without dying in a head-on collision—so I did my best.

Thump, thump. I cringed.

The right side of my car ran over it at the exact moment that I saw what it was, this roadkill that had sabotaged ten minutes of my morning.

It turned out to be a pile of black socks on top of a red sweater!

I know what you’re thinking and you’re right.

Carry on,
xox

Dedicated to anyone who’s ever lost their pet.

While we were away I actually received a few calls, “Hey, I just saw your cat in my front yard” the lady five blocks over reported. I thanked her, explaining that he had returned home.

Damn, when I get back I’ve got to remember to take down any signs that are still up, I told myself; but I thought it was sweet that people were calling and I was thrilled that he was back to visiting his old haunts. So no red flags went up when we got a message mid-week, that someone had our cat.

“Please call me, it is very urgent that I talk to you. I think I have your Siamese cat.”

“Another Fraidy siting” I said out loud while Raphael dialed her back. Thirty seconds into the call I could tell by his face this one was different.

I remember we were sitting in the car, in a parking lot, but then I left my body as he gave me the news: this woman had found the upper half of a Siamese cat; an obvious coyote kill.

It had taken her days to reach us; for some reason his collar was missing, and as was his nature, that little shit was far from home. She had put “found cat” signs up in her neck of the woods, but it wasn’t until someone saw one of my signs and put two and two together that she had a number to call.

We went back, met her and her family, bringing pictures of Fraidy, just to make sure it was him. Of course, it was – but she really loved seeing photos of him alive and well.

This woman is an angel on earth, an animal LOVER and a mom.

Here is a beautiful letter she wrote to us after our initial meeting about my darling Fraidy and the gift he gave her family. This letter was Her gift to me.

July 15, 2006

“Dear Janet and Raphael,

It was very moving to meet you both. It’s strange to have shared something so personal with people I don’t know, and I’ve found myself wanting to tell you a little more about the day I found Fraidy. I need you to know – more than I was able to express when you were here – the gift your beautiful cat gave me.

Three days before we went on a family trip, my daughter’s dog Lulu, had been diagnosed with bone cancer. Our housekeeper, Angelica, stayed at our house taking care of her and all of our other animals. Lulu took a dramatic turn for the worse after we left town and died two days before we came home.

My daughter, Ivy, is 14, the same age as Lulu. She and Lulu were inseparable.
Everyone who knew the profound relationship between them believes that Lulu timed her death so Ivy wouldn’t be here to experience it. The trip home was one of the hardest of my life knowing that Ivy would walk in the front door and need to be told that her beloved soul mate had passed away while we were gone.

We got home Saturday night, June 24th. I was up most of the night consoling Ivy and woke up Sunday morning feeling completely helpless. I took our little dog for a walk in the neighborhood to try to find some peace with it all before the rest of the family woke up.

It was probably 7-7:30 in the morning. There are often lots of people walking at that hour, but on this morning the sidewalks were completely quiet. It was in this quiet, surreal state of exhaustion that I saw a beautiful Siamese cat in the yard of the home on the southeast corner of my street and Kraft.

The image that will always be with me was the peacefulness of his face. It was in such startling contrast to the attack that had been made on him. It was as though his life had been taken from him in the middle of a happy nap. When I petted his head, he was still warm, so I found him very close to when he died. Because he was laid so neatly in the yard, I can only assume he’d been carried there by a coyote who had been frightened off by something – maybe even by my dog and me walking down the street.

I ran home and came back with the car so I could wrap him in a towel, bring him home and keep him safe. (she put him in a large freezer in her garage) I came back later with Ivy to ask neighbors if they knew whose cat he might be, which is when we met Geralyn, the woman who later saw your sign which put me in touch with you.

I didn’t let Ivy see Fraidy, but she knew his death had been the opposite of how Lulu had died – inside, surrounded by our friend and other dogs. The experience of trying to help with someone else’s loss really helped her get through the first day.

When I hadn’t had any response to the signs we put up by Thursday of that week, I decided to bury him. I chose the back corner of our yard because it’s the most peaceful spot. It’s far from all the dogs, kids and gardeners, and is where I love to walk to get away from everyone. A couple of times a day there is a great shaft of sunlight that shines right where I buried him. I had a little service for him by myself when every one else was off at work and camp. (she is a famous illustrator, and she decorated a rock as a headstone with her art and his name).

I sat with him for a long time. The suddenness of his death put the suddenness of Lulu’s death in great perspective for me. The tranquility in his face reassured me of a greater plan, and gave me peace about our loss. It was as though he was saying to me that even this vicious attack couldn’t scratch his great spirit.

It is this message from Fraidy that has helped me help Ivy cope with losing Lulu in the weeks that followed. It has given me – and her – great strength. It’s made me believe more deeply that our next life is just on the other side of this one, and that animals travel between the worlds more easily and are certainly always around us to be our guides. The book I’m sending, http://www.amazon.com/Cat-Heaven-Cynthia-Rylant/dp/0590100548
was written for children, but is exactly how I imagine the next life to be.

I didn’t do anything heroic helping Fraidy find a resting place.
He gave me a gift I will never forget, and I am very thankful for him.
When I contrast his free life with the way our cats live – perfectly safe, but the closest they’ve ever gotten to a tree is to see one out the window – I think he was a very lucky guy.”

That he was.

Dedicated to anyone who’s ever lost a pet.

He was a rascal and a renegade. He was all of seven pounds, my gorgeous seal point Siamese companion.

I named him Fraidy Cat because I gravitate toward ironic names, I called our previous cat Doggie, because he was clearly a dog in a cat suit.

When I walked into the room to pick a kitten, they all scattered, except him; he ran up to me, meowing his face off. “Well, aren’t you brave, you’re a pipsqueak but you sure aren’t a Fraidy cat” I said as I scooped him up in one hand.
He looked at me with his cornflower blue eyes and that settled it, he’d sealed the deal and stolen my heart.

I’d always had indoor cats, it was better for their physical health and MY mental health; you see I’m a worrier; so if my cats were to go outside, Tom-cating around, not being there when I needed him, getting dirty, I’d knew I’d freak.

So he spent his days at the windows, howling to get out, jumping at the glass, shredding the screens.
I spent my days inside my very convenient denial, that is, until the guy I was dating at the time, a huge cat lover, took me by both shoulders, guiding me to the screen door, kicked it open and held me there while Fraidy bolted OUTSIDE and up a tree. He’d howled at the birds in that tree for two years, coveting their freedom, now he was up there, climbing among the leaves; I had to admit – he looked ecstatic.

That was the start of his outdoor life.
Being the rule setter that I am, I did instill some parameters – furry little rascals need boundaries.
When we shook the container of dried food – dinner time.
Once he was in for the night, that was it, he used the cat box and slept inside, on my pillow, or in my armpit.
I fed him and let him out when I got up. It became a routine that made us both happy. On the weekends, when I was around, he’d stick close to home, rolling on my little patio in the sun. Life was good.

The longest he ever stayed away was three days, and I lost. my. mind.
When he finally did show up, he was filthy and starving, with a far away look in his eyes – like he’d seen too much. He’d clearly lost one of his lives.
He didn’t have much to say for himself, and after twenty-four hours of my interrogation and his silent treatment – I made him promise that there would NEVER be a next time – and it was never spoken of again.

When I moved to my current house (which came with a cat door – it was a sign) he had a companion by then, Teddy, who was his polar opposite.
Teddy was a fat (I mean big-boned) Teddy bear of a cat, a grateful, gregarious, well-mannered rescue Siamese, who never went much further than the backyard or the front porch.

Fraidy, on the other hand, could barely contain his excitement every morning when I’d open the door to the pantry so he could get to the cat door and start his day. He loved all the mature trees in the neighborhood and brought me presents on a regular basis, (dead birds, mice and once a baby possum) to express his gratitude for the change of locale.
The fauna around the house submitted a petition and formed a coalition to ban Fraidy from certain sections of their territory – but he wasn’t having it. ALL of Studio City was his domain.

Seriously –– All of it.

I found that out in the most profound way, when in June of 2006, seven years after moving to this house and navigating coyotes, traffic and other cats, Fraidy broke our agreement and went missing – for a long time.

It was an unseasonably hot Memorial Weekend, and after shattering his previous three-day record, I started to really worry, putting up signs and calling his name around the neighborhood.
That’s when I got the calls, from far and wide, coming from miles around. “Your little Siamese, yeah, I see him all the time; but it’s been awhile” one caller five blocks over reported.
“That Siamese with the red collar, he was in my backyard as usual just last week, that’s the last time I saw him. I’ll call you if I see him, I hope he comes back.” That lady lived across Tujunga, a big street with fast-moving traffic, which made my stomach turn, I had NO IDEA he was wondering that far from home.

One evening as I was pulling out of the driveway, I saw a cat walking up the sidewalk toward the house.
A small, skinny Siamese.
Fraidy?
I had all but given up, it had been seventeen days.

I stopped the car in the middle of the street, jumped out and called his name, and he came running over like nothing was out of the ordinary – but it was.
I swept him into my arms and ran inside calling Raphael the whole way. I couldn’t believe he was back. “It’s him right?” I kept asking.

It was weird, he hadn’t lost any weight, he still had his red collar with all his tags on, he was clean, un traumatized and purring away.
“Smell that” Raphael was now holding him, pushing his body into my face, “he still smells like your perfume” (I wasn’t wearing any that night) and he did, he reeked of my scent.

“Someone obviously had him” everyone said, happy that he’d reappeared.
“Yeah I guess; someone who wears my perfume which is discontinued and impossible to get.”

He seemed genuinely happy to be back.
Man I wish he could have told me where he’d been over a glass of wine and a can of tuna, I’m sure it was an incredible story.

A few days later we left for a week in Palm Springs with my whole extended family, a friend was staying at the house with the cats.

I felt uneasy, I didn’t want to leave Fraidy – his return to me after such a long time was so remarkable ; it was as if he’d returned from the dead. He was my Lazarus cat. 

(To be continued)

Holy Cow.
Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

There’s some weird energy out there and it’s been difficult to keep an even keel.
I feel the huge need for ice cream and donuts and pasta carbonara; that’s my sign that some shit’s about to hit the fan.

I kept it together yesterday. I made a salad for dinner even thought I wanted to carb load.
Uh oh. Rough water ahead.

Watched something on HBO last night that I shouldn’t have, I know how non-existent my tolerance for violence and especially violence against animals is, so I kept having to leave the room – but I could still hear it.

BTW, I’m no critic, but the show, although highly acclaimed, sucks balls. So fucking dark, no redeeming qualities or message, just gloom and doom and twisted violence.
What’s wrong with you people?
‘Nuf said. “Hey, horrible, horribly popular show, you will not be adding me as a viewer.”

So it should come as no surprise that I had nightmares.
The one I had right before I woke up, heart pounding, sweating and feeling defiled, was that someone; a team consisting of a sinister fat man and a middle aged woman from that fucking show, had my boxer shark puppy. (Cue sinister music)
Once I discovered her after she’d been missing for awhile, they would not release her to me.
They were holding her for ransom for the sum of $300,000-!
He, the fat man, actually informed me of that figure with a straight face.
I knew I didn’t have that in my wallet, so I started beating them both with my red, five inch stiletto heels (you know, the ones you run around looking for your missing puppy in.)
I grabbed the dog while they were defending themselves against my very brave and surprisingly effective shoe assault, and ran from the scene, scream crying and barefoot.

Then I woke up, winded from running and still in fear’s grip.
Whew. That was a close one.

I know enough about dream interpretation to know that what matters most is how it made you feel. I felt anxious and afraid for my eight month old puppy, who I’m madly in love with, but tests my patience every day.
But, it was just a dream and I needed my coffee – bad.

Mistake number one: coffee won over meditation. 
It’s always a fight and I can tell you how my day will go, by which one wins.

I needed a reset. I should have meditated the fear away while it was weak.

Los Angeles has switched weather with Mumbai the past few days, so we have been opening up the house, all the doors and windows in the morning for some fresh, cool-ish, non air conditioned air. The dogs love it. They run around out back through the sprinklers while it’s still cool, doing their doggy business, while we have our coffee, faces buried in our iPads.

This morning I noticed that it had been awhile since I had been slimed or my feet stepped on with muddy paws by the puppy. When I listened….too quiet.
Just like a toddler, that is NOT a silence you want to hear.
I stuck my head out in time to see her playing rambunctiously with a dying mouse on the lawn. It was just barely breathing, not a bite mark on it, it had clearly been poisoned.

I screamed for her to stop and screamed RAPHAEL at the top of my lungs.
That is his signal to come quick with a shovel because some form of wildlife has breeched the perimeter and it’s not okay.
Although most would call where we live the burbs, it is teeming with squirrels and possum, raccoons, skunk, coyote, mice and tree rats. I have no idea why, but they often pick our property on which to make their earthly transition – to die.
I love it and I hate it.
They must know the big guy lives here and won’t let them suffer.

It’s barely seven o’clock and poor man has to finish off a dying mouse.
Thank God for him.
I could NEVER.

The older dog is……indifferent.
The puppy? She’s in a frenzy and since I’ve now shut all the doors, she’s looking for a place to make a break for it. I close the gate to the grass, leaving them just the small poop area.
We agree that someone is poisoning the rats and mice, which is sad I suppose and was really just a matter of time (there are SO many this summer and they’ve been very conspicuous and vocal at night) and we don’t want her looking for bodies in the bushes, woodpile, etc.

No sooner do we finish that conversation and he walks back into the house; I spot her doing the one sided game of catch with another dying mouse in. the. poop. area.

RAPHAEL!

Shovel, kill, toss. Its seven fifteen. It’s been that kind of morning.

So did the fear of her safety manifest this threat to her safety?

I did call the vet; he said she’d have to ingest the poisoned rat to become poisoned herself.
Whew.

What the hell? When I dream of travel or food or sex with an A-list movie star (you know who you are) they NEVER appear in my real life, damn it.

FEAR is a POWERFUL emotion. Let’s just be clear about that.
If you stay stuck in its grip, shit will go down.

I hightailed it to the gym with chanting in my earbuds and shifted the energy.
Then I drove back to Shangri-La.

Do you ever let your dreams color your whole day? How do you break their spell?
Tell me, I’d love to hear about it. I clearly need the help 😉

You’d rather listen? Okay!

https://soundcloud.com/jbertolus/shovel-kill-toss-its-seven

Love from Wild Kingdom,
Xox