We’ve had our housecat, Gigi, a brown and white tabby for over six years and, like most cats, everything as it relates to our relationship is essentially on her terms. Unlike our Yellow Lab Greta, who passed away last year and who’s every breath revolved around food, attention from us and more food, Gigi is like a self-employed independent contractor. When she’s in the mood for a little affection, she’ll let you know. When she’s not, she’ll reluctantly sit there in your lap with her ears angled back and her eyes pursed with impatience as she waits for you to pause long enough for her to spring up and away.
Back in San Francisco, she was essentially an indoor cat. During our four years on Harrison Street, she had access to our roomy patio that was separated by a sheet metal fence from our neighbor’s, who had converted his outdoor space into a veritable mini-jungle with potted palms, bamboo trees, bromeliads and more. Gigi could spend all day over there playing her little game of rain forest panther. Once we moved to Union Square, her only outside access was reduced to a Juliette terrace off of the living room that measured perhaps forty square feet with two potted plants on either end that served as the flora to Gigi’s fauna.
That all changed upon arrival here in Newport Beach. Our townhouse has an enormous back patio that runs the entire width of the unit and beyond and overlooks one of the many greenbelts that run between the clusters of homes.
For the first time in several years, Gigi has had the great outdoors at her disposal and she took advantage of it from the first moment the patio doors were opened for her. Without hesitation she started the exploration of her new territory and within days she was an expert on the lay of the surrounding land.
Apparently, Gigi had quickly made her presence known amongst the local feline personalities as two began to routinely appear at the edge of the patio looking for her. It made me a little nervous for her as she’s a small girl and if her interactions with either bigger cat were to devolve into a scuffle, she’d no doubt be on the losing end.
Then, one night I was in the kitchen and was finishing cleaning up after dinner when, while standing at the sink I heard the howls of what sounded like an ordinary cat fight. I figured, okay, my concern about Gigi versus the big cats had materialized, so I quickly removed my apron, just kidding, and ran out the front door to save Gigi from what I expected to be one or both of the cats that had begun hanging around.
I wasn’t prepared for what I saw as I approached the spot from where the noise had come. There on the side of our quiet street at the opposite curb was what looked like at first to be a medium-sized scrappy dog and for a brief moment I even thought it might be a fox as a result of it’s really big and pointed ears. My confusion rapidly gave way to the realization that Gigi had become entangled in a life or death confrontation with a coyote who was intent on having her for dinner.
I yelled as I ran towards the coyote and it was enough to frighten him off and away from Gigi, who then darted past me towards the back patio. I ran after her to find her cowered in the far corner near one of the doors, trembling and hissing at the same time. I scooped her up and brought her inside. At that point, we didn’t think that her altercation with the coyote had gone very far, but she stayed there on the sofa all night long in a, pardon the pun, catatonic stupor.
When Fred went downstairs the next morning he yelled up to me that there was blood on the sofa. While looking her over, I noticed too that her collar, I.D. tag and little bell had somehow disappeared. I wondered to myself if the little chime might have assisted the coyote in tracking her down. I could only imagine how her assailant managed to remove such a secure little band from around her neck without taking her head off along with it.
I was the first person through the door at a local animal hospital when they opened and after a short while, the veterinarian came out of the examination room to inform me that she had indeed been bitten by the coyote, but that most importantly, the bites had not penetrated any of her organs, which was a very good thing. He told me as well that had the coyote had just a few more seconds alone with her, he would have easily won the battle. He went on to say that housecats rarely survive encounters that close.
When she was brought out, both sides of the back half of her torso had been shaved down to reveal very evident teeth marks; two smaller punctures on one side, the lower canines, and on the other side, larger marks made from the upper canines of the coyote. Gigi was still trancelike and petrified as I took her home with the caretaking instructions: keep her from hiding, force feed her, give her an antibiotic pill daily, apply hot towel compresses to both sides twice daily to induce drainage and the pièce-de-résistance: stick Q-tips into the puncture wounds to remove any infectious puss. Couldn’t I just pay someone to do that for me? I guess I could, but during these economically mindful times, remuneration for cleaning the puss out of your cat’s wounds is one of the first luxuries to go.
I can neither blame the coyote nor say that we weren’t warned. Even in an area as developed as coastal Orange County, there is wildlife to be aware of, especially considering our proximity to the Upper Newport Bay Ecological Reserve. As well, a good friend of ours who’s lived in the area for many years, upon hearing the news of our moving to within just a couple of miles of her house, told us to be wary of letting the cat out at night. Just last year she received a 6am visit from the police and when she opened the door, the officer stood there holding up her cat’s collar and i.d. tag, but no cat.
Gigi’s been through a lot, including having to endure my fingers shoving wet food and antibiotic pills down her throat, piping hot (doctor’s orders) compresses applied to her wounds and most recently, shunts inserted in between both sets of punctures to keep the wounds from closing prematurely. They’ve since been removed and if it wasn’t for her peculiar front-half fur, back-half skinned cat appearance, you’d never know anything out of the ordinary had happened for she’s back to eating just kibble, trying to nestle between Fred and I for space in the middle of the night and cutting short any unwanted attention. After several days of being afraid to even go near the back patio doors, she’s once again taken to standing there, staring longingly out at her from-now-on forbidden Eden.
I feel somewhat guilty keeping her inside for the foreseeable future, but we’ve learned that when cats encounter coyotes, they either just disappear or the owners receive ominous visits from the police who likely only knew where to go as a result of the information engraved on the pet’s I.D. tag . Gigi may have lost her collar in the melee, but at least she’s alive and home, albeit with a new little necklace, sans the bell.
Friday, September 26, 2008
Friday, September 5, 2008
WWJD- What Would Jesus Drive?
As I mentioned in my last blog installment, we live very close to Corona del Mar High School. We moved into our home in late June after the school year had finished so we were unaware until just this week how busy the nearby streets become during session. We know now.
I do most of my writing at the Newport Beach Public Library, as I unfortunately have yet to develop the fortitude to overlook the distractions of home (television, internet, refrigerator and cat). On a recent afternoon, as I was headed home I was made aware of the importance of coordinating travel time around the end of the school day and conversely, the start of it in the morning. The cars lined up and out onto the area’s major thoroughfare, Jamboree Boulevard. It reminded me of what it’s like when you’re waiting to park at a large arena or coliseum for a concert or sporting event. What really struck me were the luxury cars that were waiting in line in front of me, behind me and seemingly all around me.
I had no frame of reference for it as I can’t think of any place I’ve ever been with such a display of automotive wealth. Not even the auto shows I’ve attended over the years compared as strewn amongst the exhibited luxury and fantasy cars are always the latest domestic models from Detroit. Here, I routinely see Bentleys, 7-series BMWs, L-series Lexus’, gigantic 12-mpg Mercedes SUVs and more. Equally as interesting as the cars are the drivers: more perfectly coiffed blonde and brunette Mom’s than you’d see on a Real Housewives of Orange County marathon. Nor could I miss the glitter of diamonds and gems that adorned the fingers gripping the steering wheels. Noticeable too were the big, over-sized bejeweled Chanel sunglasses that seem like a requisite accessory for the O.C. mom-on-the-go.
I cannot proclaim to know the political or religious affiliations of any of these women, but, hey, this is Orange County after all, so it’s not exactly going out on a limb to predict that the trend is towards the conservative. Nor is it a stretch to imagine that of those who lament the fact that the O.C. is a little red atoll in the big blue sea that is coastal California are more likely to include faith as a major component of their Republicanism. Of course, without getting out of my car and wrapping my knuckles on the driver’s side window so as to ask the question directly, it’s therefore an assumption for which I can’t just be like the President and “trust my gut”. It’s sad to think of just how much better off the country would be if he were like the rest of us and relied on his stomach solely to tell him when it needs to be filled and emptied.
I tried to think of a way that I could lend some credibility to my hypothesis and came up with a silly way to do just that. I decided I’d drive through the parking lot over at the Mariner’s Church. It’s a non-denominational Evangelical Christian Joel Osteen-scale mega-church, located just a few scant miles from where we live. I won’t say that the Mom’s in line to pick up their kids from CDMHS apparently beeline it over to Mariner’s for afterschool Bible study activities, but the half-full lot had its fair share of imports. Though I didn’t see any Bentleys or Maseratis (another area favorite), every other German, Japanese and domestic luxury brand was accounted for. For fun I looked to see if I could spot any opulent autos with conservative bumper stickers, or those little chrome Jesus-fishies that you see often enough. I found a few, but I didn’t see any examples of what I’d hoped to find as well: pious vanity license plates, like GO W GOD or RUSAVED.
I know next to nothing about organized religion as, growing up, it was not a major part of my life. My blue collar parents belonged to the Church of Hard Knocks and Harder Work and only sent me through Catholic Catechism and Confirmation in an effort to placate my father’s mother, a rosary-toting, broken-English speaking French Canadian woman who, when I was little, would give me quarters as long as I promised to not grow my hair long like my older brothers and then in my adolescence, dollar bills when I would fib and tell her I wanted to be a priest. Keep in mind, coins and currency went a lot further in the 1970s, so my paternal grandmother helped keep me for years in fireballs, candy dot paper, red rope licorice and Mary Jane’s (the chewy confection, not the shoes).
That said, I’m no expert on Scripture save for those bits from Leviticus about how my life with Fred is an abomination. I’ve read the counterarguments about the inconclusiveness of those passages in their original Hebrew as well some of the other later proclamations from Leviticus that mandate that naughty, mouthy kids be stoned to death (how did I survive past ten?), rapists marry their victims and that all places of business, especially seafood restaurants, cease operations on the last day of the week. Since there is to this day a disagreement about whether or not the Sabbath is actually Saturday or Sunday, I say, why risk it? Close for the weekend.
From my scant Catholic education I remember too something from the Gospel of Luke about selling your possessions and giving the proceeds to the poor if you are serious about a permanent reservation in the afterlife. Still, prosperous Evangelicals and less prosperous ones who wish to be like them always bring up that stuff about being fruitful and multiplying, which apparently in modern times relates not just to offspring, but private property and retirement accounts.
I can’t speculate as to what Jesus would drive but I’d like to think that it would resemble something more like the little beat-up economy car in the catchy Free Credit Report.com T.V. commercial. I think too that after a good glimpse of the grossly materialistic nature of many of his believers around here, he’d mutter a tsk-tsk and simply skip all the remaining Orange County freeway exits on his way up Interstate 5 to L.A. and the Bay Area.
Next week: The Newfound Popularity of Ice Hockey in Orange County
I do most of my writing at the Newport Beach Public Library, as I unfortunately have yet to develop the fortitude to overlook the distractions of home (television, internet, refrigerator and cat). On a recent afternoon, as I was headed home I was made aware of the importance of coordinating travel time around the end of the school day and conversely, the start of it in the morning. The cars lined up and out onto the area’s major thoroughfare, Jamboree Boulevard. It reminded me of what it’s like when you’re waiting to park at a large arena or coliseum for a concert or sporting event. What really struck me were the luxury cars that were waiting in line in front of me, behind me and seemingly all around me.
I had no frame of reference for it as I can’t think of any place I’ve ever been with such a display of automotive wealth. Not even the auto shows I’ve attended over the years compared as strewn amongst the exhibited luxury and fantasy cars are always the latest domestic models from Detroit. Here, I routinely see Bentleys, 7-series BMWs, L-series Lexus’, gigantic 12-mpg Mercedes SUVs and more. Equally as interesting as the cars are the drivers: more perfectly coiffed blonde and brunette Mom’s than you’d see on a Real Housewives of Orange County marathon. Nor could I miss the glitter of diamonds and gems that adorned the fingers gripping the steering wheels. Noticeable too were the big, over-sized bejeweled Chanel sunglasses that seem like a requisite accessory for the O.C. mom-on-the-go.
I cannot proclaim to know the political or religious affiliations of any of these women, but, hey, this is Orange County after all, so it’s not exactly going out on a limb to predict that the trend is towards the conservative. Nor is it a stretch to imagine that of those who lament the fact that the O.C. is a little red atoll in the big blue sea that is coastal California are more likely to include faith as a major component of their Republicanism. Of course, without getting out of my car and wrapping my knuckles on the driver’s side window so as to ask the question directly, it’s therefore an assumption for which I can’t just be like the President and “trust my gut”. It’s sad to think of just how much better off the country would be if he were like the rest of us and relied on his stomach solely to tell him when it needs to be filled and emptied.
I tried to think of a way that I could lend some credibility to my hypothesis and came up with a silly way to do just that. I decided I’d drive through the parking lot over at the Mariner’s Church. It’s a non-denominational Evangelical Christian Joel Osteen-scale mega-church, located just a few scant miles from where we live. I won’t say that the Mom’s in line to pick up their kids from CDMHS apparently beeline it over to Mariner’s for afterschool Bible study activities, but the half-full lot had its fair share of imports. Though I didn’t see any Bentleys or Maseratis (another area favorite), every other German, Japanese and domestic luxury brand was accounted for. For fun I looked to see if I could spot any opulent autos with conservative bumper stickers, or those little chrome Jesus-fishies that you see often enough. I found a few, but I didn’t see any examples of what I’d hoped to find as well: pious vanity license plates, like GO W GOD or RUSAVED.
I know next to nothing about organized religion as, growing up, it was not a major part of my life. My blue collar parents belonged to the Church of Hard Knocks and Harder Work and only sent me through Catholic Catechism and Confirmation in an effort to placate my father’s mother, a rosary-toting, broken-English speaking French Canadian woman who, when I was little, would give me quarters as long as I promised to not grow my hair long like my older brothers and then in my adolescence, dollar bills when I would fib and tell her I wanted to be a priest. Keep in mind, coins and currency went a lot further in the 1970s, so my paternal grandmother helped keep me for years in fireballs, candy dot paper, red rope licorice and Mary Jane’s (the chewy confection, not the shoes).
That said, I’m no expert on Scripture save for those bits from Leviticus about how my life with Fred is an abomination. I’ve read the counterarguments about the inconclusiveness of those passages in their original Hebrew as well some of the other later proclamations from Leviticus that mandate that naughty, mouthy kids be stoned to death (how did I survive past ten?), rapists marry their victims and that all places of business, especially seafood restaurants, cease operations on the last day of the week. Since there is to this day a disagreement about whether or not the Sabbath is actually Saturday or Sunday, I say, why risk it? Close for the weekend.
From my scant Catholic education I remember too something from the Gospel of Luke about selling your possessions and giving the proceeds to the poor if you are serious about a permanent reservation in the afterlife. Still, prosperous Evangelicals and less prosperous ones who wish to be like them always bring up that stuff about being fruitful and multiplying, which apparently in modern times relates not just to offspring, but private property and retirement accounts.
I can’t speculate as to what Jesus would drive but I’d like to think that it would resemble something more like the little beat-up economy car in the catchy Free Credit Report.com T.V. commercial. I think too that after a good glimpse of the grossly materialistic nature of many of his believers around here, he’d mutter a tsk-tsk and simply skip all the remaining Orange County freeway exits on his way up Interstate 5 to L.A. and the Bay Area.
Next week: The Newfound Popularity of Ice Hockey in Orange County
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