Killer

The question is: Why on earth didn't she run?

She was only a foot or two from the fence and could've scaled it easily enough. She was within an easy sprint of a massive oak tree and the dogs hadn't seen her yet. She had the time and the space to run. And she didn't. They attacked with a killer fury and she fought back like a mini tigress but a 10 pound cat against 150 pounds of psychotic pit bull isn't much of a contest and even as I beat the dogs into submission and got her away from them, I knew she had no real chance. I wrapped her in a towel and for the 2^nd time in as many days, but with no illusions of saving her life this time, headed for the vet's. The only thing I could do was put an end to her suffering. She died shortly after we arrived and I was left shattered and still asking myself, why didn't she run?

If I were a stray cat in a yard where I knew there were dogs that could turn savage in a nano second and they hadn't seen me, I'm reasonably sure I'd head for the hills. I found myself re-thinking the death of the stray kitten the day before - at the time, I'd assumed it had been an owl or a hawk or one of the alpha male ferals that live in the neighborhood. I go with the dogs when I let them out and I couldn't imagine them attacking a defenseless kitten and my not noticing but then I got to thinking that if he'd no chance to run or fight back, maybe they could've killed him without a commotion. And maybe, just maybe, the adult female they'd gone after so mercilessly now had been his mother. Maternal instinct is a powerful force and I couldn't think of anything else that made any kind of sense. To be sure, I scoured the yard on both sides of the fence and explored under the house but found no sign of kittens.

It amazes me to see the old pit - the most mellow, mild mannered and patient of dogs - turn into a frenzied and vicious predator. I can't comprehend it's the same dog who lays his head on my lap and gazes at me with such love and devotion. How is it possible that this fat, arthritic, and clumsy old cast off who is terrified of storms and loud noises is also a lethal killer.

Perhaps it's just that we all change faces depending on the circumstance. Even dogs.

Rockslide

Chilean poet Pablo Neruda wrote, “You can cut all the flowers but you can't keep spring from coming.” I very badly want to think he's right but the death toll is rising and I feel the weight of it like a rockslide. Two more mass shootings in one weekend and we are so crushed and numbed that the horror of it barely registers. It's another win for hate and cruelty and the despicable racism that the president promotes. Soon there may be no flowers left to cut.

If my daddy were alive, he would undoubtably tell me that I worry too much, that I'm taking things too seriously, that good always wins in the end. It doesn't. Regardless of who wins in the next presidential election, some of the damage that's been done will never be undone. “It's not about politics,” I recently read, “It's about morality.” It's about discovering who people really are, including ourselves, and then getting over the shock at what we learn. Losing friends who think the suggestion that we shoot immigrants is funny is no great loss. If that's what you think, then I don't want to know you no matter how much I may like your music or admire your love of and kindness to animals. Regardless of who wins and what happens, we're done. I'm only ashamed that it's taken me this long.

In the 60's, I was in my teens, one of thousands of young people living in and around Boston who protested the war, stood with the welfare mothers, was disgusted with corporate America and detested Nixon. I believed in peace and love and kindness to animals. I was willing to fight for the less fortunate, wanted treatment on demand for addicts and alcoholics, worked for the democrats and thought term limits might save the country from the corruption and greed of the rich. I gave up my Villager skirts and sweaters for beads and ragged blue jeans. I carried signs and stood on street corners and marched in protests. I wanted nothing to do with my middle class background or the status quo. I smoked and drank and slept with young black men. I wanted to re-make the country fair and equal and color blind. I didn't do drugs but I had no particular issues with those who did. Speaking out became a way of life and some 50 years later, it's a hard habit to break. Living in sin with the boy I later married was a badge of honor.

Coming from that place to now, it's almost impossible to stay out of the fray. I can't shake the idea that silence makes me an accomplice but at the same time I feel too helpless and hopeless to fight. I won't live long enough to see the consequences of the current administration and I see that as a curious sort of kindness.

Hate does not and should not come easily to us. Like pain, time tends to make it fade. But I hate - well and truly hate - the monster in the White House and all he stands for. We have cut down our own flowers and spring may never be quite the same again.

Cometh the Rain

It was another steamy hot July afternoon when I left work and by the time I reached the intersection, the a/c was blowing fast and furious but had barely de-fogged my sunglasses. I almost didn't see the man on the corner. He was tall and rail-thin, wearing blue jeans and sporting a bright red t shirt with a white Nike logo, barefoot and holding a hand lettered sign that read “Cometh the Rain”. With his free hand, he was making the hand signals from “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” and more than one driver was responding in kind. Just another homeless, harmless lunatic, I thought but just in case I hit the door lock button of the little blue car. When you live in a world gone more than slightly mad, there's no percentage in taking risks. The light changed and I pulled away.

I am very much a creature of habit and the very next morning, although coming from the opposite direction, I ended up stopped at the same intersection. This time there was a woman in a coral colored ball gown with a mesh top sitting alone on the bus stop bench. She was delicately holding a filter tip cigarette in one hand and reaching into a bag of Purina One dog treats with the other. I watched her munching casually and when she looked up and saw me, she graciously extended the bag toward me as if to offer me a biscuit. I shook my head and she shrugged her coral covered shoulders and gave me a brilliant smile. I was wondering if she and the Close Encounters man might not be fellow escapees but I couldn't help but smile back.

Life is nothing if not an uncertain adventure. What with malls in foreclosure, stores closing after no more than a few months in business, restaurants failing at record levels and more homes for sale than I can ever remember, our small southern city may be on the brink of dying but at least we'll be entertaining about it and go out with style.