Wild in the Streets

Fanny the bulldog was a bit concerned to hear of the invasion of coyotes in our county. According to a newspaper story we read this morning, no accurate count is available but the "roadkill" dept. of public transportation says that the number of coyote remains in this neck of the woods has increased from 1 or 2 a year to 1 or 2 a month in the last few years. Fanny is not disturbed for herself. She is, after all, a 60 pound bulldog bred to be impervious to pain and when she is not lounging about on the couch resting her head on a velvet pillow licking her bacon-scented lips, or passed out in a heat-induced stupor in front of the furnace, she can appear quite ferocious.

But she is concerned for our local cats. She takes a proprietary interest in them, much as a Victorian Landowner might stroll the grounds taking note of the grouse population and keeping the weasels under control. Every day on our walk, she strains at the leash as soon as we get to the corner house with the 6 mischievous kittens. I believe she wants to get a closer look to make sure they are all in good health, but perhaps she wants to see if they come in different flavors.

And then there is Mick, of course.

Mick the cat is more of a lover than a fighter-- well he would be more of a lover if he still had his testicles. Sure, he has hunted the wild, untamed grasshopper, wrestled the savage moth, and even bagged the fiendish cicada, but as far as dogs go, his only trick is to close his eyes and hope it is over quickly. Also, he is not too bright. Every night the same scenario is played out: I get into bed with my book. Fanny follows and lies down on the floor as near to me as possible. Mick sits in the doorway and waits. When he feels the moment is judicious, he sloooooowly starts the long trek across the room. At the precisely correct moment known only to Mick, his inner kamikaze takes over and he makes a suicidal leap for the bed. But Fanny nearly always smacks him down. She yawns as she pins him to the floor with one paw as though he is a wind-up toy that she is becoming bored with. He doesn't fight back, just waits patiently to be rescued. It's something like watching the same horror movie every night. The one where the girl stands at the top of the stairs and looks down into the dark, evil basement. And you yell at the screen, "No! No! Don't go there." If Mick were ever confronted by a coyote he would be as defenseless as a promiscuous, half-naked co-ed in a Friday the Thirteenth movie.

So you can see why the news of a coyote invasion is unwelcome for us all. Fanny is concerned about her kittens; no darned coyote is going to come between Fanny and her fantasy lunch. And as for Mick, he doesn't have the balls to make it as sheriff of Coyotetown.