Miss No Name

 

“Is that your kitty?”

I’d paused for a moment on the sidewalk after watching the driver of a white Toyota painfully try to park in the driveway, grinding the gears, inching forwards and backwards, trying to get as close to the low cement wall as possible. Maybe to make room for another vehicle?

The compact man in a navy hoodie who now emerged from the Toyota grinned at me.  I pointed to a brown tabby cat that had appeared at just the same moment as he had left his car.

Shaking his head, his smile broadened, “No, she’s not mine. She belong across the street. She has two brothers, a black and white one and a black one. I feed them, put the food out,” he pointed toward his porch where several empty cat dishes were scattered.

A nasty cold wind with a smattering of moisture blew at us. Not rain exactly. But cold and wet. We both held on to our hoodies till the gust passed.

“What’s her name?” I asked, as the kitty wound around under the car, rubbing her lips on the tires, the edge of the concrete wall.

“She has no name,” he shrugged. “She’s a cat. She doesn’t need a name.”

“Or she has her own name that we don’t know because she is a cat!” I exclaim.

He laughed. “Yeah…. if she were a dog, she’d have a name.”

I bent down to try to get the tabby to come to me, extending my hand, fingers pointed in her direction for sniff. But she was coy. Coming forward a bit, then retreating as soon as I tried to pet her.

“She’s shy!” I laughed.

“She’s a cat,” he shrugged. “If she were a dog, she’d be….” Suddenly at a loss for words, he bent down slightly, crouching like a dog, sniffing the air, hands waving excitedly. “She’s be all over us!”

“Yes!” I agreed, thinking of the dogs I knew. How they had no qualms about jumping all over complete strangers. Earlier I had run into my piano student and his mom, pushing a blue baby stroller with their little fluffy white dog in it, I had bent down to pet the dog and she was so excited, turning around and around in frantic circles in her baby carriage, jumping at me, licking me. I was her best friend and she’d never met me before.

Whereas Miss No Name wasn’t anyone’s best friend upon first meeting. I was going to have to court her.

Trying again, I squatted on the sidewalk, trying to move toward her without falling over. Another gust of frigid water wind hit me in the face, making my balance even more perilous. “C’mere, Kitty,” I coaxed.

Compact Man just watched, grinning.

After about 30 seconds, she came up to me. Allowed a small pat on the top of her head, before scurrying away.

Laughing, I glanced up at Compact Man before standing, only a little wobbly. “I think she’s hungry. She knows it’s time for dinner now that you’re home.”

He nods, “Yes, I will feed her soon.”

Miss No Name rubbed against his legs. She knew how to get what she wants. Bending down, he scratched her under the chin, “You ready for some dinner?”

She didn’t meow. There was no need to voice her answer. Communication happened without sound between herself and her man.

Rain started to pelt me in cold hard drops. “I better get going!” I said, turning to go.

But the two of them were already gone, up the walkway, onto the porch, Miss No Name leading the way.

Entirely My Fault

 

“If I make a mistake, it’s entirely my fault.”

I’m standing on the corner of Barrett and 30^th street, pausing for a chat during my morning walk. It’s unseasonably warm for the last day of February. I left the house with only a sweatshirt on, but have it tied around my waist at this point, nearing the end of my jaunt.

            Sharon is kneeling on the bottom step of her massive outside entryway. She’s painstakingly applying some sort of gooey grey stuff to the fancy tiles, rubbing it into the crevices with her fingers, pushing and smoothing it down.

            How can she sit there and do this? Doesn’t her back hurt? She must be my age. In her 60s or 50s. I can’t tell. She’s a slim, red haired woman in jeans and long sleeves and no hat, her big eyes framed by gold wire rimmed glasses.

            I’ve spoken to her a few times before. Once when she told me about a police chase that threw a man onto her yard, landing injured and later dying. Then several other times to comment on her steps. How she has to finish by the time it rains. How if she doesn’t, she’ll have to cover the work with huge blue tarps to keep the rain off.

            It’s a big project. And from the looks of it, a never ending one. She’s always out here, crouching on the steps, working to create an entryway that would rival any in Architectural Digest.

            Now, when I mention the warmth and then we both comment on how it’s supposed to rain by Sunday, I ask her if she likes doing this work.

            “I do,” she nods, smiles a little, brushes a wisp of a red lock from her face.

            “That’s cool,” I say, thinking how no one could pay me to do this kind of work.

            Then the line about how if she makes a mistake it’s her fault. I don’t know what to say to this other than to laugh softly, wondering why she would say this. Did she hire someone else to do this job and they messed it up? Then she had to redo it herself? Now, she regrets this decision. But is secure in the knowledge that she’s ultimately responsible. That she has no one to blame but herself for the end result?

            Frankly, I’d want to have someone else to blame for any mistakes. I get so tired of always being responsible for everything I do. If a student complains about how a date is wrong on my syllabus, I can only apologize and fix it myself. No one else to blame. If the plants die cuz I don’t water them, I can only blame myself for hating hoses. If I don’t finish a book cuz I think it’s too much work, I only have myself to blame for not having the attention span to carry on.

            Yeah, it’d be better to have someone else to blame, wouldn’t it?

            Who would I blame?

            Right now, that’s easy. EVERYTHING that is wrong is Donald Trump’s fault. Globally and locally and yes, me too!

            I know he got into my syllabus interface (Or sent Elon Musk there!) and changed the dates so they’re all wrong.

            I know that he purposely kept me from getting out of bed from my afternoon nap and not picking up the hose.

            And, mostly, I know he’s to blame for my anxiety, depression, and stress in my life generally! Who knows what’s going to happen? Will I lose my social security? My job? My house?

            I know if these things happen, I wouldn’t have myself to blame. I didn’t vote for him. He’s not my president.

            All of these musings are nothing new, I know. But when it comes to mistakes, the biggest one that has happened in my life is the election of Donald Trump to the presidency.

            I don’t have myself to blame! And, I don’t know who to blame. And perhaps, blame isn’t helpful. Yet, it’s a human reaction to mistakes and wrongs, isn’t it?

            I wave goodbye to Sharon who’s gone back to mushing grout. “Bye,” she calls softly, engrossed in her task.

            Turning up 30^th Street, I sigh deeply, drinking in the warm spring air as a crow lights on the telephone wire and starts to caw caw caw at no one in particular.

           

Police Chase

 

Tiny fragments of shattered green glass sprinkle the asphalt. I don’t think much of it as I march up Barrett for my morning walk. Then I see the Bike Lane sign, its metal pole completely smashed, lying on the sidewalk. What happened? Looks like a car, or even a truck, mowed it down.

            Coming down the steps of the big white house on the corner here at Barrett and 30^th street, is a slight woman, big straw hat on, bending for a moment to fuss with some gardening bags on the stairs.

            She glances down at me. I see an opening. “Hi, what happened here? Was there an accident?”

            Shaking her head, I can tell that there was. “Yes,” she says, sighing softly as she comes down the steps to stand with me on the sidewalk. “It was a police chase. The city of San Pablo police. Richmond police too.” She nods toward the spot of broken glass.

            “When was this?” I ask.

            “Sunday. They closed Barrett. You probably heard the sirens. Chased the guy until he crashed, throwing him into my yard.”

            “Oh my god! That’s terrible.”

            “Yes, it was. I went out and talked to the Richmond Police to ask what was going on and they told me it was the San Pablo police. That the Richmond police didn’t engage in chases.”

            “Well, that’s good to know,” I say, thinking how I’d read some article recently in the SF Chron about how there was a huge percentage of deaths attributable to police chases. Now here was one in my own neighborhood.

            “Yes,” she stares at the spot in her front yard. “I was going to do some revamping of the garden. Add some new succulents, some other things, but now….”

            Her voice trails off. Then she resumes. “I don’t think I’ll bother.”

            I can tell she’s been traumatized. And who wouldn’t be. I can’t imagine having a body thrown into my front yard from a police chase.

            “They did take him to the hospital,” she continues. “But he didn’t survive….”

            Again, her voice trails off. I think about all the death and destruction going on right now, here in my neighborhood and on a much larger scale with the fires in LA where dozens of people have died and 1000s of structures have burned. I read in the NYT today that the area burned so far is bigger than the city of San Francisco. And these fires are not even close to being contained. Plus, more high winds on their way later this week.

            What will become of our world with climate change, presidential felons, and police chases?

            I glance over at the orange chalked outlines on the asphalt. Where the body landed? Where the cars crashed? I shiver. Not just from the cold Diablo wind blowing, but from the horror of death right under my feet.

            “That sounds just horrible. You must be traumatized by this,” I say.

            “Yes…” She looks at the ground, then at me, her eyes brown and small beneath her straw hat.

            I don’t know what else to say now. It’s time to leave her in peace, if she can find any after such an event. “Well….” I try to smile, “take care…” I offer the cliché, knowing its ineffectiveness.

            “Thank you,” she says, turning to head back up the stairs to finish her task that I interrupted.

            Turning up 30^th street, I breathe deeply. The air is cold and the winds are fierce. I want to be inside my house, away from the violence of the world outside.

            Yet, when the grey tabby comes bouncing out to greet me, I stop and pick him up. “Hello, Whispo! Aren’t you the cutest!”

            He purrs and nuzzles. For a moment I’m in another place that only a cat can provide. After a few minutes, I put him down. He jumps up on my leg, meowing. I turn away and hurry down the street, the little cat following me for a moment before being distracted by a leaf.

Psychic Warriors

 

“What are you reading?” I ask Dave, who’s moved a ratty old porch chair out onto the sidewalk to take in the sun. It’s been raining, and I mean RAINING, for days. A ‘bomb cyclone.’ Doesn’t that sound violent and dangerous? And, I think it was for some. Flooding. Power outages. Car accidents. But for us here in Richmond, we just got the torrential rain and wind. Which we need. I love the rain. Though it was nice to get a break today.

            Dave looks up from his book, his tired eyes blinking behind wired rimmed glasses. A stale cup of coffee with ‘meow’ written all over it and little brown, orange, and yellow cats sits on the sidewalk next to him. It looks like it’s been there for days with a chalky white film covering the top.

            “Oh, hello!” he responds, smiling under his dirty mustard colored wool cap. “I’m reading Psychic Warriors.” Without my prompting he launches into a lengthy description of the plot. “It’s about a group of Jordian warriors who are in the Valley of the Ghouls fighting the….” I space out for a moment. I have no idea what he’s talking about. I got stuck on Valley of the Ghouls. What would this look like? Is it a vast depression in the mountains of Jordan (Does Jordan even have mountains? ) where various spectral apparitions float about, causing much terror and trauma for anyone who ventures into their domain?”

Folger Shakespeare Library

            “….and what happens is that these Psychic Warriors can communicate with the angels and with God so that order can be brought into the Kingdom.”

            Dave pauses for a moment, shaking his head in wonder. I know that he believes in angels and God. He’s read me passages from the Bible about healing when I had first met him this last summer after breaking my wrist.

            Now he takes a look at me, squinting. “How’s the wrist?”

            “Oh, it’s much better.” I flex my fingers and wriggle my hand to show him. He smiles up at me from his seat.

            “What are you reading?” he asks. I tell him, briefly, about Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine. “Eleanor is a funny, sympathetic and quirky character. I’m really enjoying her voice. In fact, I’m also listening to her on the audio books with the Libby app.”

            “Oh, isn’t that nice,” Dave comments. “You get to enjoy it in two ways.”

            “Yes.” And I marvel at finding another person who gets the value of reading. Who actually reads books! And while maybe his choice of reading material isn’t mine, it’s still reading. And thinking! I glance down at the book he’s holding in his lap. Its paper cover is tattered. The pages well-worn with tabs and fold downs at the corners. He isn’t just reading it; he’s studying the Psychic Warriors.

            And with a title like that, it must demand a lot of studying, right?

            He is staring into space for a moment, before launching into a long indecipherable story about his niece, Star, a firefighter in Washington State and how she needs equipment dropped out of a plane down in San Bernadino to fight the wildfires down there. I had commented on the rain and how wonderful it was to have the all the water. He’d agreed. “It’ll help to put out all these fires that my niece has been fighting.”

            “It’s great that she’d doing that. That there are young people who are doing that kind of valiant work.”

            He nods. “Yes it is….”

            I start to move away, eager to continue my walk before the sun gets too high. “Well, it was nice seeing you,” I say.

            “Yes, you too.”

            “Say hi to CiCi and the pets. The cat and …” I pause for a moment, thinking how I hadn’t seen the limping cancer-stricken dog for months. “…is the dog….?”

            “No,” Dave sighs softly. “Dorothy…. she passed let’s see…today is Saturday…so, yeah, it’s been about 10 days. Died in her sleep somewhere between 2 and 6 am we think.”

            “Oh, I’m so sorry,” I offer, knowing how heartbreaking it is to lose a beloved pet.

“I would imagine that CiCi misses her terribly.” I would always see the two of them, the dog limping painfully, CiCi leading her gently, on their short walks up and down 32^nd Street.

            “Yes, she does. She does….” He paused again. “I’ll tell CiCi that you said hello. That you give your condolences. She’ll like that.”

            “Yes, please do….”

            I take a few steps.

            “Enjoy the rest of your walk,” he says.

            “Thanks, I will.”

            I wave goodbye as he opens his book, head bent down, deeply engrossed. In the Valley of the Ghouls? Or the communication of the angels? Or remembering Dorothy?

            A wall of bright white puffy clouds floats in the sky ahead of me, a lone palm tree swaying in the slight breeze. I breathe in deeply as a lone crow caws at me from atop a telephone pole.

 

Beagle Treats

 

“Is that a beagle?” Tromping down the final hill at Wildcat Canyon, I’ve spotted a beagle within in a group of chatting hikers. Ian and I have been walking for over an hour and while it’s been lovely to be outside in nature with the old oak trees, brown grasses, and puffy clouds, we’re both pretty puffed at this point.

            But I can’t resist a beagle!

            “Yes, it is,” the woman who’s holding him on his leash smiles at me.

            “Cute!” I exclaim. “My parents had a beagle. They are just the cutest.”

            “Yes, they are,” she agrees, answering me even though I’m interrupting the conversation she’s having with two other women and a couple guys, who Ian and I had seen earlier. Or mostly, heard: “I’d rather have the Toxins in my body, eat the toxins, and live 5 years less, than deprive myself of them,” one of the guys had blared into the air. Ian had shaken his head, “Easy for him to say, he’s young. Wait till you’re an old man!”

            Now Toxin Guys are here chatting with Beagle Lady and her two other women friends. It’s a friendly place, Wildcat Canyon is.

            Back to the beagle. He completely ignores my overtures. The more I try to coax him over, the less interested he is. “Here, I’ll give you guys a treat to give him. Then you’ll be his best friend.”

            Beagle Lady retrieves two treats from her fanny pack, begins to hand them over to us when….WHOOOSHHHHH! A bike whizzes by, the man on it earbudded in. He careens very close to the group, going at least 40 miles an hour. Or so it seems.

            Beagle Lady shrieks. Backs up. Toxin Man starts yelling: “HEY! ASSHOLE! WATCH THE HELL WHERE YOU’RE GOING. SHARE THE ROAD AND ALL THAT SHIT!!!!”

            Zooming Bike Man makes no response; he’s long gone down the path now, probably not even hearing the yelling.

            “FUCK YOU!!!!!” Toxin Man screams at the top of his lungs. Steam coming out of ears if that were possible.

            The rest of us all sigh a collective breath of relief. But Toxin Man isn’t done. “Those guys make me so mad! I have a friend who was recently hit by a bike.”
            “Oh, no!” Beagle Lady exclaims. “Were they hurt?”
            “Yeah, yeah, they were. They’re okay, but I don’t get it. What’s with the Share the Road and all that shit? I mean….”
            Another bike comes whizzing through us; this time it’s a woman clad in black spandex and a long brown ponytail trailing after her.

            “HEY! FUCKER!” Toxin Man yells again.

            She ignores him.

            “See what I mean?” Toxin Man shakes his head vigorously, his sweaty bald pate glistening in the early afternoon sun.

            “I am all for sharing the road,” Beagle Lady offers, “but they have to share it!”

            Ian and I are just standing there. Trying to avoid getting hit by either bikes or profanity.

The beagle is unfazed. Now starts sniffing around me for his treat. I bend down and give it to him.

            He chomps it down. Heads over to Ian who also produces a treat.

            Beagle Lady tries to smile, “I told you he’d be your best friend with a treat.”

            “Of course,” I grin, bending down to give the beagle a pat on the head.

But he’s finished with me. Knows I don’t have any more treats. His nose to the ground, straining at the least. He’s ready to get on with his odor exploration.

            I rise to leave, “Well, thanks for letting us pet the beagle.”

            Beagle Lady nods, “Sure.”

            She turns back to her friends, starts in on another chat. Toxin Man and his companion aren’t moving, maybe still fuming. Such rage may make it hard to walk.

            Ian and I continue down the shady tree lined path. A lone hawk circles over us, high in the bright blue sky. A cow moos in the distance. The breeze rustles a few fall leaves from their bough that fall in our path.

            I wipe the beagle treat dust on my pants leg and open the car door, plopping down in the passenger seat, ready to head home to a bathroom, some lunch and a nap. 

            The ring of profanity still in my head as I close the car door and settle in for the ride home.

           

           

           

The Exterminator

 

The dusk was warm and still. After the intense heat of the day, a blanket of soft air surrounded me as I marched down Clinton Street. I loved the evenings after a hot day. No cold wind. No suffocating jackets. Only the stillness of the heat.

            It was magical.

            Turning the corner from Clinton onto 32^nd, I spied a line of cats on Evelyn’s lawn. She and I have chatted over the years about cats, the weather, holidays. You know, the important stuff. Tonight, as I stopped in front of her house, I noted four cats lined up: Ozzie, the big established irascible orange tabby; Kitty, the sweet fluffy black cat; Sammy, the shy brother of Ozzie and Kitty; and an unfamiliar fuzzy orange and white cat next to Sammy.

            “Evelyn!” I called out to her as she emerged from the house. “There’re a lot of cats on your lawn tonight.”

            She laughed, welcoming. Wiping a stringy dark bang out of her eye, she came toward me and then stopped to survey the cat line.  Clucking her tongue, she hollered: “SAMMY SAMMY! Get away from there!”

            Turning to me, she rolled her eyes. Her thick mascara dripping. “He has a rat!”

            “Oh no!” I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the rat. I hadn’t noticed this before she pointed it out, but now that I looked more closely, I did see a motionless, rumpled grey carcass at Sammy’s feet.

            Now, Sammy eyed Evelyn distrustfully. I could hear him saying, “You are NOT taking away my treasure! I worked hard for this and I’m proud of my accomplishment. Let me finish him off in peace!”

            But Evelyn was having none of it, stomping over the lawn toward him, shooing and yelling. “Git away! Sammy! NOW!”

            Sammy backed off slightly; the other orange fluffy cat fled over the fence. “Oh, Spooky! I’m sorry! Oh, dear,” she shrugged, looking back at me, “I hope I didn’t scare Spooky.”

            With a name like that, I thought, it should have been the other way around. But maybe Spooky had been instrumental in the hunt, capture, and murder of the rat.

            Now Sammy was back at the rat’s spot. He was not gonna give in easily. Evelyn came back and stood next to me. “He’s the Exterminator. That Sammy. He kills rats.” She sighed, heavily. Then pointed at the black cat, Kitty, “And that one, my sweet Baby, she kills birds.” I tried not to gasp, thinking of how awful this was, but hell, cats will be cats. Killing is in their nature. They are beasts of prey. “And that one, Ozzie!” She laughed softly, shaking her head, “He kills bugs!”

            We both burst out laughing. Perfect, I thought, the biggest cat kills the smallest prey.

            Sammy moved a paw tentatively toward his lifeless conquest. Batting it slightly. “SAMMMY!” Evelyn hollered again. “Git away from that!”

            I was secretly hoping that if she could get Sammy away from the rat, that it was just playing dead. I will never forget the time that my Big White Cat, Pablo, came into the house one rainy night, and deposited a lifeless mouse on the floor in front of me and my friends, deep into watching Lady and the Tramp. “Meow” he had announced. Two of us had shrieked, scooching up on the sofa, that archetypal woman v. mouse fear rising up and overwhelming. Then the mouse had lifted its tiny head and ran under the piano. It wasn’t dead after all, evidently. Julianne, the brave one of us, coaxed it out from the piano somehow and captured it with an elaborate contraption built from a flattened granola bar box and a cheese grater, which she positioned over the mouse, trapping it. Then she’d carried it out the front door, releasing it into the stormy night.

            Pablo sat there, unfazed, before turning and sauntering away.

            So, tonight, I was hoping that the same fate would befall this rat, but sadly, it did look quite dead.

            I needed to walk on. The night was falling and Evelyn had work to do.

            “Well, good luck with the Rat Retrieval,” I said, waving good bye.

            “Thanks,” she shook her head, “I’ll need it.”

            She stalked back into the back yard, presumably to find some sort of apparatus to remove the dead rat.

            As I continued down the street, the warm night now tinged with the hilarity of cat jobs, I smiled to myself.

            Cats: wild beasts, ferocious felines, and eradicators of vermin.

            A car passed by, its headlights illuminating the asphalt. The crunch of its tires breaking the quiet of the night. A small screech from a night bird sang out.

            I quickened my pace as the darkness approached, the silhouette of a large cat up ahead, sitting plumply in the middle of the sidewalk. Who knows what vermin lurk in the night?

            Good thing the cats are on the job!

Friend?

 

 

“Your friend is here today," she said.

I’d hailed my neighbor a few seconds earlier from down the block, spying her going back into her yard after getting out of her car. We'd chatted before about her terrible barking dog going to stay with her ex.  That I didn't need to worry about being barked at anymore. Was the dog my 'friend'? I had never thought so, but evidently the woman did.

This morning, she hadn’t waved back, but was waiting for me as I approached her house, surrounded by a tall steel fence, shaded by overgrown palm trees, miscellaneous detritus scattered on the dead lawn: pieces of cloth, empty Dr. Pepper cans, newspapers, and dead twigs.

            As I come up to her house, my ‘friend’ starts into a frenzied barking.

            “Tasha! NO NO!”

            I pause. It seems my ‘friend’ isn’t that friendly.

            A tall regal looking man appears from behind the barking canine. “NO! NO! C’mere!”

            The dog continues to bark furiously at me. Snarling, showing her back gums and saliva covered sharp teeth.

Photo by Milan Krasula

            “She just acting like that cuz she behind the fence,” the man asserts.

            “Oh,” I say, backing up a little, but there’s little room for me on the sidewalk. “I guess that makes sense,” I offer.

            “Yeah, if she out there not behind the fence she don’t act like this.”

            The dog continues to bark and jump wildly from behind the fence. Then the man comes up onto the sidewalk, stands next to me, and lets the dog out! She runs up the street a few feet. “HEY! You git back here!” he commands.

            She stops, turns, and then trots back, tentatively.

            Then comes up to me, no longer barking. What do I do?

            “See, she okay now,” the man says. “I just had to make sure for myself. I been training her.”
            I nod. What about me? I yell in my head. Sure, you can check if your training has worked but don’t use me as your guinea pig!

            I stand very still. Tasha comes up and sniffs me. Is she my friend now?
            I don’t reach out to pet her though. Afraid she’ll bite me. I don’t need a dog bite on top of my still healing wrist!

            “You walk every day?” the woman asks, giving me a crooked half smile, her beady brown eyes staring into me.

            “Yeah, I try to. But I have to be careful not to fall down. I broke my wrist this summer.”

            “ME TOO!” She turns over her arm to display a scar just like mine running down the length of her arm.

            “Wow,” I murmur, thinking how the surgeon had told me it was a very common injury.

            The dog now backs away from me, retreating back to the man. “You see? She okay. She hear us talking here. Know we know each other.”

            I nod. Glancing down at the dog, who does seem to be listening.

            The man takes her by the collar and pulls her back behind the fence, shutting the gate. Tasha immediately reverts into her snarling, ferocious attack barking.

            I laugh nervously. “I guess we’re not friends yet.”

            “You are,” the man says. "Just not when she behind the fence. She got a job to do.”

            “Yes, I can see that.” I begin to walk away. “Y’all take care. Have a good day,” I call out. As I pass the yard, Tasha is rabid now. Jumping on the fence, snarling and biting the chain links.

            “TASHA! STOP THAT!” the woman calls out.

            I hurry down the block, the sound of barking echoing in the otherwise still sunny morning.

            Friends? I guess it depends on your definition of the word. For me, it’s someone who I can count on, enjoy spending time with, have loyalty toward.

            For Tasha?

            It’s someone she can devour for breakfast.

            Friend? You sure taste fine!