Cat Lessons for My Last Nerve

 

Photo by Danny Trujillo

Turning the corner from Clinton onto 32^nd street, I spy two of my neighbors hunkered over Cheeto, the orange Manx tabby. At first, I panic. Is he sick? That cat is ancient, yet he keeps on greeting and meowing every time I walk by.

            When I reach the little group, I try to keep the worry out of my voice, “Is he okay?” I ask. The Scottish Lady, the neighborhood know- it- all, turns to me, “Oh, hello! How are you?”

            “I’m okay.”

            “Aye, when the Pandemic first started, everyone said they were ‘fine’ but now everyone is just Okay.”

            I nod, thinking how actually, I’ve always just been okay—it has nothing to do with the lingering relentlessness of the Pandemic. Or does it? The ongoing constant no end in sight aspect to COVID is wearying. I am tired of it. Tired of not being able to swim. Tired of not being able to see my friends. Tired of not teaching in person. Tired tired tired.

Photo by Laura Chouette

            So, yeah, maybe I am being affected by COVID, but then who isn’t? I just wanted to make sure Cheeto was okay today. So, I shrug and ask again, “Is Cheeto okay?”

            “Isn’t he marvelous?” Scottish Lady exclaims, continuing to ignore my question. “This is Joe. He takes care of Cheeto.”

            “Hi, Joe,” I smile behind my mask. Isn’t it weird that you don’t see people smiling anymore unless they’re on a screen? Another consequence of the pandemic.

            “Hello. I actually don’t take care of him. I just feed him. Another neighbor was kind enough to take him to the vet and he’s doing pretty good for 20 years old. Got some arthritis, but other than that, he’s healthy.”

            “Wow!” I exclaim. “20 years old! That’s amazing!”

            “Isn’t it though,” Scottish Lady nods, enthusiastic. “He is just so present, you know? He lives only in the moment.”

            “Yeah, he always comes to greet me,” I agree.

            “Exactly!” she gushes. 

            “He is the Prince at the Table!” Joe proclaims, bending down to pet Cheeto who’s rolling round in the driveway. Cheeto, obviously, is not sick at all. I don’t know why I thought he was when I first walked up. It was something about the way they were crouched down, surrounding the cat. Or maybe it is just the Pandemic. Everyone and everything is suspect. We could all be sick. Even the cats?

            No, we’ve been over that one already. The cats don’t get it. And we can’t get it from the cats.

            What about the birds? The next day, I’m walking up 36^th street, the late afternoon light filtering through the line of majestic sycamores. It’s the only street in my neighborhood that is ‘tree lined’—I love it.

            I am marching up the hill when I spy an open car door of a big old Buick parked halfway up the block. A tabby cat is standing on its hindlegs, trying to get into the car.  I see one big white old leg in a crappy tennis shoe sticking out of the car door, and then a hand coming down to pet the cat. As I come even with the car, I see an old lady petting the cat. “She wants to go for a ride!” I holler at her across the street.

            “She just wants me out of here. I’ve been sitting her for 15 minutes. Those darn birds!”

            I glance up to where she points, not seeing any birds, but hearing the loud ‘Caw Caw Caw’ of many crows.

Photo by Qurratul Ayin Sadia

            “Yeah, they’re noisy,” I offer.

            “I thought we got rid of them, but now they’re back,” she gripes. “I tell you, they have hit my last nerve!”

            She shakes her head in disgust. The cat has stopped trying to climb in the car with her and is sauntering over to me. I don’t want it to follow me, so I pick up my pace, thinking how one’s last nerve has been hit a lot in the last few months. I know mine has.

            “Have a nice walk!” she calls out to me as I press on.

            “Thanks, I will,” I wave goodbye, wondering what is so offensive about the crows. How could she be so incensed by a few crows cawing? Or is she scared to get out of the car? Will they attack her?

            Who knows. I can’t imagine being so bothered by a group of crows. There are certainly many other things that can hit your last nerve, right?

            I will just be repeating myself if I list them, but what the hell: Covid, Fires, Unrest, Trump!

Photo: Library of Congress

            My last nerve is worn thin, I think, wondering how the cats do it. They don’t seem fazed by anything. I guess that’s what the Scottish Lady meant by Cheeto being so present.

            Wish I could take some Cat Lessons, you know, be more Cat Zen. But alas, I am not a cat. I am an old lady, and yeah, my last nerve is frayed. Yet, I walk on. Cuz what else can I do?

            I reach the top of Clinton Hill. Coco, the spunky white kitten, romps over to me. “Hey, Coco, how’s it going?”

            He pauses for a pet, then a leaf blows next to us and he’s off.

            Yup, Cat Lessons.

            I hear a leaf, blowing cackling up the street. I grin to myself. And follow it…..

BUNNIES

 

We’re not supposed to be outside, let alone walking and talking like nothing is wrong. Purple Air says red dots red dots red dots everywhere in Richmond. This is bad. At least that’s what I’m told by the experts on the news. Yet….one expert, one of those sharp doctor women that are always being consulted, said that if you had to go outside for your Mental Health, then do so, but limit your exposure. The smoke particles in the air are in the hazardous range. It’s not safe outside.

            It’s not safe inside either. COVID still is ravaging the country, the state, the Bay Area, Richmond. I wonder what will happen to all the folks having to evacuate because of the fires tearing though their towns. If they’re in an evacuation center, then won’t the virus have more opportunity to spread?

            It’s all too much.

            Hence, the evening walk with Ian to just escape for a little while and pretend like all is okay even though the air says otherwise in its grey brown misty fog. Strolling up 32^nd street, Ian and I chat about this and that. Nothing of any consequence unless you count the constant whining about COVID, Bad Air, and Trump. As we march up the street, I spy a round chicken wire enclosure on someone’s green green lawn. And inside….?

Bunnies!

Three adorable little bunnies are chomping away at the lawn, their little noses wriggling, their little teeth busy, their little ears twitching back and forth, in bunny nervous mode (aren’t bunnies always nervous?)

“Ian!” I stop in front of the bunny show and point. “Look! Bunnies!”

He pauses with me, “Wow, that’s cute.”

I grin and stare at the bunnies as I notice a teenage kid preparing to climb onto some motorcycle bike contraption in the driveway, completely oblivious to our bunny rapture exclamations.

I call out to him, “Are those your bunnies?”

For a moment he doesn’t respond, yet then he begins to pull the ever-present plugs from his ears, “Sorry, just a minute, I was listening to music.”

“The bunnies?” I point at them, “Are they yours?”

He nods in seeming confusion, like I was asking him if he had a palm tree growing out of his head.

“Yeah,” he finally affirms.

“They’re so cute,” I exclaim.

He nods again in that teenage bored way that only teenagers can pull off with such aplomb.

“Are they safe out here?” Ian asks. “I mean, couldn’t a dog or cat or hawk get them?”

“Uh….I’m gonna take them on my bike back to their home,” The Teenager says, turning the bicycle contraption around to face the street.

I’m confused. What’s he gonna do? Take the bunnies in some sort of bunny carrier on the back of the motorbike and cart them off to their home? This isn’t their home? Or is it only a temporary holding cage for them? Yet, he doesn’t make any move to get a carrier or otherwise fulfill his assertion by gathering up the bunnies for their homeward journey;  instead he gets on his motorbike and putts away.

“That was strange,” I comment to Ian.

“Yeah,” he shakes his head. “I’m worried about the bunnies. Some other animal really could come and make a meal out of them.”

“Not to mention the Bad Air!” I joke, but it’s really not a joke. I also saw on the news how pets were supposed to be limited in the time spent outside in the fire caused smoke. One woman was interviewed who had to limit her chihuahua, Puddles, to 5 minute walks instead of their usual 45 minute walks twice a day. “He is confused,” she sighs. “He has his routine. But I tell him that we can’t walk as far in the bad air…..” She shakes her head, watching the dog sniff the dirt, and repeats,  “Yeah, I definitely think he’s confused.”

So the bunnies were vulnerable to all sorts of dangers out here on the lawn! Yet, they nibbled on, unfazed by these hazards. After all they were only bunnies and doing what bunnies do which is eat and chew and look cute.

We walk on, even though I can tell Ian is genuinely worried about the bunnies. I figure the teenager will be back. Maybe he just went to get the bunny carrier first and then will return to gather them up. Or maybe he will forget all about them and hangout at his friends’ house, expose himself to COVID (I noticed he wasn’t wearing a mask; this probably was too much with the earplugs), and then when he gathered up the bunnies, they’d not only be exposed to the bad air, but they might catch COVID too.

Can bunnies catch the Virus?

I sure hope not!

We don’t need a bunch of Covid Rabbits multiplying and spreading the virus throughout the bunny community.

Ian continues to talk about this and that, and I try to listen. Honest I do. But, as I glance back at the bunnies, still nibbling away, I wonder, what will become of them?

A crow caws above us, strident and loud. “You don’t think the crow will eat the bunnies?” I ask Ian.

“Nah, crows are scavengers. They only eat trash and dead animals.”

I shiver in the growing chill as the sky dims even more. No sunset. No sun. No light.

What world are we walking in today?

I try not to dwell on it as we cross Esmond and head up toward McBryde, putting one foot in front of the other to save my Mental Health. 

KILLER

I hear the yapping before I see its source. Then hear the admonitions before I see their source. “Stop it! That’s not nice!”

            Grizzled old guy in mangy bathrobe, slippers, holding the paper. White beard, white sticking straight out hair like he’s just been struck by lightning. He blocks the sidewalk ahead. Grins at me with his beady eyes.

            I make my usual arc out into the street—can I call it dog distancing at this point? I am so sick of all the dog encounters on my walks. Can’t wait to dive into the El Cerrito Pool this afternoon where no dogs are allowed. (Though sometimes I do witness the dog paddle)

            The yapping continues. A wiry little mutt with the same grey white fur color as his owner’s hair. Jumping frantically back and forth on the sidewalk. Tiny lunges toward me. Then tiny lunges back. All the while, bark bark bark bark!

            “He’s okay!” Grizzled Man assures me. “He won’t bite!” He chuckles, like we’re both in on the same joke. I smile, but think to myself, why do dog owners, their barking dogs snarling with barred little teeth, always assure me that the dog is okay? From the sound and looks of it, I’d say, usually, their appearance belies this assurance. I mean, if the dogs were really okay, would they be snarling at me?

            This one is not on a leash or otherwise controlled except for the owner’s hearty joke around the dog’s benignity.

            However, the dog is small. And its ‘bark is probably (I emphasize probably) worse than its bite. It’s not like the German Shepherds I grew up with. When I walked Waldo around the block, she would go into full on protect mode whenever we encountered another being, whether it was a dog, a human, a cat or a squirrel or all of the above. She’d pull on the leash a bit more, she’d growl and bare her big white canines, I had to soothe her with “It’s okay, Waldo, let’s cross the street.” I think she really would have attacked anyone who was a threat to me. Very protective and loyal those Shepherds.

            And this little mutt may just be doing this same job. Protecting Grizzled Man from little old 103 lb. ladies who pose an imminent threat to them!

            “He’s afraid of you!” Grizzled Man calls out now, chuckling.

            “Yeah, well, I’m very intimidating,” I answer, wishing it were true. I could use a little Intimidation Persona on these neighborhood walks! I could puff up, bare my teeth and start barking! That would scare everyone!

            As I pass them now, heading back onto the sidewalk ahead, Grizzled Man calls out to me, pointing at the still frenzied little mutt barking in circles at his feet. “That’s Killer!”
            He busts up and I have to laugh too. “Killer?” I grin. “That’s a good name.”

            Grizzled Man turns and heads back into the house with Killer still barking and I think to myself of all the Killers happening right now.

            Killer Virus.

            Killer Fires.

            Killer Police.

            Killer President.

It’s a deadly world we inhabit right now, I think, marching up the street, shaking my head. A murder of crows (Did you know that groups of crows are called this? A murder?) fly over me, cawing at each other.

            I caw back. They ignore me. I cross the street at Clinton and hear the barks of yet another Killer Hound. Quickening my pace, I try to discern its source, but then it stops.

            Killer no more? I can only hope so as I continue up the 31^st street, the sound of the crows following me into the day.

Trees

 

           Trying to avoid disheveled bearded man with brown and white Pitbull mix, I turn onto Grant Street from 30^th. Much of my walking does involve avoiding people. Even if they’re wearing a mask, I just don’t want to breathe their air. But who knows? Maybe the Virus just floats in the air at this point. My mom said it comes in through our eyes. Damn. What next? Our skin? Our skulls?

            A man is in his driveway, cleaning his car off with a big broomlike handheld apparatus. It reminds me of when we visited Greece decades ago and how the men there would clean their taxies with brushes like this. No water there. No water here now either. Is this man cleaning his car like this cuz of the drought? (A fact that has become lost in all the crises that abound now: Covid, Protests, Politics, Wildfires and Hurricanes.) Of course, the wildfires that are devasting our inner landscapes can be directly tied to climate change and the drought. But I rarely hear any mention of this connection. In any case, I approve of this man’s car cleaning methods as we exchange brief ‘good mornings’.

            Pulling up across the wide street, another man emerges from his car and hollers at Car Cleaning Guy. “Hey, Man, how’s it going? I have a question for you.”

            “Oh, yeah, the trees….”

            And I think, damn, it’s always about the trees with neighbors, right? Even though we’re in the midst of a killer pandemic, all the neighbors care about are the stupid trees. Not that the trees are stupid, but the neighbors are about them. Like there’s nothing else to worry about?

            My neighbor behind me hounded me for months about my avocado tree that was hanging over her backyard, the limbs beautiful and green. She was afraid that the bough would break and damage her $15,000 of hot tub equipment. Did I tell her to build her hot tub under the tree boughs? Wasn’t this her choice? And why am I responsible for this choice?

            She wanted to cut the bough down. She wanted me to split the costs with her, hundreds of dollars. I told her, no, I didn’t have the money to do this. And, besides, was it really necessary? Was the tree really gonna fall into her hot tub situation?

            She called an arborist. He came to my backyard, asked me questions, like: “Does the tree bear fruit?” (Yes) “How long have you lived here?” (9 years) “Have you had any problems with the tree in the past? (NO!) My neighbor stood with me in the backyard as he examined the tree, Athena, I’ve named her. The arborist liked this. “How old is she?” I asked.

            “Oh, I’d say about 60 or so years,” he mused, touching her mighty trunk and gazing at her leafy  bounty. “She’s a beautiful tree. I really wouldn’t recommend cutting any of her branches. Trees are living beings. The roots below are a system that balances the tree. If you cut the top of the tree or alter the balance in any way, then it can harm the tree. I tell people this, but if you really are set on trimming the branch overhanging in your neighbor’s yard…”

            “I’m not,” I proclaim, glancing at my neighbor, trying not to glare.

            “Well, then…..I wouldn’t recommend it,” he went on.

            “But will the tree fall into my yard?” my neighbor whined.

            He paused for a moment, then sighed deeply. “I can’t guarantee what Mother Nature will do, but just assessing the tree now, I’d say, no, it won’t fall into your yard. This is a healthy tree. It’s been here for decades. I’d leave it alone for now. If in a couple of years, you still want to trim it then give me a call. But for now, no, I’d say leave it.”

            Satisfied, I bid him goodbye, thinking the issue was resolved. But then my neighbor called again, still wanting to trim the tree. I told her how I thought the arborist had resolved the issue—the tree was healthy; it wouldn’t fall into her yard.

            She wasn’t buying it for some reason, “That’s not what I heard!”

            I then went back to my original reason for not trimming the tree. I didn’t have the money.

            She seemed to get this. At least for now.

            And today, with the pandemic taking away most of my work, I really can’t afford to do any tree trimming. It’s honestly the least of my problems. And fortunately, my neighbor has calmed down about it. I’m not sure why. She even emailed me a couple of times asking if she could pick up anything for me from the store when the pandemic first started back in March.

            Now, as I turn the corner and march down 29^th street, I wonder what the issue is with these two guys and ‘the tree’. I turn around and look at Car Cleaning Man’s yard. There’s just a sweet little Strawberry Tree in his front yard. Doesn’t look like any tree issue ready to happen.

            Yet, neighbors. They want to control your trees. So who knows.

            I sigh to myself as I continue down 29^th street, thinking how trees are our life. The wildfires are destroying entire forests right now and these trees will be gone for hundreds of years till new forests grow back. Ian even had a tree burn down in his front yard this last week. It’s so dry right now. Probably someone threw a cigarette butt on the dried up brown lawn. The tree went up in flames, a Roman Candle, Ian had said. Scary!

            Climate change. Pandemic. Protests.

            We need our trees. Leave them alone. Savor their sanctuary. And for Godsakes, let your neighbors concentrate on more important things.

            Like dusting their cars!

            The trees rustle in the breeze as I turn onto Roosevelt. I smile up at a huge pine tree on the corner, its mighty tallness sheltering the house, giving homes to the birds, and providing much-needed oxygen to our smoke-filled skies.

            Trees. They are our life. Love ‘em. Nurture ‘em. And please, don’t chop them down!