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!

BBQ Chicken

 

She’s pouring bottled water on her car, trying to clean the ash off? Her hair is wound up high on her head in a stupendous braided bun, her green robe dress sparkles in the hazy sunlight. But she’s frowning. It is hard to clean a car in the smoke-filled haze that has filled the sky for over a week now.

            “Good morning,” I call out to her, pulling my mask up and giving her wide berth, marching into the street in my half-moon crescent.

            “Morning,” she answers, dumping the rest of her bottled water on the windshield.

            “How ya doing?” I continue to engage, not sure why. Usually, I leave it at the casual greeting, but there was something alluring about her.

            “Oh, okay….” She sighs, glancing up at me. “How’s it going for you?”

            I am still walking past her, but wave up at the sky. “The smoke seems better today.” I observe.

            She beams, her smile lighting up her face, “It smells like BBQ chicken!” she exclaims, clearly happy about the pervasive smoky scent.

            I laugh. “Yeah, I guess so.” I march past her. “Have a good one.”

            Grinning, her eyes sparkle beneath her spiral hair do. “You too.”

And I walk on, thinking about her association of these horrendous fires with a happy thought of BBQ chicken. Unless you’re the chicken.

            I remember the times we used to grill chicken in my shared yard at 63^rd street in Oakland. Owen Hill would be in charge of the barbeque. I’d be inside monitoring the rice and making salad.  Friends would be hanging out drinking, laughing, chatting about poetry and art and movies and cats.

            It seems like such a long time ago now. And, well, I guess it is. But with Covid, such gatherings seem even more impossible. Like they are all just a dream. That they never happened. That they will never happen again.

            But I have to believe that they will, as I glance up at the sky, seeing chickens dancing in the clouds. They’re cackling and squawking and pecking at the hazy greyness.

            BBQ chicken in the sky? Stranger things have happened, right?

            As I turn the corner, continuing down my street, I see a youngish black masked man talking to my neighbor across the street from me. I wonder if he has anything to do with the Black Cat. Oh, this is a saga, but really has nothing to do with chickens. Though, I’m sure the Black Cat would delight in chasing chickens.

            But I digress. I stop and chat with masked man, who asks if I’m Carol. Am I the one who posted on NextDoor about the missing black cat.

            “Yup, that’s me. Is he yours?”

            “Yeah, he’s very friendly. He just likes to wander about to get pets.”

            “I know! He was super friendly when I was raking up leaves the other day!”

            “I always wanted a black cat,” he continues. “….because they are so friendly.”

            “Ummm….” I never knew that black cats had this reputation. I just associate them with Halloween and Ian’s cat, Huey, who was a Black Panther and while he was friendly to me, he wasn’t necessarily friendly to everyone.

            “Anyway,” Black Masked Man continues, “thanks for posting on Nextdoor. If you see him, can you give us a call? He didn’t come home last night.”

            “Sure, sure, of course,” I nod, thinking how cats are so out of our control. Why do I even like them? Everything is out of my control. My joblessness. The virus. Now, the wildfires.

            The world is going crazy.  

          

  I mention the children’s book, Six Dinner Sid, to Black Masked Man. How the cat in that story wandered around the neighborhood to 6 different houses and ate dinner six times, but then when he got sick, he had to go to the vet 6 times. This kept him home after that.

            Black Masked man chuckles. “No, I haven’t heard of that book. But sounds like Squiggy.”

            “Squiggy? That’s such a cute name!” I exclaim wondering what the hell it means and where it came from but see that the conversation is winding down.

            “Yeah,” he answers, starting to back away from me. “Thanks again for keeping an eye out for him.”

            “Sure, no problem,” I answer.

            Heading across the street a breeze comes up. BBQ chicken. She’s right. Maybe that’s what is luring Squiggy out of his home.

            Because what cat wouldn’t like to help themselves to BBQ?

            The time my DD cat stole the steak off the BBQ and ran with it over the fence comes to mind. My father chasing after her as she drops the steak, before jumping over the fence. He picks it up, dusts it off, and puts it back on the grill.

            BBQs! Cats! Family!

            It’s summer again and while there’s lots that wrong with the world right now, at least I have my neighbors to keep me engaged, offering me a sense of purpose beyond just worrying about what’s next.

Moses

 

“Thou shalt not….mumble mumble mumble….”

What the hell is he saying?  I quicken my pace out into the street for social distance. Is this guy muttering the 10 commandments?  Who gave those 10 commandments anyway? Was it Jesus? Or….who? Moses? Yes, I think so. Is Moses wandering round my neighborhood?

Moses is crouching under the only shady spot for miles, hunkered down on a short garden wall. His dark hoody covers his head, his baggy camouflage pants do little to camouflage him. I think he may be the same guy that I saw on my walk last night, giving him wide berth at the corner of Clinton and 34^th street. A tall, muttering man loaded down with packages. He had the same dark hoody on and the camouflage pants. I tall young handsome masked man had also walked around Moses. (Though last night I wasn’t close enough to understand any of what he was muttering. He had just completely stopped at the corner and was standing there. Motionless)

Young Handsome Man walked a bit ahead of me. Of course, he had on a cool black mask to match his coolness. He had given me a questioning look over his mask. “He’s just standing there,” he had observed.

“Yeah,” I walked ahead of him for a few steps. “I think there’s a situation going on there.”

Young Handsome just nodded. No clarification was needed for what the ‘situation’ might be. We both just got the hell out of there.

So, this morning, when Moses spouts out what sounds like a biblical reference, I hurry by. I don’t want any interaction with him. Yet, as I march across Esmond, I can feel him following me. Damn! I don’t turn around. If I look at him it might make things worse. He might yell at me. Or come after me. Or I don’t know. There is something menacing about him even though he didn’t really do anything. It’s an energy, you know? The poor walking wounded. They are here amongst us during this pandemic and I feel for them. I doubt that he has a mask or any health insurance or any support system. But what do I know?

These are all just assumptions based on his general dishevelment, strange proclamations and now, his following me.

I try to keep the panic down, thinking how he’s pretty out of it. I can certainly walk faster or even run if I have to. I could go and knock on someone’s door if it did get ugly. But would anyone answer in the middle of the morning during a pandemic? I know I don’t answer my door if anyone knocks on it. Not for reasons of virus prevention but mostly so some cute young person doesn’t sell me an alternative energy solution for $79 a month!

A cop car zooms down the middle of the street, screaming past me now. I think, will he even notice Moses following me? He’s probably after someone else.

I turn around to see. Yes, the cop car is stopping. A cop gets out. Strolls over to Moses. Then another cop car screeches around the corner and parks. Then a cop on a motorcycle zooms in, too.

Man! Moses musta done something really extreme to warrant 3 patrol vehicles to surround him.

As I turn the corner at McBryde, I glance down the block. Moses is standing on the sidewalk as one of the cops is talking to him. Part of me feels so relieved. What are the chances that the cops would be called (and a neighbor must have called them from the way they zeroed in on Moses) right when I was feeling threatened?

But then when I think about it, what could Moses have done to warrant the cops being called? Did he attack someone? Did he verbally abuse someone? Or is he just some poor homeless guy, crazy and mumbling, that trespassed onto someone’s pretty garden?

I think about the criminalization of the homeless. About what will happen to Moses now. Will they cart him away and throw him in jail? And then what? What will they charge him with? How long will they hold him?

It’s all pretty wrong, but then again, I am relieved that he’s no longer following me.

Though I’m pretty sure that’s not against the law—following some little old lady in a turquoise sun hat hurling the 10 commandments at her.

As I walk down 30^th street, under the shade of a mighty redwood, I breathe in the hot smoke-filled air. Just another summer’s day in the neighborhood, I think, as I glance up at a murder of crows, perched on the telephone lines, cawing cawing cawing.

Avocados and Pitbulls

 

At first, I thought this walking journal was going to be about avocados. Cuz that’s how the story started. But as I mused about where to start the story, I realized that I’ve got a theme going here: dogs.

            And, so now that you have the theme, let me start at the beginning.

            I’m on my usual walk up and around Clinton hill. I start up the hill around the back side of it toward El Cerrito, under the sweet fruit trees that line the sidewalk on this part of the block. I spy a green garbage bin and a person busy loading it up just ahead of me, blocking my path. I make the requisite half moon walk out into the street for social distancing, but see that the person is a young woman, lank brown hair, tank top and shorts. She’s busy pulling at the smallish (compared to mine) avocado tree.

            I stop to chat.

            “Are you getting any avocados this year?”

            She brushes a stray strand of hair out of her eyes with the back of her arm, “Well, not really. Unless you count these.” She points at the tiny avocados that, now as I look more closely, are weighing down the branches.

            “Oh, yeah,” I grin. “Those count. Are they tasty?”

            “Actually, yeah, they are. But it’s strange how some years they are small like this and other years, they’re large. And then they seem to come at different times of the year. Like sometimes, I’m picking avocados in December!”

            She laughs, charmingly.

            “I know what you mean,” I say. “I think of avocados as normally being a summer fruit, but my tree, too, sometimes offers up the fruit in the winter. A kind of Christmas present, right?”

            Again, her charming laugh. “Yes! Exactly!” she exclaims, continuing to pull at the fruit. I notice now that a white pit bull has entered the scene. She sniffs around Charming Laugh’s legs and then noses the ground, sniffing at the dirt. I instinctively back away.

            But the dog continues to inch toward me. Seemingly benign. Her energy is soft. She moves slowly. I don’t feel threatened.

            Well, maybe a little.

            “Luna! Come back over here!”

            Luna ignores her. Comes up to me and nose out, sniffing, her brown eyes begging for a pat. I hesitantly stretch out my hand to test the doggie waters. Luna sniffs, then nuzzles my hand. I pet the top of her head. She would coo if she could.

            “Sweet Luna,” I murmur.

            “Yes, she’s a good girl.”

            I tell Charming Laugh about my recent experience with the Pitbull charge over on 29^th street. How the dog saw me from across the street. Eyed me for a moment, then raced toward me, paralyzing me for a moment as he ran a big circle around me. Then returning to his driveway.

            Charming Laugh shakes her head, “That sounds really scary.”

            “Yes, it was. I have no idea where the owner was. No one else was around…..” My voice trails off as I think about the close call I had.

            “We have kids.” Luna is done with me and has moved on to licking something gooey off the sidewalk. “She’s very gentle.”

            “Yes, I could sense that,” I answer. “Plus, you’re right here.”

            She laughs again, though this time a little more nervously. We’ve ventured into dangerous territory? Pit bulls have a reputation.

            I continue, “My sister had a pit bull who was just the sweetest dog. She wouldn’t have hurt a fly.”

            “Yes, same with Luna.”

            She goes back to scrutinizing the avocado tree. “You’re welcome to take some avocados if you want. There are enough of them.” She goes back to her charming laugh.

            “Oh, thanks,” I say. “I might take you up on that if my tree doesn’t produce any fruit this summer. Or I could always come back at Christmas!”

            This time her laughter enchants me. She tosses back her head, and smiles into the tree. Luna has circled back to her, and is now seated on her flip flopped barely covered feet.

            “Well, nice chatting with you,” I say. “Bye Luna.”

            “Say ‘bye’ Luna.”

            Luna stares up at her, adoration in her doggie eyes. Does not say goodbye to me.

            I head up and around the bend, my walk near its end, thinking about Christmas, avocados and dogs. Oh my!