Coyotes in the Night

Last night was the full moon. With all the fires in California this fire season--the other 49 states call it summer time-- the moon was the color of a ripe peach. I know what you're thinking, "Where'd you find a ripe peach!?" Hey, I'm 54. In my lifetime I've actually EATEN a ripe peach. You kids will never know what that's like. And did you know watermelons used to have black seeds in them? Apparently they were more than just seeds, they were flavor pods, because the newfangled watermelons have neither seeds nor flavor. Let's get back to the peach-colored moon.

The moon was full, and the light of it was so bright it shone on the pool cover until it glowed like a sheet of ice. It looked like you could skate on it. But I'm in no mood for skating, Mr. Cat is still out and he's not taking my calls. "Mither Cyat. Mither Cyat. Time'a come inna houth now Mither Cyat!" I call him like this every night. And every night he comes to that lispy stupid kitty talk call. Tonight nothing.

I lay down on the bed and eat a chunk of watermelon knowing full well it will cause "watermelon dreams." Watermelon dreams, like pizza dreams, are bizarro dreams that are almost fun to have, and more fun to tell, but disturbing. Not scary, just odder than odd. I watch TiVo. I get sleepy. I drift off and awaken to the familiar sound of the coyotes whose den is down in a gulch behind the vineyard, I'm pretty sure. The neighbor dogs are barking. The coyotes are...well, the thing is, coyotes don't bark. They yowl, or sing, more like hyenas than dogs. They almost sound like children pretending they're Indians. Do your best Native American impression and raise the pitch two or three octaves. You got it.

The sounds of the coyotes, the fullness of the moon, the watermelon...and Artsie not curled up on my legs...brings terror to my gut. They are night hunters. They have a full moon. Tonight they can see their prey. Artsie is not home because they've eaten him. And I won't know until morning that he is, for sure, coyote chow.

I fall asleep the only way a late-night watermelon eater can, in other words, not quite. It's the worry hour, between 2 and 3 a.m. Not to be confused with the worry hours (pl), between 1 and 4 a.m. This is the time of the night when your mind cannot be trusted. Its thoughts are not yours. Its thoughts are not real. It is dark outside, and it is dark inside...your brain. Stop it. Stop it. He'll be fine. He'll jump up on the bed any minute now with that Vinnie Barbarino look on his face and, "Whut." on his lips.

Good god, who is that! It is 3:47 a.m. and my cell phone is ringing. It was only when it woke me up I realized I was asleep. Oh no, it's Julie. I answer, "Hi, Julie. You scared me. You woke me up. What's the matter?" She's talking to someone else. I listen carefully because OBVIOUSLY she dialed my number in stealth so I could be ear-witness to the rape, murder, robbery or other heinous crime being perpetrated on her at this moment and with the help of a crack team of Crime Scene Investigators we would find her perp and effectively convict him.

Except she's saying things like, "We landed early." And I hear the clicking of seat belts. She's on a plane. She's deplaning. She must have dialed me accidentally when she turned her phone on after landing. I hung up. Unless there are snakes on the plane, she's okay.

And just then, onto the bed, leaps Artsie. I'm all, "Mither Cyat, Mither Cyat! You're alive. You're home. You're safe. The coyotes didn't eat you!" And he's all, "Whut."

We fell asleep in a heap.

iPhone: And We're Back

This was posted less than two hours after my previous so sad Apple story...boo hoo, waa waa...poor me.

Everything's all back to normal.

Apple rocks! All my cool little apps work. I paid bills from my phone. I checked my PayPal balance. My iPhone is back. I am back. The world is turning. The cosmos is in balance. I love you, Apple.

How cool is this?

Very.

iPhone: A Million Bad Apples

I never dreamed this day would come. Apple wasn't perfect. I have long held the belief that PC users are banging around in Hell, wailing and gnashing their teeth, and pulling their hair. These poor unfortunate souls wade through viral cesspools...barefooted and blind...unaware that behind the slime covered walls...er, windows...of Hell are doorways to Heaven. And those doors have crisp apples etched in frosted glass, and they push open easily, and once you pass the threshold the world is bright and glowing, and the air is fresh and cool, and the people are smiling and they have all their hair.

When the new iPhone 3G was announced I piddled my pants a tiny bit. Still, I knew I wouldn't be an early adopter. My iPhone works just fine. All I'm going to do is download the 2.0 software and wait until the lines get a little shorter. I think I can go six months without caving.

But even before they knew of my plan to restrain myself the Apple "jealots" (I am the Apple zealot of which they are jealous) would warn me to wait "until they get the bugs worked out." Bugs, ha. Apple doesn't "do" bugs. Or worms. Or any of the afflictions PC's do do. (hee hee)

I downloaded the new software last night, along with a couple dozen of the new Apps...the free ones. See me showing restraint? Apparently, I was not alone. Overconfidence? Zeal? Whatever drove our bus over the cliff I don't know, but I can see on my iPhone screen that was one BIG BUG. Or more likely a million little tiny ones.

Whatever happened, things are wayhayhayhay messed up today. My address book is displaying contact information from four years ago. None of my bitchen new apps work. I can't text anyone, even if I type in everything by hand. What a mess. What a mess. Good god, what a mess. At least AT&T is holding up their end. I can make calls. Whoo hoo! A phone that can make calls. What is this, 2006?

To do my part I deleted the apps, my photos and music. I just said no to push contacts, mail and calendar, and I put my phone on manual sync. I may have gone too far, but at least I'm not putting any demands on the system while "they" are working on "it".

That's all they need...a bunch of Apple geeks like me singing "Are We There Yet" (to the tune of Frere Jacques) and blowing spit wads at the backs of their heads while they are busy trying to restore the devices on which we depend...and from which we can order our Depends.

My greatest fear is not wrath from temporary refugees like me. My fear is some ass hole will launch a multi-million dollar hissy fit over this. I would ask that none of us be lured into that trap. A class action suit might put a twenty dollar bill in your pocket, but it will cost us all much more than that.

Patience is the easiest thing to have in all the world. You just sit and do nothing and it lands in your lap.

Live! From Santa Cruz!

Tonight is Open Mic Night at the World Famous Ukulele Club of Santa Cruz. The tunes are groovin' uke style and the night is hot! Like 90 degrees hot.

Live blogging might NOT be the coolest thing to be doing so the iPhone gets tucked away in 2 seconds but until then keep on strumming your uke folks!

Goodnight from Bocci Cellar!

No Bootsie

I found a tuft of Bootsie's fur at the site of her doom. And another pound of it on my bed where she used to sleep.

With all the hubbub of that night I wasn't so much sad as I was astounded, shocked and horrified at the tremendous drama of the cat snatch, the water gush, the hot sauce in the eye.

The grieving did come, when I cozied with her brother Artsie, aka Mr. Cat. I buried my face in his curl where I heard the teeniest tiniest purr a cat can make. It was only audible because my ear was buried deep in his belly. And that made me think of this: maybe cats purr all the time. Like a kitty pilot light, maybe we can only hear the purr when they turn it up for us.

It was the sound of his purr that made me miss her purr, and then I cried for her. And it felt kind of good to cry. Having Mither Cyat there as my silent witness helped, too. In fact, that's when cats are at their best, when they're listening in silence. They are so aloof when you demand their attention, but when you are still and quiet, even if it is the sad zone, or the sick zone, that's when a cats' quiet ways turn from cold and remote to there for you.

I've found there is no shortage of people who have a dead cat story to swing. I have a few less recent versions of those stories myself. Still, even though it has been a short time since yesterday, I think I'm done sharing my story. Next time someone asks how I'm doing, I'll give them the usual, "Fine thanks, and you?" instead of the "Where do you want me to start?" Bootsie is gone and that's all folks.

It did occur to me that Mercury went retrograde on Monday, so I'm not so naive as to assume they'll be no more drama between now and June 19 when it goes direct again. I just hope I get to keep the boy cat around to sop up any stray tears. If he gets grabbed by a coyote, my next post will no doubt be entitled, "Shotgun Wanted".

Getting Closure

It is 3 a.m. I'm up, awake, and my face is on fire. The fire department just left. It's not what you think.

I heard a cat fight. It woke me up from a sound sleep. It was a terrible, sudden, vicious fight, of an unusually short duration. No yowling and threatening growls, just that wild and wicked, scary cat sound you would make if you were doing the voice-over for a cartoon scene of a cat fight.

The cat sounds stopped mid-scream...and I heard something loping away crunching the dry grasses of the vineyard as it ran along the fence line away from the house. Coyotes lope.

I don't know with absolute certainty, but I suspect our kittie, Bootsie, was the victim of a coyote attack tonight. Her brother, Artsie, was sitting on the bed with the look of...of...well, he had the look of "Good. You're up. Pour yourself some coffee and then you can put some food in my dish, how's that sound?" What he did not have was the look of "What was that sound? Where's my sister? Was that loping? Do you smell coyote? Let's chase after it!" Artsie is a cat. Those are clearly dog words.

I won't know until later today, but I suspect Bootsie is either dead, or injured beyond the point of repair. My angel of optimism is insisting she got away and is hiding until morning. Won't that be a nice surprise.

But wait, there's more.

I stood at the window, yelling "Hey! Hey! Hey!" as if the shouts of a human had any effect on a predator's dinner quest. When the cat sounds stopped suddenly, I listened. I wanted to hear cat sounds. Cat running toward the house sounds. I wanted to see, or hear, Bootsie high tailing it back home with her tail all fluffed out and her eyes all big and glassy. All I heard was loping...and water running?

I put my Ugh boots on, and grabbed my big heavy flashlight, thinking I'd need to fend off a canine creature of the night...yeah right...and I headed out into the night toward the sound of the running water. A pipe had broken off at ground level and gallons of water were spewing out. It was well water, so I didn't panic about my water bill. In fact, I was quite calm and present. I picked up the part that broke off so I could use it to help measure for some kind of plug, and walked back to the house muttering to myself as if I were formulating the plan that would stop the water flow.

I returned with a rubber mallet, a pipe of larger diameter, duct tape and scissors, my glasses and some nylon zip ties. See how calm I was! I fashioned a slip-sleeve that was duct taped closed on one end. I tamped it down with the mallet and the zip ties held it in place. Water is a mighty adversary. My dorky rigging failed miserably.

Thinking of water as my adversary made me think of Bootsie's adversary and I scanned the dark vineyard with my flashlight while occasionally giving my more urgent problem the good old look-see. You know, where you just look at it...and think.

I had to do something, so I did what any child of the 50's would do, I applied a few methods popularized by the Three Stooges. First, put your hand over it, and get splashed in the face. Next, put your foot over it, and get splashed up the leg. Stop. Look at it, and try your foot again. Thanks folks, you've been a great audience. Exit to the garage. No wait, the kitchen!

In the kitchen I found a small bottle that had the same dimension of the inside of the pipe which, clever me, I had been carrying around just in case I ran into a bucket of giant rubber stoppers. I took the little bottle out to the gusher and stuffed it in the hole. Water sprayed out, but I almost had it. The problem was the lid! If I took off the lid, it would be a perfect fit, the water would stop, I'd zip tie the bottle to the iron stake, and there you have it. Except for the fact that it didn't work. Only now my proof of failure was a face full of Hottest F***ing Sauce hot sauce. My right eye, my right ear and my cheek are burning, water is gushing, and I'm standing outside, soaking wet, in the dark at 3 in the morning. Don't let "in the morning" fool you. It is night time. And quite possibly the dead of night for darling Bootsie.

In the house again, I put milk on my face because somewhere I read milk is better than water for stopping a capsaicin burn. Despite the pain and failure, I was able to muster thanks to my lucky stars that my miseries did not involve a skunk.

Gee, here's a thought, call 911. "What is your emergency?" is how the dispatcher answered the phone. I was embarrassed because my so-called emergency was so dumb. I'm pretty sure the 911 tapes will sound something like this: "a coyote got my cat...this is not an emergency really...I mean, no one is dying...no person is dying...my cat...I heard water...I tried to stop it...my face is burning...I used hot sauce...I'm okay...I have milk on it...the water is running...I can't stop it..." until she interrupted me, and after determining I didn't need a paramedic, suggested I speak with the fire department. She transferred me. Help was coming.

I changed my clothes, washed the milk off my face, brushed my wet hair back and waited in the driveway with my big flashlight. After a few minutes two big diesel trucks and four firemen (one of whom was a woman) arrived. I can't tell you how validating it was to see them point their flashlights at the water and give it the old look-see.

We found the breaker and turned off the well pump so it would stop drawing water from the well, filling the storage tank. Good. Then we tromped down to the well and one of the guys closed a few valves, and made sure I knew which ones. Good. Thanks. We walked back up to find the water had stopped. On the way, one of the firemen sneezed and one of the other guys remarked maybe he was allergic to coyotes. Gallows humor, gotta love it.

Now it's a plumber's job...and maybe a vet's job. If Bootsie comes home happy and safe, or if I find an empty collar, or anything in between, I will be sure to post the news, good or bad.

In life and pipes, closure is important.

Be Careful What You Wish For

Uh-oh. A few posts ago I said these words, "Vespa For Sale." Now I find myself caught in the tractor beam of the Law of Attraction. Yikes. There's a guy who, gulp, wants to buy my Vespa. And yeah, I said I wanted to sell it, but, but, but...I'm having seller's remorse. Caveat Dumptor.

I guess I could exercise the greatest power known to man. No, not free will...lying. I could simply LIE to him and say it is already sold. Problem solved.

But what will that do to my karmic scale? It is already burdened with the heavy weights of past-told lies. "Any coffee is good coffee.", "Kraft Lite? Whatever. Mayonnaise is mayonnaise." and the lie I have told most often, "I'm half Italian." For some reason, whenever I get around someone who is Italian, I tell them I am half Italian. What is that?! I am, legitimately, a quarter Italian, because my dad was half. But I rarely show my math when I lie this lie.

What makes this stupid lie even worse is I am half! But Norwegian! My mom is full-blooded (not to be confused with cold-blooded). Still, even if I lied and said I was 100% Norwegian it wouldn't have the ethnic punch half Italian does. I don't even get any satisfaction from telling a Norwegian person I'm half. In fact, the only value my half Norwegian blood gives me is when I run into a Swede. "A Swede is a Norwegian with his brains knocked out" is a common expression with Norskies. Come to find out a common expression with Swedes is the very clever, "A Norwegian is a Swede with his brains knocked out." Oh, those scrappy folks from Latitude 62. (It's the nights. They're long and cold.)

Here's the question, when did the truth get so limp-dicked? When did lying become the cure? Which direction are we headed...on the easy, shaded path of the convenient lie, or up the shear granite face of respect for the power of the truth?

When this guy emails me back, I am going to tell him the truth. I am going to say, "I am half Norwegian, and although I have cooled on the idea of selling my Vespa, I feel like I have to be nice and let you buy it anyway. But my one quarter Italian blood wants to ride it wildly through the streets of Rome, with Audrey Hepburn on the seat behind me, laughing gleefully, her delicate white hands on my shoulders, both of us sporting sassy new do's. And even though my inner Norsky has twice as many delegates, my inner Wop is again the winner. I'm sorry, Vespa not for sale.