I live on a mountain. Literally. The Sierra Madre are a mile from my house, and beyond the peaks I can see, is wilderness for miles. You have no idea--being from a remote and wild part of Appalachia--how this excites me. I have funky, current, eclectic Los Angeles, and deliverance all at once.

But the mountain is a mountain, of course, an ecosphere which houses all kinds of little beasties not particularly dangerous to humans, but potentially fatal to their pets. Wild packs of coyotes come down at night from the Madre and from Griffith park to feast on house cats and outside dogs. I don't see them in Glendale, but did when I lived in east LA at TheProducer's house. While on her front porch, chatting on my cell--in the only ten square foot area with cell coverage in all of Silver Lake--a large, grey coyote ambled down her driveway with an insouciance I'm not used to seeing, especially from coyotes. It saw me, and snuffed, "Meh." I once chased a coyote for ten miles around Lake Yellowstone with a video camera. It was terrified, but it wasn't an "urban coyote" so it hadn't been toughened by the streets.

Maxie and Murphy were outdoor dogs when we lived with TheProducer. Her dog Chloe, evil genius, constant self-pleasurer, and the world's most ill-behaved and Border Collie, wanted no part of the house guest thing. House pest, more like. While Murph immediately took to being an outdoor dog, rooting in Possum carcasses and feasting on clumps of shit, Maxie was appalled. When I came home from work at seven, she would run and leap into my arms, and then climb my upper torso like a tree trunk. She'd dig her toenails into my flesh and ride my shoulders inside the house. I AM NOT COMING DOWN!

Her terror was understandable. There were packs of large, insouciant urban coyotes roaming the neighborhood after dark, and Maxie, weighing in at twenty seven pounds of supermodel skinniness, was not about to face them. Murph was too busy eating rocks and shit to care.

When we moved into our Glendale home, the dogs were less afraid of the yard at night. Aside from the heavy breathing I encountered on a long slide into a bush at the top of the mountain one evening, I had seen hide nor hair of any beastie. This is why I shocked a few mornings ago, when I let the dogs out to pee. Murph clomped out to the yard, squealed bloody murder and darted between my legs, leaving a great puddle of yellow between my bare feet. I had never seen her so terrified.

"Murph...what's wrong, baby?"

I was suddenly frightened. Was there an urban coyote in my back yard?

Murph further darted into the living room, where she scrambled beneath the doggy play bed, a queen-sized futon that sits in the living room, upon which Murph chews her bones and Maxie practices her posing. I picked up one of deadbeat daddy's wooden rudius swords and tip toed around the kitchen corner. Slowly, and with great trepidation--for these coyotes are street--I toed out into the back yard in a nightie to face the beast with my sword. I was that nubile idiot in the horror flick who runs up the stairs instead of out the door. What was I thinking?

Murph was still squealing under the bed. I could hear her, and because she wouldn't stop, I couldn't detect any grunting or growling noises coming from the back yard. As I reached the stoop, sword outstretched, I looked left...nothing.

I looked right, and there was the beastie: a black plastic trash bag, billowing in the breeze. The wind had blown it from the dumpster in the night.

It has been days since the incident, and Murph will not come out from under the play bed. This only further supports my theory that Murph is "special." Murderous gangs of urban coyotes? No problem. Hefty bags? Run and hide; all is lost!

On a sad note, The Producer's evil genius, Chloe, lost control of her faculties in the midst of a Michael Hutchence like masturbatory session, and strangled herself in The Producer's laundry rack earlier in the summer. In a brassiere, no less. She is missed by all who had the great fortune of being manipulated by her, and yes, we're comforted by the notion that she went out with a bang. Rest in peace, you freaky bitch.

Posted by The Bunny at 2:21 PM

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