Homing In on My Purpose in Life

Just returned from a 3 AM outing with the pooch.

The acoustics outside were eerie. Every flutter of a plastic bag, every scrape against pavement of a plastic bottle, every dry leaf could be heard as if amplified in a concert hall. The pooch was on high alert.

We were headed for home when, just a few doors down from our building where we sometimes see a bunny, we (really, I since I had to draw the pooch's attention to it) spotted an opossum.

We watched it as it ambled north between a row of bushes and a building. But when it stepped out of the bushes onto a walkway, I saw its most unusual tail. Rather than the long hairless prehensile tail of most opossums, this one had what can only be described as a silver-and-black bottle-brush tail (sans handle). That is to say, it was about the length of a cocker spaniel's tail and the hairs stuck out every which way.

Now you may recall that in early September I saw another mutant opossum. And I was told long ago that there's some lore about sighting opossums (or maybe it was because the opossum I saw was white). Anyway, what are the odds of seeing two mutant opossums when there aren't that many normal ones around? What does this mean?

This is beginning to feel like the melon mystery of September, as yet unsolved since I never saw a third melon in the lake. Time will tell if these nocturnal creatures signify anything.

But tonight's opossum meant one obvious thing to my dog: Life is too thrilling outside at 3 AM to be stuck inside on a 3rd floor. I managed to get her into the building, but she immediately parked herself in the foyer, awaiting the next adventure.

[Found the pic on Retrieverman, though I don't know that he was the photographer.]

A View from the Beach

I live about 2 blocks from a Great Lake, which means that at any moment of the day, my neighborhood can experience completely different weather patterns than the rest of the city and I get to see a variety of birds as they migrate from one end of the globe to another. You have to keep both your eyes and your ears open, though, or you'll miss the feathered visitors.

Yesterday, perched atop an aging lifeguard watchtower among some gulls were two cormorants. Apparently their feathers are not entirely waterproof, so it's likely they had stopped to thoroughly dry out their wings—maybe grab a bite to eat—before moving on. Their graceful necks and elongated bodies were a welcome visual change from the gulls and pigeons we usually find on the beach. I tried to take a picture for you, but my worse-than-useless cellphone wouldn't cooperate. I stood in one spot for so long that my pooch forgot why we were at the beach and became quite the statue. It took a while to rouse her from her senior stupor.

Earlier this week we heard the clarion call of Winter: geese. We looked up to find their misshapen V formation heading south. For the first time in my life, I wanted to tag along. I've had enough of changing in and out of extreme weather gear for what seems like half the year—boots, snow pants, two pairs of gloves, three sweaters, parka, muffler, hat, plus dressing the dog in her boots and down coat and goggles when it's windy. I'm ready for a milder climate. So is the pooch.

Last week was a great show of both sights and sounds. As we were leaving the beach, the pigeons started to fret. I could hear a hawk, but didn't see one. I figured the hawk was looking for a meal. The pigeons lined the tops of three different buildings in the area and took turns moving from one building ledge to another, 50–100 birds at a time. The hawk had it easy. I kept my head down; I couldn't watch the assassination. But strangely, the pigeons never left the area and the hawk didn't sound persistent about catching one. In fact, I searched the sky around the pigeons but saw no predators. 

When the pooch and I were waiting at a light to cross the street, I finally saw why the pigeons were staying put: The hawk was far above the rooftops and paying no attention to them. Instead, he was playing with another hawk—twirling in midair, bumping into his friend and then performing short freefalls and (it truly sounded like) "giggling" before twirling again.

I couldn't take my eyes off the revelers. To observe nature and bliss intertwined is a miracle of sorts in the inner city. It has healing properties and I didn't want it to stop. In those moments of the hawk-play encounter, the relentless stress of my unemployment and pending eviction and under-par health of both husband and pooch faded from my mind. 

Then the light changed and the pooch and I headed back to Reality.

[Thank you, Mr. Crowley, for your Cormorant pic.]

Stop Smiling

Today's headline is actually the name of a magazine published in Chicago. I love it because just reading the name makes me smile. And the subtitle tickles me, too: The Magazine for High-Minded Lowlifes. That's me! And if it's you, too, then you should check it out. It's a well-designed publication with themed issues—Hollywood writers of the past, the demise of American publishing, interviews with cultural icons.

Our guests have departed, our pooch is sick from "people food" treats, and we're exhausted. But we'll get back in a groove soon enough. It's refreshing to share our small universe with outsiders. It greatly expands said universe temporarily and then leaves it ever-so-slightly, permanently reshaped. We're grateful for the change; the dog was grateful for the new adoration.

How to Make Everybunny Happy

Today's morning walk with the pooch included this observation from a neighbor—a 40ish-aged man packaging a 12ish-aged boy—who makes observations in lieu of conversation:

"Too bad they don't make buggies small enough for her to pull. You could fill the buggy with bunnies and everyone could have a good time."

Actually, my dog LOVES bunnies. Whenever she spots one, she stands statue-like while her entire body twitches in anticipation. From a safe distance, she watches until her anticipation gets the best of her. Then she springs into a single jump intended to shoo the cottontail away (though often this doesn't work the first time and she has to spring again). Once the diminutive creature is on the move, so is my pooch—to sniff every inch of ground it had crossed.

That's it. No chasing, no hunting, no scare tactics (except for the spring in the air that took her a while to develop). She just watches and sniffs.

So pulling a pack o' bunnies in a buggy may very well be a good time—if not for all, at least for her.