Where In The World Is The Cavegirl? Animal Stories

Animal Stories

The pastel blue and pink sunset drew me out into the steam heat. I opened the gate, the large one on the north side of my property, and I heard the sound of a stream, a whispery sound, the water racing across rocks and around fallen limbs. A raccoon in silhouette scampered to the culvert.

One, two, three raccoons came down out of the dead tree near the street. I stood my ground. The rippling of the Peace banner hanging on the white pine attracted my eye. Raccoon eyes stared out at me. The sound wasn’t rushing water; it was raccoon nails scratching up the tree bark.

Pop pop pop three raccoons whooshed down the tree trunk and bee-lined to the culvert. SEVEN raccoons! My sunset time on the front deck was ruined. I am afraid of the raccoons. I have heard that if a dog corners a raccoon, the dog is dead.

I went back through the gate and around my house to the safety of my backyard.

A screechy death sound erupted from the streetside red maple. One, two, three, four, five came running down a long branch, down the trunk to the tree fort.

The light now fragile and nearly vanquished, illuminated the chartreuse night-vision eyes of each raccoon as they peeked around the wood structure. They made a hallow whistling sound, small, somewhat like the hiss of a frighten cat.

I was nothing to them. They simply continued down the tree, hit the ground, and went right over to my bungeed garbage cans. Dinnertime! Twelve raccoons. How silly of me to think that there were only three.

I called a nice man. He is going to live trap them and take them away. I want my sunsets back.

***

I love him dearly. He is one of my best friends. He told me that he shot three doves marauding his garden. He took them to the Mexicans that have rooster fights in some underground sector of city. I will no longer eat his food. I have lost a friend I met in kindergarten.

“When Doves Cry”... over and over I listen to Prince for salvation.

The distant forlorn mourning coooo coooo coooo silenced.

***

Last week was nicer than nice. I wrote four stories, sketched out six paintings, and rearranged part of my house. He came here after work. He relaxed a bit, then grilled rib eyes, then chicken, then skewered veggies, strip steaks on Thursday. After each meal, during sunset, we slipped into my new pool. We ate watermelon. At a quarter to nine, we dried off and rushed up to the White Hen for lotto tickets, and more beer. He wants to be a millionaire. He would make a good one.

This is very nice. Serene. Finally. This is what my private garden was made for. Sweetness.

He looks ridiculous in his swim trunks. They are toooooo big!

Sometimes when you are quiet you can hear more. Quiet the animal.

***

I asked him if he could drill a hole in a shell for me. I am making a necklace. I have read that it is very difficult to drill a hole in a sliver of mother-of-pearl shell without it cracking in half. He said sure, even though he seemed very tired. He inserted a tiny bit into the throat of the drill. I walked into the bathroom. “You miss it.” He said, “my command performance. Here. Hold it up to the light. See how perfect it is.”

It was just right.

My listening to Jeff Tweedy makes him jealous. He wants me to prefer his words.