Last evening, I decided to mark a task off of my honey-do list. A list which is totally imaginary (and where I’m the honey and the do-er) and is more “oh yeah, lightbulbs” than “change the lightbulbs out front on Sunday.”
You’re all up to speed, I think, on the the recent travel habits of our local mountain lion population. This time of year, I’m pretty sure they usually head up into the mountains where it’s cooler and they have timeshares. But this spring, what with the price of gas and all, they’re rocking it Subdivision With a Golf Course style.
Because it was dusk, I knew enough to be cautious. I told the kids to stay inside (not a problem…they’re a little freaked out and not at all interested in hearing mountain lions say stuff like “Yep, tastes like chicken.”) and gathered up what I needed:
- Phone, with the Game & Fish Emergency number pre-dialed, just in case
- Light bulbs
- Big girl panties
(You wouldn’t think those last two would go together, except in alternative clubs, but they do.)
If a mountain lion was within 3 cul-de-sacs, I was ready, baby. With my phone and my package of lightbulbs. Yep, all set. Never occurred to me to grab, say, a baseball bat. But, c’mon, I was only going to change two light bulbs.
I closed the front door behind me and then checked the space between the house and the fence to the right. All clear. I looked in the tree just in front of the house. All clear (plus it has thorns). I checked across the street, across the other street, in all the trees, around boulders. Everywhere. All clear.
Then, I passed in front of the garage to check the other side of the house, and the last possible place where a badass cat might be hiding. I rounded the corner, and there it was, partially hidden by a cactus.
The tawny fur. The swishing tail. The shining eyes.
It looked something like this: