vanblah

<i>Not for the faint-hearted … I just need to share this story so that I can get my head around it a little better. Thank you in advance for letting me share.</i>

<Center>The Beginning of My Day
<font size ="-2">Being the humorous and true account of the sad tale of one Mr. Vanblah's Friday morning</font></Center>

So today is Friday (in the United States) and I'm all filled with the familiar Friday euphoria of the daily nine to fiver as I got ready for work. It's about 8 in the morning. My wife and child kiss me good-bye and I stand at the back door in my bathrobe waving to them like the big, goofy dolt I am.

I'd had a really good meeting with my band the night before concerning the upcoming album that we've been struggling to get done for the past few months. It looks like January for certain, by the way. I hop in the shower all the while thinking about the upcoming one-week tour next month. It's going to be a blast, I think to myself ... and today is Friday!

The morning ritual out of the way I grab my keys and head out the front door. I'm one of the lucky guys; I get to walk to work. It's only about a block away. As I turn around on my front porch I notice a dark spot on the lawn.

"Crap. Another bird." I say under my breath.

I live in the Memphis. West Nile virus is everywhere around here. The first dead bird I saw back in 2001 was kind of a shock ... and somewhat sad. I called Vector Control and they said just to wrap it in newspaper and put it in the trash. Since then I've seen maybe two or three dozen avian victims of West Nile. Hell, I've probably had West Nile myself by now.

So I unlock the door and go inside and get a plastic shopping bag and some gloves. I head out to the front yard again and set my stuff down and go around back to get the garbage can. I don't like carrying them too far. I may be somewhat immune to the creepy feeling of carrying dead birds, but I certainly don't like to prolong it. It's bad enough that they go in the trash ... that's not really a proper burial.

As I round the corner of my house, garbage can in tow, I begin to realize that this doesn't look like a bird anymore. As I get closer my suspicion is confirmed. It's not a bird at all. It's a cat. To make matters worse it's not even an entire cat--just the front half of a cat lying dead on my lawn. OK ... my Friday euphoria is gone.

Immediately I reassess the situation. I do a quick count in my head of the four cats that we have in the house. Were they all there this morning? Yep. So ...

Then I notice the fur scattered all around the death scene. What Mutual of Omaha Wild Kingdom afternoon special played out in my yard last night?

Coyotes. We've got coyotes that live about half a mile south of us in Overton Park. Yep, I'm smack dab in the middle of an urban area and coyotes have feasted upon poor Mr. Kitty right in my neighborhood. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Coyotes have adapted to city living in most places.

I examined the carcass and determined that he belonged to the neighbor two doors down. Now I have to tell them that their kitty is dead. I'll definitely spare them the details. What diabolical forces have conspired against me this Friday? Still, the cat’s fate was much worse than mine.

I went about the gruesome task of cleaning the area: being careful to pick up all of the fur ... and viscera ... so that my neighbors wouldn't see it.

I only hope Mr. Kitty got in a couple of good swipes before his inevitable demise.

- Doug