Look, up in the sky, it’s a ... slow news day! You know there aren’t a whole heckuva lot of newsworthy things happening when the skies above my Crescenta Valley home fill with helicopters. Typically, it’s due to yet another traffic nightmare on the section of the 210 Freeway that bisects our sleepy suburb. Sometimes, however, the hordes of hovering helos flock to our verdant valley because we are again being visited by wildlife from the mountains on either side of our valley. The past few years the critters have been of the ursine persuasion and have visited so often they were given names like “Rosie” or “Meatball.” Last week, however, our guest from the nearby wilds was a rather large feline who, for now at least, remains nameless in spite of his brief celebrity.
As a growing number of choppers from both Southland broadcasters and local law enforcement swarmed overhead, social media also began to buzz with people posting on Facebook and Twitter asking if anyone knew what was happening in the Foothills. About an hour after I first noticed the gathering squadron of helicopters, I channel surfed until I found a live broadcast showing video shot from the KCAL 9 copter hovering over a neighborhood off New York Avenue just above Foothill. The anchor was explaining that a mountain lion had been reported prowling around a neighborhood dangerously near Clark Magnet High School.
Well, no wonder. Such excitement couldn’t have been due solely to the nature of the beast visiting our fair foothills. I mean, we’ve often had mountain lions roaming our neighborhoods. (Which begs the question; if there are mountain lions and sea lions, why aren’t there desert lions or beach lions? But I digress, as I often do.) I’m thinking that because this big kitty was so close to a school, well, that explains the hullabaloo. I mean, wildlife and educators both being volatile, unpredictable creatures, and all.
But seriously, it’s no wonder every authority figure within driving or flying distance was summoned to the scene. We wouldn’t want a cat that size to wander its way into a school full of tender vittles, after all.
And so, for several hours the skies above our normally nap-happy valley were abuzz with helicopters chopping at the air – the news copters taking their allotted position high above all the official aircraft who are allowed to fly lower and much closer to where the action is.
From what I could see on TV and hear from radio reports, almost every state, county and city agency was represented, including L.A. County Sheriffs, Glendale Police, the California Department of Fish & Game and even the Pasadena Humane Society. I’m not sure if PETA perps made an appearance, but it wouldn’t surprise me if they were there on behalf of the mountain lion. I don’t think the Navy Seals or Army Rangers were deployed, but I could be wrong.
So how do you catch a Mountain Lion? With a ginormous can of Friskies? A big ol’ bag of cat nip and a scratching post the size of a telephone pole? Not hardly. It turns out you shoot not one, but three tranq darts into the colossal kitty and wait until the drugs take effect to haul the critter back up into the forest.
Speaking of tranquilizing things, they may just have to dart me if I hear one more broadcaster refer to any location here in our Crescenta Valley as “Glendale.” Yes, I realize that – technically – there is a narrow strip of Glendale that pokes up into La Crescenta right where the big cat was prowling around last week, but give me a break. I don’t know one person who lives here who says their home is in Glendale. So, get the sedatives ready, broadcasters. You’ve been warned. Then again, if it’s a slow news day I might be doing you a favor.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
When this column was published in yesterday's edition of the Crescenta Valley Weekly newspaper, it was one day short of exactly five months since we said goodbye to our remaining family dog. Not that I’m acutely, achingly, painfully aware of the exact day that old guy left us, or anything like that. You may remember, he was a goofy, ridiculously pampered, joyfully loving Yellow Lab named Darby.
As I’ve written before (probably too often for some readers), I’m a dog person from muzzle to tail. I’m not losing my hair, I’m shedding. If I’m not feeling well, my wife has been known to feel my nose to see if it’s cold and wet or dry and warm. I have pants and coats hanging in my closet even now that I would bet have dog biscuits in them. I find it remarkable but not surprising that my wife and I have spent more money in vet bills over the past twenty-or-so years than we have on medical treatment for our own four human kids. (Thankfully, our kids have been blessedly healthy!) We have spent countless nights clinging to the edge of our queen-sized bed because our dog(s) were sacked out and snoring smack dab in the center of it and we didn’t want to disturb their slumber. Yes, dogs tend to live a mighty cushy life at our home.
That said, I’m amazed that our house has been sans-dog for these past five long and lonely months. While my wife, bless her heart, enjoys the dramatically less frequent use of our vacuum cleaner, along with not tripping over a dog or two every time she opens the refrigerator or pantry door (not to mention much more available real estate in our bed every night!), I have been not-so-patiently waiting to begin the process of finding the next dog(s) to welcome into our family. You might even say I’ve been panting to get started. (Seriously, how could I NOT have just written that?)
And so, for several weeks now we’ve been in the process of browsing animal shelter web sites, visiting the shelter in person, and emailing or calling dog breeders about available puppies or upcoming litters.
Now, I can already hear the outrage and gnashing of teeth from well-meaning animal activists screaming, “Don’t shop, adopt!” and other less-printable comments in my direction. Believe me; our hope is to find a young dog of the Lab persuasion (or Labradoodle, Golden Retriever, Italian Waterdog or some Heinz 57-like combination thereof) that needs a dog-loving home and doting, overly permissive adoptive parents. But, from our experience so far, the reality of the “adoption” process today is not an easy one. In our limited experience to date, unless you want a dog who had either Pitt Bull or Chihuahua parents (or both, somehow and incredibly!), you’re out of luck. Any and all larger dogs in the retriever family simply won’t be going home to your family. As the very nice woman at the Pasadena Humane Society told us, “Oh no, the waiting list for any lab is full almost immediately after they arrive at our shelter.” Bummer.
At the risk of offending fans of the breed, let’s just say I’m not the Pitt Bull type. And as for Chihuahuas? Well, we have an old, geriatric, exceedingly cranky and belligerent house cat that not only would eat a pocket puppy’s dinner, it would probably eat the dog itself. She is one mean, mutha of a cat.
And so we continue our search. I’ve got a bucket of chew toys, coat pockets full of biscuits, a nicely re-grown lawn in our backyard, and an ultra-cushy, super-plush, extra-large dog bed all ready and waiting for whatever lucky dog(s) is out there waiting for us to find him and/or her. Not that I have any delusions that any dog of ours will actually sleep on its own bed.
I’ll see you ‘round town.
