We'll Never Be Royal...Except for Lucy

I was never one of those girls who wanted to be a princess. I hated the clothing, wasn’t into the headgear and found the princes sorely lacking.

               

             But I have always referred to my show horse, Lucy (Blind Faith), as the Princess. She seemed to have all of the accouterments:  she’s beautiful, exceptionally talented and is a little bitchy, er, mare-ish.

                

          Well, I’ve just discovered that she actually is a kind of royalty, which makes me, by virtue of the fact that I pay her bills, royalty too. Okay, I’m the lady in waiting. Staff, as it were.

                

         See, last year after her second leg injury, I retired Lucy. She was never going to heal enough to jump anymore and I didn’t want to risk her being hurt any more than she already was.

The plan was that she would join the other two ancient geezers who live in my backyard and serve as friendly lawn ornaments. That was the plan.

                

        Except she wasn’t a geezer. At 16 she wasn’t exactly a spring chicken, but she wasn’t that old. Not to mention that the reality was that I just wasn’t ready.

                

        We’d been together for 11 years. I bought her sight unseen. (Hence her show name : Blind Faith. That and my fondness for the band.) When she arrived, I went up and down the barn aisle searching for my new horse. Except I’d never seen her and didn’t know what she looked like. Finally a groom took pity on me and introduced us. 

                

         Lucy had been imported from the Netherlands for someone who had changed her mind. So I bought Lucy as soon as she cleared quarantine. She probably didn’t understand English, but she picked up on the word ‘treat’ almost immediately. 

For the first few months in Los Angeles, she screamed incessantly. Her blabbermouth ways reminded me of the “Peanuts” comic strip, so her barn name became Lucy Van Pelt, Lucy for short.

For the first five months only my trainer rode her – she was that green. When I finally was allowed to get on, she bucked me off and I bruised three ribs.  She had colic surgery once and almost died. When she was recovering I threw my arms around her neck to hug her. She bit me in the stomach.  Hard. That’s just the kind of relationship we have.

I believe she does care about me. Not only am I the only one she bites, (you only chomp the one you love) but she always  she whinnies when she sees me, even if it’s only been a few minutes. And God knows she took care of me when I rode her. 

Over the years, Lucy developed into a much more talented horse than I deserved, and we became a great team.  After a while, when I screwed up she’d ignore it and take over.  We won a lot over the years mostly because she was that good.

So, last year when the vet said she was done, I made a purely emotional, probably stupid decision: I decided to breed her.  This was absolutely not a good financial decision. Warmbloods can’t even be ridden until they are three, so there’s the cost of raising the baby. Then training it. The bottom line is that the foal will probably be five before I can ride it. Then I have to pray it has some talent.  

It costs a lot less to save that money and buy a trained, proven horse. But this was about sentiment, not smarts. 

So my trainer and I looked through stallion listings. Some people watch porn, others look at clothing. I looked at horses. Hundreds of them. It had to be big, a good mover, a great jumper with a terrific brain and nice hind end. It was like going through Tinder.

Eventually we found the perfect match in Canada. Geographic proximity didn’t matter: the closest Lucy would be to her baby daddy was a doctor holding the veterinary equivalent of a turkey baster.

Thank goodness she’s had a textbook pregnancy.  Sort of.  She originally conceived twins.  Twin horses rarely survive or are unhealthy so one had to be aborted.  Again, the procedure was textbook.

Last week, 10 months in,  I brought her out to the farm where she’ll stay until the baby is weaned. The baby will be there until he’s (please make it a colt!) ready to be trained at three.

The lady who runs the place is a connoisseur of Dutch Warmbloods, and asked about Lucy's lineage. While I know a lot about Throughbred bloodlines I know nothing about Warmbloods, so I happily dug out Lucy’s passport and sent along the information figuring that she was nothing special. Wrong.

The lady was godsmacked.  Apparently Lucy’s family is seriously fancy. Important even. It seems that for the last 11 years Lucy has been trying to tell me she was actual royalty, and I was ignoring the signs. Oops.

Now that I know, I guess I should start bringing her organic carrots. And maybe a bling-y tiara.

                

Welcome to the World Tweedy Bird!

   

 My only New Year’s Resolution for 2015 is to use the Monty Python song “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life” as my motto.  It seems doable: I live a pretty good life. I have great friends and a decent family. Without becoming too sappy, I’m blessed.

     

     But only three weeks into this shiny New Year, it’s becoming harder every day.  The year started with a literal bang with the shootings at Charlie Hebdo. No matter what your opinions of the cartoons, or the taste -or lack thereof- the magazine showed by printing them, nobody should ever die for a cartoon satire. Ever.

     Then, as if not to be left out of the terrorist discussion, Boko Haram stepped up their assaults on innocents in Nigeria. Not to be overly pessimistic, but I’m sure there will be a school shooting  soon. 

     Boy Howdy! What a way to start the year.

     Which is why some of my friends have noticed my recent infatuation, some would say obsession with my canary chick. Staring at a half-ounce of newly-born fluff somehow gives me hope.

     Some background is necessary.  I’ve had canaries since I was a tyke. Usually one at a time, but sometimes more. Only the males sing, and stores always guarantee that the birds are male. Once the bird in question starts laying eggs, it’s a pretty good bet that it’s female. 

     I always wanted a flight cage where the canaries would actually have room to fly, as opposed to the tiny enclosures that pet stores sell, where the best they can do is hop from perch to perch. When I bought a house, I finally had room and I had someone build a five-foot avian habitat which I quickly populated it with canaries. Some turned out to be females, the rest were, as promised, males. 

     Most of the females spent their spare time turning the food dishes into nests.  Once they rip up enough newspaper to line the feeder, they hop in and start laying eggs.

     For the next two weeks the potential mama canary remains in that nest with her butt plastered to the eggs.  After two weeks, she gives up, hops out and I throw out the eggs . In about a week the process starts all over.

     Only once over decades of canary stewardship did a chick hatch, and it didn’t last a day. Apparently that’s not unusual. Canaries are terrible parents.  They are so bad that it astounds me that the species isn’t extinct.

     So when Rusty started sitting on a nest in late December, I had no expectations. Over the years she’s probably laid two dozen useless eggs. And zero chicks.

     On Christmas Day when she hopped off the nest, I reached in to toss out the eggs. But there was something breathing.  It was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen. It was an orange bug the size of my thumbnail. But it was definitely alive.

 

   A little late in the day I started reading up on how to keep the pair healthy. Rusty needed special food since she was eating for two.

     This meant that I had to cook. I don’t cook. I never turn on the oven except to bake turkey loaf for the dogs or heat frozen pizza.  I can’t tell you the last time I used the range.

     Suddenly I was buying eggs and hard boiling them daily. For the canaries. Even though it’s cannibalistic, the yolks are good for the chick and grown birds love them. They also got a daily ration of cooked oatmeal, broccoli, apples and soaked canary seed. A balanced diet.

     Every day I braced to find the chick dead. Instead, every morning I was awakened to the bird peeping while Rusty dutifully fed it. Except for when it was eating, the chick was completely silent.

Intellectually I know that nature works, but to watch it happen is magic. 

     The baby, now dubbed Tweedy Bird, changed enormously from day to day.  One moment it was bald, the next it had puffs of down and later it sported actual pin feathers. 

     After two weeks I moved Rusty and Tweedy into their own space. I‘d read that males occasionally attack fledglings, and I was WAY too emotionally invested in Tweedy for that.

The move was traumatic for all of us, but everyone survived. Okay, I needed a slug of Makers Mark . But then I was fine.

     The next day Tweedy started jumping out of the nest. Sometimes he landed on his feet. Mostly he was like a toddler – the feet moved but the brain had no control.

     Yesterday Rusty decided Tweedy  was weaned. No matter how much he flapped his stubby wings and screamed, she was done.  I suppose if he’s big enough to sleep on the perch at night, he’s big enough to eat on his own. Besides, she’s nesting again.

     My mare is due to foal in the next month or so, but I sent her away to the home for unwed horses.  I wondered if I was doing the right thing, but after the experience with Tweedy, I know I’m right.  Birthing babies is hard.

Shopping: The Real Nightmare Before Christmas

It’s no secret that I’m a bit of a curmudgeon.  Being pleasant for extended periods of time is simply exhausting to me.  So it’s not a surprise that avoiding human interaction is a huge priority during the holidays.

While I have friends that absolutely adore shopping during December, I find the whole experience about as joyous as a prison cell in Guantanamo.  The obvious solution would be to do all my shopping online, and early. Nice buzz.

I’m not nearly organized enough for that. This year I ordered my holiday cards on Thanksgiving and practically gave myself a high five because for a change they would get mailed before Christmas.  Or New Year’s.  Or Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.

As far as gifting goes, I try to give my friends something simple for me that they’ll also enjoy and use. That is, booze. There are a million liquor stores around and they’re not usually crowded.  Alcohol: the perfect gift. Except when it isn’t.

There are a few people on my list who are either age challenged, i.e. children, or don’t drink.  Since I understand that giving a child or a non-drinker a bottle of Makers Mark is considered rude and disrespectful, I find myself going to the mall at least once a season.

Naturally, I postpone this excursion as long as possible, which just makes the whole process even worse.  The thing is, even during the non-busy season, say, in June, I hate malls. They make my skin crawl.

There was dark period in my life when I actually worked at a mall. I’d been summarily dismissed from my record label gig, but still had bills to pay. It was during the holiday season, so I took a deep breath and applied to work at a bookstore - they still had them then.  I got the job, but was assigned to handle the store’s calendar kiosk, which was located in the middle of the shopping center.I still have nightmares. 

It wasn’t just the inane shoppers who purchased dozens of Robert “Miracle of Light” Kincade calendars to give to all their friends, or the non-stop holiday music, though it ruined many a Christmas Carol for me. It was the sheer numbers of people that I had contact with everyday.

Since the kiosk was positioned in smack in the center of the mall, there were always people pushing and shoving around it. And talking to each other at the top of their lungs. I’m sure it was a prime position for sales, but to me it was akin to being in Hell. You know the phrase ‘hell is other people?’ Times ten. I’d drive home after every shift whimpering and shaking.

Hanukkah begins tonight and ends on Christmas Eve.  No matter how much I’ve trimmed my gift list; there are still a few people I need to reward for remaining a part of my life.

So, without even so much as a Xanax, I’m girding myself for a trip to the mall. I don’t live far from a shopping center (does anybody anymore?) so in theory it shouldn’t take more than ten minutes until I’m plunking down my credit card and heading home.

That, however, doesn’t take into account the MMA-like exercise that it takes to obtain a parking space. I don’t mind ditching my car a million miles from the stores. I could use the exercise, particularly around the holidays.  But even in the distant outskirts of the lot it takes quick reflexes and fast thinking to park. The fact is, people drive like brain damaged maniacs at the mall this time of year. Especially the ones that are leaving.

Apparently they have been so wounded by their experiences inside the building that they’re beyond reason. Like the animal that will chew off its own foot to get out of a trap, these folks just want to get away from the stores. And they will do anything to make that happen.

This makes the half-mile from the car to the stores a little adventure, but I suppose like Darwinism, it weeds out the weak.  Eventually the strong, the survivors make it inside. Of course that’s where things really go bad.

Smart people walk into the lion’s den knowing what they want. They quickly pick it up, pay for it and run for the hills. I am not one of them.

Not me.  I wander around blindly around looking for inspiration.  Invariably I become dazed and confused. Everything is so shiny, and pretty and so that I can no longer see or think straight. Inevitably, after a few hours I’ll stagger out to my car. Having bought nothing.

This year I’m going to make it easy. Everyone is getting a box of candy from Mrs. Sees.  Maybe those cute chocolate Santas for the kids. I’m sure their parents won’t mind that they are hopped up on sugar all Christmas morning. Right?

A Jew Takes On Holiday Lights

I adore Christmas lights. When I was a kid we used to pile in the car and drive around town looking for homeowners who made an effort. It helped that we were in New England, and by Christmas the whole place was usually covered in new snow – which unlike old, dirty, slushy snow is pretty and festive.  You know, New England-y.

There was one family who really did it up. Perched on the roof was a Santa in a sleigh pulled by reindeer. The lawn was sprinkled with decorated trees and Ye Olde Carolers.  There was even holiday music piped out to the street. The week of Christmas a man dressed as Santa and gave away cookies on the doorstep.  ‘Course this was a long time ago. Now he’d be suspected of being a pedophile.

When I first moved to California I believed that that my best light-watching days were behind me. We barely have a winter, limited pine trees and certainly no snow. Boy, was I wrong.

Not only does the DWP sponsor a holiday light extravaganza, but there are at least two neighborhoods in Los Angeles County dubbed “Candy Cane Lane.” Any of the houses in these neighborhoods easily put my childhood memories to shame. They can probably be seen from the Space Station.  Naturally I love them.

When I lived in North Hollywood, one of my neighbors was a little loony. And not just because he had a pack of Pugs and Chihuahuas. Bad taste is part of what make holiday decorations great, and he was going for the title.

Year round his tiny yard featured a 10-foot, working Ferris wheel with stuffed animals in each car.  During the holidays they all received Santa hats. But that was just the start.  There was also the first blow up Grinch I’d ever seen, as well as Frosty the Snowman, Snoopy with Woodstock, Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer and for good measure, a couple of old school, white wire deer, trimmed with lights. It looked like a Christmas store had thrown up. It was absolutely awesome!

I’m sure part of my attraction to holiday decorations is that I’m Jewish, and while my family is not deeply religious, we never even had a Hanukkah bush.  My dad was very tolerant, but he drew the line at trees and lights.

I didn’t exactly suffer. My aunt is Catholic, and, every year she let my brother and I decorate her tree.  She is, however, an extremely tasteful woman and her tree is likewise. Mostly old beautiful ornaments, white lights and actual popcorn strands.  And tinsel. She let us go wild with the tinsel. 

Until about four years ago it didn’t occur to me that I was an adult and could have a Hanukkah tree in my house if I wanted. Maybe I had to wait until my dad died. All I know is that my last year in North Hollywood, I bought a tiny living tree and a strand of lights and set it up in my front window. It made me very, very, happy. Who knew I was that easily pleased?

When I moved to my little ranchette in Chatsworth I continued the tradition. Every year I’d get a little rosemary tree and decorate it. The rosemary made the whole house smell great, so I convinced myself it was really there to help cover the smell of wet dog. Nothing can cover the smell of wet dog.

Last year was my first foray into outdoor lights. Even though I adore those fat, old fashioned, multi-colored bulbs, I reined myself in and bought strands of blue and white ones. I popped them out of the box, carefully wrapped them around the round pen in the front yard (Doesn’t EVERY house have a round pen in the front yard?) and plugged them in. It looked awesome.

All my life I’d heard horror stories about stringing holiday lights. The way people bitched and moaned and carried on, you’d think they were being forced to build IKEA furniture. I thought  the whole thing was pretty easy.  Obviously the kvetchers were complete morons.

This year I decided to go wild and add a second strand of outdoor lights. But first I had to unpack the lights I'd carefully put away last year.  It took an hour to untangle them, but it was a pleasant day, so it wasn’t a big deal. 

Then I opened the new lights and wrapped them around the fence. It didn’t have that Martha Stewart look, so I undid them and rewrapped it.  Again and again. Finally it looked tolerable. I plugged it in… and it all shorted out.  I might have said a few bad words. Or many.

But I’m not a quitter. So I trekked back to Lowes, bought a bunch more lights and actually read the instructions. Apparently you can only connect a certain number of strands together or they will blow. Ooops.

By the time I got back to my house it was getting dark and I was over the whole thing. I rapidly hung the damn lights however they came out of the box.  Still when I plugged them in, it was beautiful.

While I was in Lowes, I saw that they had a 10-foot blow-up rubber ducky wearing a Santa hat. That would look AMAZING inside the round pen, wouldn’t it?

Hollywood Park is Closed; I Had to Spend Thanksgiving with My Family

Last week I went back East to spend Thanksgiving with my family for the first time in ten years. I don’t have anything particularly against my family, though taken all together they can be a somewhat intimidating bunch.  I hadn’t gone home for the holiday because until this year I had a job that, in addition to being awful, had a huge annual deadline that fell immediately after turkey day.

In practical terms what that meant was that for most of the previous decade I had what I believed was a perfect Thanksgiving ritual. First I’d go to Hollywood Park and watch the races. Because of the holiday, the shortened card began and ended early, which allowed everyone to lose money and then go home to their families and try to explain it over dinner.

After the last race, I’d hit the multiplex with a bucket of popcorn and watch a movie. It was fabulous. If I was lucky the only people I’d talk to all day were my friends at the track and the ticket-taker at the movies. A quick call to my folks after the film, and all was good.

That’s all in the past now. Last December, amid a lot of tears and anger, Hollywood Park closed. Oh, and I ditched the heinous gig. I was now free, nay, compelled, to see my family for the holiday. I no longer had a viable excuse for staying away.

I arrived on Monday and planned to leave on Saturday morning in order to avoid horrifically jammed airports. Unfortunately the only flight back left at 7am, which meant I had to leave my mom’s farm at 4:30 in the morning.  

I comforted myself with the thought that it was just 1:30 am West Coast time, and I’d arrive home in time to feed the horses their lunch. That helped a bit when I was scraping ice off the frozen car in 14 degrees in the pitch black morning. It also reminded me why I live in Southern California.

                

           The trip itself was surprisingly nice, though I admit spending an entire day in the company of more than a dozen other humans is rough. The truth is that I live alone for a reason: being pleasant for extended periods of exhausting – and hard work. I guess it builds character. At least that’s what mom insists.

               

           With that many people who are related and therefore far beyond party manners, there is bound to be drama. This Thanksgiving was no exception.

                

           One of my earliest holiday memories is from when lived in Connecticut. We had a big old house that sported a formal dining room which was separated from a butler’s pantry by way of a swinging door.  This particular year the house was packed. The dining room table stretched into the hallway. The head count numbered in the 20s.

               

           Dinner was humming along. With everyone happily tucking into the first course, Mom had taken the giant turkey out of the oven and left it ‘resting’ on a table in pantry, waiting to be presented.  The bird was giant, golden brown and perfectly enticing. Apparently I wasn’t the only one that thought so.

               

When the almost inevitable crash came from the kitchen area, no one was unduly alarmed. Most people probably didn’t even hear it – 20 people are pretty loud. So only a few sharp-eyed relatives saw the breathtaking sight when mom opened the pantry door: There, standing on the table reveling

in the kind of bliss that only a dachshund knee-and-snout-deep in turkey can experience, was our dog, Doxie.

I honestly don’t really remember what happened next. If it had been me, my reaction would have been what I may or may not have done years later when my dog ate part of a cake I made for a dinner party: wiped off the dog hair and served the non-gobbled part.  Since I don’t recall pizza being delivered that night, I suspect that mom did the same.

This year the trouble arrived before the relatives, in the form of the first November Nor’easter New England had experienced more than a decade. In the Berkshires, where mom now lives, we received a little more than a foot of snow. And the guy that never fails to plow the half-mile driveway was on vacation. Because it hadn’t snowed at Thanksgiving in the Berkshires for more than ten years.

Naturally, there was a good deal of hysteria coming down with the snow. This year 16 brave souls were expected for dinner.  If they could get up the driveway.  If not, there were going to be a whole lot of leftovers. And I’m a vegetarian.

It didn’t come to that. I’ve learned a lot from my parents, but one of the best lessons is simple: be nice. If that fails, be pathetic.

Mom, who recently celebrated her 84^th birthday, is a master of both.  Her village is small and everybody seems to know everyone else. That has upsides and downsides, but one of the positives is that people take care of one another. So when mom called a man with a plow, he not only knew her, he liked her. She turned on her best little-old-lady-alone-in-the-world charm and the guy was out of his pajamas and plowing our driveway at 8:30 on Thanksgiving morning before he knew what hit him.

By the time the relatives started arriving, the driveway was pristine. The sun came out, and the snow glistened.  The birds flocked to the stocked feeders and nearby trees.  The food (and wine) was good. All in all, it was quite pleasant. I might come back in another ten years. Maybe even sooner.

Dave Grohl and California Chrome: Haters Gonna Hate

           

    I’ve never actually quoted a Taylor Swift song before, and I may go to Hell for it – or at least whatever serves as Hell for active or former rock critics. Which in fact may be a place where you are forced to listen to Taylor Swift songs for all eternity.  But here goes.

             

                Haters gonna hate.  As a gold star member of the rock critic’s club, I realize that we are a snooty bunch. Particularly those of us who began our careers in punk rock and slid into the grunge era partly by virtue of just not dying.

Back in the day the biggest insult that could be thrown was to call a band “careerist.” Remember when Kurt Cobain called Eddie Vedder that? It bruised ole’ Eddie to the core.  (Of course that was when Kurt was still breathing and not an avatar in Guitar Hero. Yes, that spinning sound you hear is Kurt in his grave. He honestly was tormented by success.)

                Seriously, this was thing. I wrote a multitude of articles about bands that sold out their art in a variety of ways that ranged from participating in sponsored tours (History note: When Coors subsidized its first rock tour it was greeted with howls . The bands that participated were roasted and pilloried for being associated with something so crass.), to commercials.  People still deconstruct every advertisement that uses a Dylan song, wondering what Dylan means by it. I suspect it means he needs to pay alimony.

                Clearly we’ve come a long way. This may or may not be a positive thing. On the one hand, sponsorships and licensing to commercials can be a financial lifeline for bands who aren’t making much money since people rarely buy music anymore. It was certainly wince-inducing when the Sid Vicious’ version of “My Way” showed up in an Acura ad last summer.

                It was also stupid product placement. I seriously doubt anybody who loved the Sex Pistols was happy about their memories being co-opted to sell luxury cars or rushed out to buy one. But Sid would have loved it.

               One of the on-going conversations in rock criticdom, is about what constitutes cool. This has come up a lot recently regarding one of my favorite people and bands: Dave Grohl of the Foo Fighters. On the surface this would seem to be a non-argument.  I mean Dave was a member of Nirvana. Doesn’t that automatically make him a life member of cool? 

             

           Apparently not. After all he wasn’t the one who died young and left a beautiful corpse. (Though technically, neither did Kurt.) Dave the nice, agreeable, occasionally brilliant guy who believes -rightly so - that he should be able to earn a decent living from his music. Which is also nice, agreeable and occasionally brilliant.

          Grohl also seems completely tickled by his fame and often uses it for good rather than evil as opposed to, say, anything involving Ted Nugent. Grohl’s “Sound City” and the HBO series “Sonic Highways” are absolute love letters to the music and musicians he adores. Still he gets grief for it.

             

           No matter what you think of “Sonic Highways,” you have to admit he’s introduced a lot of people to artists and styles that they may never before have considered.  People, that’s a good thing.

           Sometimes, as with the latest Foo Fighters album, also titled “Sonic Highways” the music isn’t earth-shatteringly innovative which is a bummer . But it’s always listenable and infinitely preferable to almost everything on radio today. 

         

I’ve been hearing a lot of haters rant in another part of my life as well: horse racing.  People have just been stepping over themselves to rag on California Chrome. Chrome, as you might recall, is the California-bred horse that won the first two legs of the Triple Crown.

            Chrome has the misfortune of being co-owned by someone who is the poster boy for Hoof in Mouth Syndrome, Steve Coburn.  Coburn doesn’t know how to keep his trap shut. Additionally, he isn’t a good loser.  In fact, he is kind of an ass.

            That said, there are vast numbers of people who adore Chrome. For one thing, the horse oozes personality. Also, the owners and trainers have been beyond gracious to fans. They allow almost anyone who asks, to meet the horse and take pictures with him.  Believe me, that isn’t typical, and it has brightened many people’s lives. The connections have also donated Chrome items to auctions to benefit numerous horse charities. In short, the horse has made a lot of people really, really happy.

            Whether he should win Horse of the Year is not my call, and I can make the argument both for and against. But the amount of hate that is being thrown at him, and his devoted fanbase, who call themselves Chromies, is over-the-top and unnecessary. The bottom line is this: if the backlash was just in response to his owner’s asinine statements, it would have it would have blown over by now.

            It hasn’t. I believe that’s because, like the criticism about Dave Grohl and the Foos, Chrome is accessible. A lot of people prefer heroes, be they musical or equine, to be a little distant and remote. It gives them an aura, and makes them seem sacred.

            I for one, say screw that. Give me a nice horse that tries its damnedest, and a bandleader that does the same. That’s not to say that California Chrome is my favorite horse of all time. Nor are the Foos my regular choice for music. But I’m glad that they both exist.

            Now pardon me while I “Shake It Off.”

Bye, Bye Bird

My neighborhood, or at least my little piece of it, is in mourning. Bird died last Sunday afternoon.

Bird was a Guinea Hen. She showed up on my street literally the week after I moved into my half-rural half-suburban ‘hood.  That was three and a half years ago.

For those of you who don’t know much about Guinea Hens, they are large birds – much taller than chickens, but slightly smaller than my Brittany dog. They have lovely black and white polka dotted feathers and squawk with the velocity of a fire engine when they're upset.

            When Bird  first showed up, she was the talk of the neighborhood. That's how I met most of the neighbors. We would meet in the evening and propose theories about where she'd come from.

            Some people believed that she had escaped from a flock on a nearby street but those Guinea Fowl were just a myth. Others thought she’d been dumped when her owner noticed the feral chickens that also call our street home. That's possible.

      

            It didn't matter; the neighborhood took to her, and she to us.  Bird started hanging around the houses at the top of the hill, and one of the homeowners began feeding her. There was a brief debate about what Guinea Hens ate; the consensus was chicken food. Someone suggested buying the cheapest available brand, since she probably wouldn’t survive on her own for very long.

               

           They were wrong. Bird thrived. She was a wily creature. When a pair of coyotes moved in and decimated the local cat population Bird was clever enough to roost in tall trees where she’d be safe.

           I never saw her fly, exactly. For one thing, she was far too bottom heavy for serious aviation. In the mornings when she came down from the tree where she'd spent the night, it wasn’t exactly the smooth glide of say, a pelican over the ocean. She just sort of fell down fluttering her wings and screaming until she hit the ground with a feathery plop. She'd then shake herself off and waddle off toward breakfast.

                

           She stayed close to the house where she was fed, but would run from one side of the street to the other, checking for bugs and ticks, which to the everyone’s delight, she adored. I’ve not had a tick problem since we both arrived.

                

           Bird became quite tame. She never let any human touch her, but would often spend her mornings snuggling on one side of a fence while my neighbor’s fluffy dog slept curled up on the other, the two separated only by a piece of chicken wire. They were about the same size and it was adorable.

               

           She got to know me and my dogs as well, which makes sense since I’d see her three times a day. Neither of the Dane’s acknowledged her existence – to them a bird is a bird, no matter its size. 

           But the first time Poppy the Brittany saw Bird she was dumbfounded. Poppy knew Bird was a bird and she likes to chase birds. But Bird was almost as big as Poppy. Initially when we’d approach, Bird would scuttle away chuckling to herself and waving her bright blue wattles in irritation.

               

           Then it became a game. I’d say hello to her and she’d zoom out from where she'd been hiding. She’d never get close enough to be eaten or chased, but it was enough to confuse poor Poppy.

               

            I wouldn’t call Bird smart. She had a tendency to simply stop in the middle of the street and just stand there, like she had forgotten where she was going. Drivers became used to slowing down and steering carefully around her. There was no choice because sometimes as they passed her, she would let out a shriek and run as fast as she could to the other side of the road.

               

          About a week ago I was walking Dalai and saw a middle aged woman anxiously trying to shoo her into a neighbor’s yard. Bird just stood there and blinked at the woman, who looked perplexed. “Someone’s bird got loose!”  lady exclaimed. “Do you know who it belongs to? I saw it in the street and was worried!” I explained that Bird was wild but the neighborhood mascot. The lady looked stunned. She thought Bird was a peacock. When I corrected her, she seemed disappointed, but personally I think Bird was prettier than a peacock. Thus reassured, the lady got back into her car and drove away. I’m sure she had a great story to tell her friends that night.

               

           Last winter I worried a lot about Bird. It was cold and we had weeks of horrible winds. Every morning when I’d walk the dogs I was afraid I’d find her cold battered corpse. But there she’d be. A little disheveled perhaps, but still clucking.  Those polka dotted feathers weren’t just a fashion statement after all.

           The heat of the summer didn’t seem to bother her either. While the dogs and I would pant down the street, Bird would luxurate on a fence in the shade after drinking and bathing in a neighbor’s water feature.  

                

          About two months ago the city repaved our block and removed the speed bumps. When the bumps were there, people had no choice but to slow down and pay attention.

          But last week, right in front of the neighbor that fed her, a dolt yapping on a cellphone ran over Bird. The stupid girl driving never even slowed down, and certainly didn’t stop, though she had to have known she hit something. Bird didn’t have a chance.

                

         I still look for her every time I drive or walk down the street.  I think about buying a Guinea Hen or two and keeping them in a pen in the yard, but it wouldn’t be the same. Bird was a free spirit, and she moved in just when I did.  I know she was just a Bird, but I miss her terribly.