The Believer

You, Ogg, squat at the entrance of your cave. It is the early dawn of humankind and you sit upon your haunches, feeling neither contented nor discontented as you stare blankly into a late afternoon sky. There is a man approaching, slowly, carrying a bundle slung over his back. You believe him to be a cousin and so watch unalarmed as he makes his way, toward you along the trail. For a brief while, he disappears at the base of your hill then reappears, suddenly very close. Too late you realize he is a stranger. But he is smiling. Had it not been for his disarming smile you would have not allowed him to close the distance, but would have risen to threaten and drive him off. Now here he is before you, with a bundle of wood in a sling on his back. Being a civilized cave-man you feign you are disarmed by proffering your hand, all the while you are aware of the spear hidden under the skin that brushes your right ankle.

He speaks. “I am Zog, and I bring you happy tidings and the hope of a bright future. I bring you fire!”

“Fire?” you echo quizzically, you've never heard that word. “What is fire?”

Zog smiles knowingly. He nods and understands your station as one of the new, the uninitiated. “Fire is good,” he explains. “It makes light, it makes heat, it makes smoke, it makes meat tasty. And, I will demonstrate it to you.”

Well you think, that it new. Light, heat, smoke, tasty meat. It all sounds to promise an entertaining end to the day. “Please, yes, do show, here,” you prompt Zog, sweeping your hands before you like a good host inviting a stranger into your home.

Zog dumps the bundle of kindling and fagots on the ground, quickly arranges them into a pyramid, draws rocks from a pouch and proceeds to sing, chant and clack the rocks together as he dances about the wood. He dances a long, long, time and works the rocks furiously. At the first wisp of smoke, Zog falls prostrate upon the ground, blows kisses and breathes breathy chants into the base of the heap of wood. Then it happens!

There is a glimmer of light and with a small pop and crack, a living, glowing genie springs from the center, tentatively at first. It grows quickly, so quickly you are startled by this new, never before seen life. It reminds you of a snake as it hisses and writhes. It glows and throws heat. It snaps and cracks and grows louder and louder. The stink of smoke alarms you as it pinches at your nose. But the flames mesmerize and fascinate. Finally the pile is alight, and bright with FIRE!

Zog, quickly lifts the large joint of raw meat you were gnawing and lays it atop the growing flames and the scent of cooking flesh seduces. “This is FIRE! Enjoy.” He packs up his rocks and departs.

The fire makes light, and it is good. The fire makes soothing heat, and it is good. The fire makes smoke and drives away the buzzing, biting insects, and it is good. The fire makes meat tasty and it is very, very good. You, Ogg, watch the fire late into the night as it dies down into a twinkling small echo of the winking sky above. As fire dies, you settle into a tired but excited sleep, looking forward to a new, and more hopeful day.

But when you rise, you find fire is gone. In its place lies a mockery of what was once the flaming pyramid of sticks and fagots that crumbled before your eyes into a heap of black and glowing red worms. Fire lies now, only a gray powder. You poke your fingers into the center of the fluffy mass and spread it about in a vain search for the evidence of light...of heat. But fire is gone. You hold your fingers to your nose and sniff. A light puff of wind sends the friable remains away. Fire is no more. Though the man who brought it is gone and fire is gone, you know that you have seen it.

You too, want to make fire. And so you gather together wood. You collect rocks. You dance about the bundle and clash the stones and chant in pantomime of Zog's performance as best you can recall. Much time passes and you give up but you try again the next day, and the next, and next. You witnessed fire's brief, fantastic event and hold dear the memory. You anxiously await fire's return.

Others inquire as to your behavior and you tell them of the arrival of Zog, the building of the pyramid, the chanting, the clacking, the ritual and the fantastic event of fire. Fire is good, fire is great, fire is a wondrous thing. It took only one spectacular event to convince you of the reality of fire. The people listen but do not understand and your attempts to bring forth fire only amuse them. They leave, tittering and laughing.

You insist upon repeating the story with greater and greater insistence and the others begin to look upon you with less interest and less amusement. Finally, those who first listened patiently to you become soured on your story. Eventually you are cast out of the tribe. You lose your position, your friends and your cave and are compelled to live on the perimeter.

But through the obscuring fog of scoffery, laughter, and invective of the non-believers you hear rumors of others who, like yourself, also had a visitation from Zog and they too have witnessed the fire and they, like you, have after one brief spectacular event, become believers in and strivers after fire.

Nature Tells

She had crept into the shed and wedged herself into its darkest recess. I‘d lifted her before, despite her weak protests, and lain her on my bed. I desired to comfort her. I wished to hear her purr one last night. I longed to be with her at the end. But she had once again made her way here, to this dark place. I called to her softly; she answered weakly…plaintively.

Nature tells what to do. My father told me of the time he had a hernia, his body commanded him in the most imperative of ways, due not to pain, nor the discomfort, to lie down. I stepped from the shed, uncertain how to act. Turning, I looked back through the entrance and in toward her dark resting place.

There is a drawing by the Japanese artist Ando Hiroshige which portrays a view from within a home through a window to a landscape beyond. On the sill, is perched a cat, peering outward. The cat, perched between two worlds, the domestic and the wild, seems to invite the viewer to join it in its contemplation of nature beyond.

She wanted to lie, unmolested, in the darkness. She wished to be in a place that smelled of mice, of dust, of nature. I gently closed the door and wandered, aimlessly, mindlessly, about my yard. I awoke in the flower garden. I knelt down…and after a brief rest, I rose…with a pick in my hand.

Suffering Thing

I found her suffering a short distance from my home, and a quarter mile from the main road. Her injuries were obvious. She’d dragged her useless hind legs behind, as far as she could from her terminal encounter with the speeding metal and glass beasts that prey on her and her brood.

She panted with fear, exhaustion and pain. Propped up by front legs, extended in an unnatural angle, she held her head high, jaws agape. I dared not look into her eyes, for fear of causing her further distress or myself, panic at the sight of her suffering. Standing at a distance I considered…what to do? 

I returned home, where all was well and all in place. I filled a bucket with water...put it in the truck and drove down the road to the new-found dead-end. Placing it as close to her as possible without causing her alarm, I made myself small and returned home.

For coyote, man is a deadly enemy. We have vaguely sentimental ideas of being in sympathy with their plight. But all such sentimentality pales in consideration to their reality. They are shot. They are poisoned. They are struck dead by our vehicles. They are starved and choked by the vagaries of nature; their lives the penultimate expressions of the existential.

The following day, I found her, cold and stiff beside the bucket from which I hope she had drawn one last bit of comfort. She was given respectful covering. Then and I withdrew.

Conversation with Trickster

The southeast corner of Arizona is populated with the natural and the un-natural. And, the most un-natural are the modern-Man-transplants. This was once the domain of Cochise of the Chiracuaua band of Apache who lay close to the earth and the course of nature. Today, the vast majority of us here, have the most tenuous of grips on the very narrowest of ledges upon which we survive. The sun imposes its will in the day, and beats down the most physical. The night brings with it a transcendent blaze of stars that chases away all the rest. But the denizens of the desert remain. One of which is known as Trickster Coyote.

It was early twilight when Man came upon Trickster as She slunk through his yard.

Man demanded in alarm, “Hey, you! Stop!”

Trickster froze in a low crouch. Her look locked on Man in a most cautious way. Man could tell She was checking his hands for anything of weapon-nature.

Man clenched his fists. “What-the-hell! I told you to stay out of my fenced area during the day!”

Trickster raised Her head skyward and indicated with Her eyes. “It is not day, friend. Do you not see the stars? It becomes the night.”

“Yes, but you’re pushing the limit of the agreement.”

“Remind me again, please. I have become feeble.”

“You can’t enter my yard during the day, only at night.”

Said Trickster, with a touch of irony, “Ahhh, yes...the night is mine. You want me to come and clean up the swarm of mice and rabbits that eat your pretty plants...to do you a favor.”

Man retorted, “It’s me doing you a favor. I allow you this! I even give you water.”

Trickster dipped Her head slightly in contrition. “For the water, I thank you much. But you have much and I little. An indulgence please: one of those?”

Man could see Trickster was peering through his legs. He turned in time to see one of his cats hurrying its plumpness into his house.

Man scowled. “That’s what the agreement is about. They’re a part of me. You bite them, you bite me!”

Trickster‘s mouth drew into a wry smile. “Then at least allow me to tree them. They will look very pretty decorating your decadent shade trees.”

"Decadent trees? You are the decadent one", Man growled

Trickster was ready for Man. “No sir, you are wrong. Without the aid of all of the most unnatural things you have brought with you, you would collapse into the dust. Your trees need a prodigious amount of water that you must suck from the Earth. You hide yourselves inside your boxes, from the face of the heat and the cold and the rain. You do not grow food yourselves but drag it here and eat mountainous amounts until your ridiculous, fat bellies leave you listless and unable to walk. And then you excuse your lazy repose by saying the land about you is monotonous…so boring you seldom venture beyond your little fenced perimeter. It is you who are decadent. I, who am part of nature, will never be so.”

Man was taken aback by the imperative tone of Trickster. He shifted his feet nervously. He felt unstable, as if he had been shoved. “Again…stay out of my yard during the day. I’ll indulge you an occasional dead chicken or duck, but leave my pets alone. I…and…uh…your howling is disturbing my peace.”

“I am sure you are refering to my yipping, that calls my friends and family together, you find so disturbing. The Song I sing I know you to admire. It comes from my soul. It makes my heart pound and quakes my very body. You know it to be the truth and you envy me. Your music is stupid and loud and sounds of something about to break into pieces. But I see Men all about stepping from their boxes to hear my Song. They stand at attention and listen and admire it for a very long time. So, you see, I also sing for you.”

Man was now thoroughly flustered. “Go away. But remember the agreement. And…give my best to Cochise.”

“Ahhh...yes…of course…Cochise. You speak of The One. You invoke him and assume him to be one of yours. You think by doing so it will make you great by association. But Cochise was closer to my kind than to yours. He and his pack learned their ways from me, Coyote, but you and those of your ilk are his simple, distant, degenerate cousins. He is more a part of me than he a part of you. I go now.”

Trickster’s voice had worked a mesmerizing effect upon Man. It was then She moved with silence, grace, and swiftness through the barbed fence and vanished into the brush. Man was left standing at attention, staring as the new stars grew slowly in intensity as his transfixed state faded. A cool breeze brushed his hair across his brow. He found himself alone. Man wondered if he had imagined his entire conversation with Trickster.

Harvest Day

Ducks are fine creatures and if a bond can be made they are among the finest pets a person could have. When my package of ducks, advertised as a variety pack arrived, I found it contained only one Swedish Blue and twelve of the Peking breed. I had made the mistake of ordering around the Easter celebration when everyone wants the yellow hatchlings. As the loading of the package was up to the hatchery, and about the only ducks they had available were Pekings, I received a small swarm of peeping and cheeping, mostly yellow ducklings.

The ducks grew into eight drakes and five hens. The hens soon began laying four eggs each day more than I needed. I tried them scrambled, fried, poached, as eggnog, as quiche, as dog treats. I am not a great egg eater and began to choke on the overabundance. Meanwhile, the drakes spent all day, every day, squabbling about who "owned" the hens. The commotion they created prompted me to begin honing a grudge against them in an effort to overturn any moral compunction that might restrain my harvesting a succulent duck. The leverage worked and a "Harvest Day" was declared.

By surreptitious means I snagged a duck. The process is quite simple. You need only place a tasty morsel, such as a worm, in your hand and offer it. A duck will rush up to snag the treat and when it does so, you snag it in turn by the bill. This method can be used only once as the others will observe your deviousness and word or should I say the “Quack!!” will spread quickly throughout the flock and you will never be allowed within ten yards of one of them again...ever.

So, I tucked the duck under my arm and as a consolation prize for making this his last day on Earth, I dubbed him “Freddie”, a name I intended to award to all such future volunteers. I carried Freddie to a cage behind the house and conveniently near a water barrel that I would employ as the chopping block. The others ducks were in a tizzy about the trick they had seen me play on Freddie. They watched me with suspicion and alarm and from a considerable distance as I proceeded into the house to recover a large knife I intended to use to pop off Freddie's head. As I exited the house, the other ducks squawked in terror at the sight of the implement of death. But they do that at the sight of anything unusual. They are highly excitable creatures.

I placed the knife on the water barrel, fished Freddie out of the cage, tucked him under my left arm, brought him near the block, and again lifted the knife. Freddie responded by stretching his beautiful white neck out on the block as if he understood how the game of chopping-the-duck’s-head-off was to be played. His behavior caused me to pause in his execution and as I did so I was distracted by the sound of muttering coming from behind me. I turned to find three or four ducks stretching their necks from around the corner of the house where they observed my horrifying behavior. I imagined thought bubbles above their heads that read:

”What’s he doing with Freddie?!!”…”What’s he doing with that knife in his hand?!!”…”Oh, grief! No!!”

I returned my attention to Freddie, and as before he helpfully stretched his neck out on the block. I raised the terrible knife over my head. As I did so he looked up at me with one little gray eye that seemed to say, “How’m I doing guy? Am I doing this right?” His trusting little eye blinked rapidly and my knife wielding arm fell limp. 

I lowered Freddie from his too Heavenly perch to the Earth where he hurried off to compare notes with his amigos. There would be no sending of ducks to heaven that day nor would there be any future harvest day, as I love my creatures too much and as there is an abundance of homes in need of my overabundance of ducks.

Easy Shot

The slug cut a swath of pulverized flesh through her right flank and she went down by her front legs. The thirty caliber bullet carried, even at the range of three hundred yards, enough energy to collapse her front legs within a half second and lay her on her side in one. The entry wound was dead center to her torso, but inhumanly, not to any vital organs. So she shrieked to the sky and thrashed her legs in the dust and snorted and wheezed for a while too long. She was dead within a minute.

I stood at the barbed wire fence, almost afraid to speak. The rancher was in a fit. I’d heard men curse before, but his were different. My father cursed in an offhand manner; he dropped something…he cursed. But this man’s curses were directed and an order of magnitude worse.

The rancher’s fists were balled tightly at his side. His eyes glared with darkness and his words were choked. He sounded as if he would cry. “God-damned hhhell!! What the God-damned hell makes people do this!!?” White flecks of spittle were on his lips. The horse was already beginning to bloat. She lay on her left side. The bulging wound, puckered to the sky, was surrounded by a vomitus of dried blood. There was a beginning of stink and of flies.

My father bought a Garand thirty-caliber rifle, known as a thirty-ought-six or 30-06. These were war surplus and available by mail for a nominal amount. I don’t know why, but he got the idea into his head to go hunting…for something. I wonder if there might be a blood lust lying within people waiting to be sated; in some way it must take some shape, find some form.  The thirty-ought-six is a man-killer. The weapon was used at a time when the thought was to kill thine enemy, not just wound him, but to lay the fucker in the dust permanently. Military strategists later came to realize, a wounded soldier was more of a burden to the enemy than one stone dead, and so they devised bullets that have a high probability if wounding.

I mustered up the courage to ask, “What happened?”


He shouted, “What happened? …I’ll tell you what happened!! Some cowardly son-of-a-bitch shot this poor innocent horse for the fun of it; that’s what happened!” He continued for a while, alternating between curses and lamentations, and I stood, frightened and respectfully still, trying to find words appropriated enough to sooth, or placate, or to excuse my taking leave.

I watched as my father, disassembled the rifle, cleaned the parts, laid out his plan and executed it in a very methodical manner as he did with all his electro-mechanical projects. The barrel was to be cut short, eliminating the front sight. The stock was also cut short and “floated”, that is to say there was to be a gap between the stock and the barrel so as to eliminate any distorting load the firer’s grip might cause the barrel to bend ever so slightly and cause the bullet to deflect. The receiver was to be drilled and tapped and a scope fitted. And last but not least a shock absorbing pad would be attached to the butt for user comfort. My father was a genius of sorts. If he wanted a radio he built his own, if he wanted a cement mixer he built his own, if he wanted a sail boat he built his own, and if he wanted to kill something…

I excused myself from the scene and only returned after a month to witness the carcass shriveled. At the time the ranchers were poisoning the coyotes and havelina that would have cleaned up the rank mess within a week or two. As a result only the rats and insects were left to slowly disassemble and scatter the bones. It took months. Finally, after a year or two, the bones were gnawed to nothingness by all the creatures in need of their calcium.

It took many, many months, for the last traces of the horse to be worked into the soil or blown to the sky. But it took me many decades to fit the various bits of facts and hints about this incident together into a truth. People speak the truth in an obtuse manner. They tend to say the opposite of what they are trying to conceal but in such a singular way so as to accentuate what they really mean. The spoken words stick, but don’t register until enough little pieces pile up; they coalesce over the years until they finally push through into a truth. My father’s declaration, "he wouldn't harm a fly”, stood in stark contrast to the nature I knew. But I also knew the distance of three hundred yards from our back yard to the horse in the draw…would have been a very tempting and easy shot.

Eureka

I have speculated that if someone could invent a pet food that appealed to the human palate it would sweep the competition from the field.

I have found it. They are pre-made frozen beef patties made by a company called Flanders. I was shopping and though I seldom consider such a purchase I found myself comparing the unit prices on frozen beef patties. The Flanders brand was half the price of the others so I indulged and purchased a package of twenty.

Upon arriving home I could not resist popping one into the electric skillet and soon the smell of something vaguely beefy began to fill the house. I say vaguely as there was only a hint to beef scent mixed with other unknown qualities. I lifted the ground, fried remains onto a plate and my cats gathered about to beg a sample. I tested the “burger” myself and found it almost unpalatable. The pieces I offered the cats were chewed a bit and spat out. The package promised “beef” but there are many parts of the beef that are rejected and I now know where they wind up. The parts I had purchased were probably snouts, snot, tails and integuments. I offered the remainder to my dog who like a true omnivore devoured it with enthusiasm.

I am the alpha dog in this wolf pack and my dog Beta is the beta dog. We are fellow omnivores and are at some level in competition for the good stuff. His enthusiastic consumption of the patty has sparked a competitive nature in me and I have found myself developing a taste for these “dog food burgers” and too, possibly as a result, have the overpowering urge to lift my leg on an ever widening circle of territory.

A Stroll In the Mountains

It was a wet summer in ‘73. A friend came to visit and we packed for a hike in the Huachucas. The desert was an emerald green and all the little snakes were out of their too-moist holes trying to dry off. The south-eastern end of the Huachucas cross the border with Mexico and the entire length is a common and easy smuggling route with all the canyons and oaks that afford cover.

We were only a mile in and passing along a pine shaded trail and up a slight rise where at the crest we surprised and were surprised by a string of mal-hombres. They were numbered, three gringos and four Mexican "mules." Neither side could see the other coming and so the encounter was sudden. The coyotes were carrying long-guns, side-arms and big knives. The carriers were dark thin Mexicans carrying tall, bulky packs that extended over their heads. We halted before each other at a range of about forty yards. 

Their armament was not meant to be raised against the law nor for passersby but for use against squads of rip off teams that ambush such smugglers. Neither I nor my friend had ever had such an encounter before. With a flash of a friendly waves and tense smiles each side reassured the other and each quickly surmised the other to be more interesting than a threat. And so we closed the gap. They and we spoke in soft, low voices.

Their leader inquired if we had seen any "law." His eyes darted nervously behind dark shades as he munched one end of his handlebar mustache. We informed him of the Forest Service truck we had seen at the head of the trail. His nervousness increased and he conferred in whispers with his fellow coyotes. They decided to continue along their path. We wished them luck and stepped to one side to let them pass and spent the next few days in relative peace, being serenaded by rattlesnakes.

Trickster Must Go

I have an implicit understanding with the coyotes that lurk about my property. They must not cross the perimeter fence surrounding my home during the daylight hours. Their intrusion during the darkness is tolerated. There is nothing I can do about that and really it is welcome as they vacuum up the rodents that damage my sparse garden crops. At night the cats are tucked safely inside my home and the duck into her pen. The dog is asleep in his house and wouldn’t rise to challenge a coyote; they are simply too tough and the dog knows it. During the day, however, the cats and duck are out and about and Trickster is a expected to keep his distance. But he has violated the agreement.

I surprised him around noon a couple of weeks ago. He was sniffing about near what was once a chicken pen. Our encounter was very brief. He spotted me the instant I him and he flung himself over the four foot fence with the greatest of ease and slipped into the tall brush but not before making brief, sneaky eye-contact. Then last week I saw him lope through the yard as if in an effort to flush out anything live. He was searching for targets of opportunity. There are no rabbits within the fenced area that might lure him; he was after a plump cat or duck. These were severe violations of the agreement.

I thought he might be searching for water as this is a desert and we are in a drought. In an attempt to satiate his urgent need for water I have been placing a full bucket in a remote location, emptying it in the morning and refilling it in the evening. Leaving a water source out during the day creates a problem. The coyotes, and bobcats are drawn to it not just to slake their thirst but also to hunt any creature that also needs the water, and of those there are many. The bucket of water becomes a waterhole. By removing it during the day the cats will not run the risk of using it and being ambushed. But that was not sufficient for Trickster. He continued to raid the yard during the day.

I have the right to defend my creatures and if Trickster threatens my pets or livestock I have the right to dispatch him. Trickster made himself a problem and so must go.

So I pulled the slugs from two .308 rifle rounds, emptied out half the powder, stuffed cotton wadding inside the cases to take up the space and hold the remaining powder against the primer. I trimmed off the end of the metal clad slugs so as to cause them to mushroom upon impact and replaced them in their cases and sealed them with a swab of laquer. Two rounds is sufficient. If I hit him with the first round the second would be used to dispatch him. A fully loaded round is simply too powerful. I have neighbors within one quarter of a mile.

Then I got to thinking that I could frighten some animal sense into him with a blank round, so I pulled the slug from a third round and replaced it with cotton wadding; the slug was not replaced. It will be used in the first instance and I will only later employ the deadly rounds if Trickster returns. Trickster, after all, may be female and could have young that are dependent on her. I don’t want to make orphans.

Big in Japan

One of the “to see” features of Japan, if you ever have the good luck of making such an excursion is to Yoyogi park in the metropolis of Tokyo. There you will have a chance to listen, if your ears can take the roar, various bands, most of which are from other parts of the world. And, you will see the Elvis dancers twisting their life away. After the onslaught of sound, which I should warn you sounds like that of a jumbo-jet taking off, the bands will offer themselves up to be worshiped as idols by their Japanese groupies.

There was one particular fellow, a member of some punk band that I am sure is unheard of in the States, that had place himself on display for the admiration of a clutch of overly enthusiastic Japanese girls that had coalesced near him for that purpose. The girls, about a dozen of a very young age, were gathered together at a distance of twenty yards from this specimen of western-rock-hero. They giggled and squealed and clutched each other like…well, like small overly excited children. The object of their admiration was a large pot-bellied lug of a man with a shaved head, dirty white short-sleeved shirt, frayed, grease stained cut-off pants, and high top boots with lug soles. His arms were crossed and he wore the greatest shit-eating smile on his face I have ever seen on anyone, anywhere. Suddenly, one of the girls burst from the group, closed the distance between herself and her hero in a flash, and she threw her arms around him. The brief embrace was returned and she dashed back to her groupies, who squealed delight and enfolded her as if to share the scent of her brief encounter with the exotic. He stood there beaming. Yes, you too could be big in Japan.