Ada said to me yesterday that abandoned blogs are among the saddest things on the internet. I agree. There should be a blog catcher out rounding up and imprisoning these forsaken pets. Adoption rates are low and, unlike babies, you can’t just send them back to Russia if their care turns out to be too onerous.
So. A Highland Street update:
Ada and I met for coffee a few blocks from the house this morning. She drove and I walked so we could pretend to actually meet there, plus the weather’s delightful and I wanted to stretch the legs and circulate the chi. I know almost nothing about the chi, but I like to keep it moving nonetheless.
We gossiped and came up with a gameplan for our week and then parted ways like couples do in the morning. On my way home I saw a sizeable bunny rabbit on the loose. It was too fat and adorable to be a wild rabbit, but it looked extremely intent on becoming one.
This weekend I learned the adjective piebald from a National Geographic article on foxes bred to be housepets. Piebald just means spots. Wild spotted animals usually don’t live long enough to pass those genetic presentations along, but cuteness and variety become assets after domestication. The rabbit was black and white piebald.
I left the rabbit having its panic attack under a mini-van and continued up Highland Street. The folks with the really agressive pit bull puppy that enjoys snacking on any fingers poked through the treated wood fence has recently built 4 skinny raised beds in their very small front yard. The beds are roughly the dimensions of four small coffins neatly lined up in expectation of catastrophe. The pit bull cannot be happy with this sudden loss of what was already precious little space to tear around threatening to maul passers by.
A few more houses up a dad was flagging down his wife and daughters as they drove off. He waved a colorful sweater with great enthusiasm, like a matador, but instead of a vengeful bull he was attracting the attention of a minivan (no rabbits underneath) loaded down with the women in his life.
A few more doors up I came across the frozen scene of the yard enclosed by a chain link fence where a society of elders dwell in placid stasis. For years I’ve been walking by this interactive portrait of three old women and one old man sitting on the porch. I wave, three out of four wave or nod back in unison, and the grouchy little dog gives a grouchy little bark. No words are ever spoken. They seem to be getting along just fine.
Across the street from number 54 Eli and his towheaded boychild were engaged in another frontporch-soccer matchup. They overturn a long bench to block the steps so the ball doesn’t get out of bounds and furious pound back and forth on the tiny pitch enthusiastically wearing the paint off the floorboards. Holland is being home schooled, so this must have been the athletic period.
I worry about those tamed foxes. I really do. They may relish the affections of their owners and be comfortable in their piebald coats as they lounge on stylish furniture instead of in underground dens, but will they be able to resist an occasional live chicken or nervous bunny snack? Will they be as adorable with gore smeared snouts? I’m comforted that they are still a luxury item for the Russian oligarchs who formerly wore the relatives of their beloved pets, and who presumably live in dachas furnished without prey animals competing for pet love.