Venom
Remembering 9–11 and how the truth can be vaporized in an instant
The big cat appeared in the pool of light as I stepped into the street. “Bobcat,” I said, backpedaling and nearly stumbling out of my high heels. I was the last to leave the party, hoping for something akin to sobriety before I zig-zagged down the hill. Gerda stood in her doorway.
“Cougar,” she said, as she motioned me toward her. The two of us backed into the house, watching as the cat crossed the street and plunged into the ravine where scrubland met the Angeles Forest.
I didn’t want to be like the guy in the L.A. Times who’d screamed “Tiger, tiger!” to 911 while a cougar dragged his Pomeranian over his backyard fence. I recalled, too, that some weeks ago a parent from the neighborhood grade school had told me that the campus had to be locked down because a young leopard was seen down the block, crouching beneath a hedge of oleander, eyeing the life-size plastic deer in somebody’s yard. If you need help, it’s useful to know the name of your enemy. Puma, mountain lion, cougar. Not bobcat or tiger or leopard.
Last year a cougar surprised a hiker from behind on a suburban mountain trail — it went for the back of her neck and killed her instantly. And there had been those campers who’d fought one off with a pocketknife. One of them had his thumb…
