headed up Old San Jose Road toward home. You haven't come up with one useful new idea. Forget this obsession with that damn murder. You're not doing anyone any good, least of all yourself.
It was true. Watching the dark redwood clumps and open meadows of the Soquel Valley slip by outside my windows, I felt like a person slowly waking up from a bad dream. This was home, this was Santa Cruz County, where I'd been born and raised, where I now lived and worked. Tahoe, Joanna, Jack's death, were all part of a strange other world, one that began to recede as I started to focus on my own life again.
In another mile I pulled up in front of my house and smiled. It was still there. A small cabin on the bank of Soquel Creek, the house was built of redwood half rounds; I'd painted it red brown with dark green trim, and it had a little-home-in-the-woods look to it. The "homey" look was enhanced by the tabby cat sitting on the front porch-my most recent animal acquisition.
I'd first seen this cat six months ago, a fluffy tabby with a white chest and paws and a lynxlike face, meowing at my front door. When he'd hung around for two days, meowing steadily, I bought a box of dry cat food at the grocery store and left some on the front porch for him. He ate the food, but continued to meow at the door.
I was absolutely certain I did not want a house cat. Blue was more than enough in the way of animals shedding on the furniture. I left the food out because I felt sorry for the tabby, who was obviously a stray or lost, but I definitely did not want him in the house.
The cat had other ideas. Despite the fact that I kept food in his bowl at all times, and there was a creek full of water right next to the back door, he screamed and screamed in an ever increasing crescendo. He could screech like a Siamese-raucous, loud wails that were starting to drive me nuts. Two weeks into the siege I'd reached the breaking point.
Sweeping my front porch as he wove between my legs and yowled at me, I lost my temper and swept him off the porch with the broom. The distance from porch to ground was all of two and a half feet, but the cat hobbled off on three legs, packing his right hind foot.
I caught him, of course, and hauled him into the small-animal clinic in Soquel, and, sure enough, he'd broken his leg. So much for cats falling from three-story windows and landing unharmed. Motivated largely by guilt, I'd had the leg cast, had the cat neutered and given his shots, then kept him in a cage (in my bedroom) for the two months it had taken him to heal. After that, there wasn't much point in arguing; he was my cat.
I'd named him Coleman Bonner, after one of my favorite Guy Clark songs, and now, though I might pretend to be resigned, I actually couldn't imagine not having a cat, I'd grown so used to his presence.
He opened his mouth in a loud meow as I got out of the truck; apparently he was convinced that sufficient noise would get him anything he wanted, a not unreasonable point of view, considering his history.
"I'm coming, Bonner," I told him, as I reached back into the cab to lift Blue out. The old dog's stiffness (always worse in the winter) had increased so much in recent months that he could no longer jump in or out of the truck; he had to be carried. He growled softly as I set him on the ground, a ritual complaint at the indignities of age, then licked my hand to show he meant nothing by it.
I watched him snap at the cat, and smiled. It was a token snap, with no intent to damage, more for the fun of it and to show he was boss. Bonner seemed to understand, merely fluffing his tail and scooting out of the way. He wasn't afraid of Blue, and sometimes allowed the dog to maul his neck in a mock "attack," something Blue delighted in.
Following the cat's loudly shouted directions, I let myself into the house, Bonner scampering ahead of me and Blue stumping along behind, and was pleased to see that everything looked intact. I'd just finished redoing the
It was true. Watching the dark redwood clumps and open meadows of the Soquel Valley slip by outside my windows, I felt like a person slowly waking up from a bad dream. This was home, this was Santa Cruz County, where I'd been born and raised, where I now lived and worked. Tahoe, Joanna, Jack's death, were all part of a strange other world, one that began to recede as I started to focus on my own life again.
In another mile I pulled up in front of my house and smiled. It was still there. A small cabin on the bank of Soquel Creek, the house was built of redwood half rounds; I'd painted it red brown with dark green trim, and it had a little-home-in-the-woods look to it. The "homey" look was enhanced by the tabby cat sitting on the front porch-my most recent animal acquisition.
I'd first seen this cat six months ago, a fluffy tabby with a white chest and paws and a lynxlike face, meowing at my front door. When he'd hung around for two days, meowing steadily, I bought a box of dry cat food at the grocery store and left some on the front porch for him. He ate the food, but continued to meow at the door.
I was absolutely certain I did not want a house cat. Blue was more than enough in the way of animals shedding on the furniture. I left the food out because I felt sorry for the tabby, who was obviously a stray or lost, but I definitely did not want him in the house.
The cat had other ideas. Despite the fact that I kept food in his bowl at all times, and there was a creek full of water right next to the back door, he screamed and screamed in an ever increasing crescendo. He could screech like a Siamese-raucous, loud wails that were starting to drive me nuts. Two weeks into the siege I'd reached the breaking point.
Sweeping my front porch as he wove between my legs and yowled at me, I lost my temper and swept him off the porch with the broom. The distance from porch to ground was all of two and a half feet, but the cat hobbled off on three legs, packing his right hind foot.
I caught him, of course, and hauled him into the small-animal clinic in Soquel, and, sure enough, he'd broken his leg. So much for cats falling from three-story windows and landing unharmed. Motivated largely by guilt, I'd had the leg cast, had the cat neutered and given his shots, then kept him in a cage (in my bedroom) for the two months it had taken him to heal. After that, there wasn't much point in arguing; he was my cat.
I'd named him Coleman Bonner, after one of my favorite Guy Clark songs, and now, though I might pretend to be resigned, I actually couldn't imagine not having a cat, I'd grown so used to his presence.
He opened his mouth in a loud meow as I got out of the truck; apparently he was convinced that sufficient noise would get him anything he wanted, a not unreasonable point of view, considering his history.
"I'm coming, Bonner," I told him, as I reached back into the cab to lift Blue out. The old dog's stiffness (always worse in the winter) had increased so much in recent months that he could no longer jump in or out of the truck; he had to be carried. He growled softly as I set him on the ground, a ritual complaint at the indignities of age, then licked my hand to show he meant nothing by it.
I watched him snap at the cat, and smiled. It was a token snap, with no intent to damage, more for the fun of it and to show he was boss. Bonner seemed to understand, merely fluffing his tail and scooting out of the way. He wasn't afraid of Blue, and sometimes allowed the dog to maul his neck in a mock "attack," something Blue delighted in.
Following the cat's loudly shouted directions, I let myself into the house, Bonner scampering ahead of me and Blue stumping along behind, and was pleased to see that everything looked intact. I'd just finished redoing the
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