My home in California is a lovely community, really. It also happens to be a planned community, which rhymes with “bland community,” which I’ve decided is more synchronicity than coincidence.
It’s got community pools and parks. It’s got treelined streets, with whimsical, two-part names like Plum Feather and Twinflower that make me wonder if the developer trained a street-naming monkey to pick slips of paper printed with random words out of a bowl (“Plum? Feather? Why not?”). It’s the kind of place where, if the neighbors spoke to one another, they’d say things like, “Have a great day!”
But the neighbors don’t say much. The houses are clustered around shared driveways, essentially short alleys with three houses on each side that face one another. It’s a design I hoped would encourage mingling but doesn’t. The evening before our moving van arrived in the summer of 2021, I introduced myself to our neighbors to say hello and let them know the moving van might be blocking our shared driveway in the morning. I met a few people and learned a few names, but I haven’t spoken much with the neighbors since.
And it’s bland. There are so many ochre houses, my heart skips a beat when I find one painted a bold shade of beige. The houses look so much alike that shortly after we moved here, my husband walked through an open door and felt right at home until he thought to question how I’d managed to start renovating the kitchen in the time it took him to take his afternoon walk.
It’s so bland, the biggest source of excitement up to now has been my neighbor’s habit of leaving a basket of onions on her front step. I’m dying to ask her why, but when you haven’t interacted with your neighbor in over two years except for an occasional wave, “What’s up with the onions?” isn’t the best conversation starter. I’ve Googled the onions. I’ve asked friends from a wide range of backgrounds and traditions, but we’ve all come up with nothing. The leading theory (my husband’s) is it’s her way of warding off bad neighbors.
That bland. But just as I’m starting to see my community as one big metaphor for the late-stage midlife I don’t want to have, things begin looking up. Thanks to the Cougar.
At the end of every shared driveway is a wall, some of which include a door so walkers like us can cut through to the next street over. You’ll find one of these doors at the end of the shared driveway around the corner from us. A little shared driveway we’ve come to refer to as Cougar Alley.
At a distance, the Cougar may not give you pause. He’s cleverly disguised as a sizable house cat – grey fur with black stripes, white paws, and a red collar typical of the species Felis catus. His primary mission in life seems to involve guarding the door in the wall at the end of Cougar Alley and proclaiming in Cat that no one shall pass who fails to answer three questions (he’s clearly a Monty Python fan). This Cougar’s also one smart cookie, as evidenced by the three birdfeeders hanging from a tree near his post. When the Cougar disappears for a week or so, the birdfeeders sit empty. When he’s back, they’re full again. Coincidence? I think not.
Each time we approach the door at the end of Cougar Alley, the Cougar advances to meet us with a supersized, drawn-out meow. We sidestep to the left – he cuts us off. We sidestep to the right – he cuts us off again. We respond with a clever defensive strategy known as the “Save Yourself,” which involves turning and speedwalking away while looking over our shoulders to make sure the Cougar doesn’t follow us. He doesn’t, although I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him pick up a piece of chalk between his teeth and notch a tally mark on the wall.
I decide I need to consult Heather. Heather is my hair stylist and an important person in my life. She’s an absolute curly hair whisperer, dyes her own hair an awesome shade of blue that tempts me to try a purple streak someday, and is one of the sweetest people I’ve met in Southern California. If I could live in a community of Heathers, I would. She also happens to be fluent in Cat.
When I describe my interactions with the Cougar at my next hair appointment, Heather laughs and insists he’s just trying to say hello – persistently maybe, but Heather swears if I stand still and lower my eyes so the Cougar knows I’m not a threat, I’ll make my first friend in the neighborhood. Heather’s so confident she’s right, she promises me free haircuts for life if she’s wrong.
I love Heather. I trust her with my hair, which is a huge limb for me to go out on for anyone. But as much as I believe she’s right about the Cougar, there’s a part of me that’s still skeptical. And when I come home that afternoon with a fabulous haircut and a story to share with my husband, he’s skeptical too, until I get to the part about the free haircuts.
“Free haircuts for life?” His eyes widen.
I point out that Heather was obviously joking about the free haircuts for life. That it was just her way of making a point. And that even if she was serious, the only way I’d get free haircuts for life is if the Cougar mauls me.
“Free haircuts,” he repeats, but it’s an assertion now, not a question. “For life.”
Let’s just say I decline to walk in Cougar Alley with my husband for the next few days.
But I do decide to walk in Cougar Alley by myself. One morning, when the husband’s safely at work, I collect my courage and head over. As I pass the alarmingly full birdfeeders and approach the door in the wall, the Cougar leaps out from behind a bush and blocks my path. This time, I don’t sidestep left or right. I don’t speedwalk away. I stand there, lower my eyes, and look back up. The Cougar advances, stops in front of me, and flops over onto his back, revealing a belly full of fluffy, white fur.
What do you do when your nemesis, whom you need so badly to be a fearsome Cougar, turns out to be a pussycat who wants nothing more than a rub on the tummy?
I’ll tell you what I do. I do what I can to keep the legend going. Not today Cougar, I say, I know all about the birdfeeders. I’m on to your little games. I’m not falling for this clever trap! And the Cougar rights himself, rubs against my leg with a mellifluous purr, and dives into the bushes.
I make my way through the door in the wall at the end of the driveway, but not before I hear one last meow. I don’t speak any more Cat than I did ten minutes ago (i.e., zero), but it sounds a lot like “It’s just so bland around here! Same time tomorrow?”
Not a scratch on me. Heather will be thrilled. But don’t tell my husband. He’ll be so disappointed.
Nice to discover you over at CK’s Funny and Friendly series! I’m sorry you’ve moved away from the Cougar. His life will be more drab than ochre now … unless he squeezed himself into your moving truck when no one was looking. I half-hope he did. Le Chat looks like he could use an adventure.
Delightful!