I got up this morning and was pulling my clothes on when I happened to look out the window and saw a bobcat strolling casually by. The other side of the street rises up an embankment to a fence, and on the other side of the fence, the bobcat sauntered past, accompanied by the shrieking of a number of very freaked out California towhees. No question of ID this time, picture perfect silhouette, white and black stubby tail flashing in the sun.
I did, of course, what any guest would do in this situation–I lunged out of my room, fuzzy socks skidding madly on the hardwod floor, pants held up with one hand, yelling “Bobcatbobcatbobcat!”
Ah. Appears that my host’s new girlfriend spent the night. This would be awkward, except that my CCH, mark of a decent human being, immediately yelled “WHERE!?” and leapt to his feet, and tore out of the front door in response to my pointing and gibbering. The fact that I was standing on the street holding my pants up manually and wearing bright teal underwear didn’t have a patch on the bathrobe he was wearing, so that worked out well enough.
Alas, the bobcat had already wandered off, but at least I tried.
Said girlfriend–who’s really very cool–said, in disbelief, “Bobcats? Here? What, am I in a zoo?”
My host scoffed. “These are LA bobcats.”
“They all have Blackberries and take meetings,” I added.
“Now you have to paint that,” said my host, thereby proving, I suppose, that no matter what coast you’re on, some things never, ever change.
