It’s Valentine’s Day! In honor of the most overhyped pseudo-holiday of the year I shall write a touching meditation on love.
This morning at Mt. Sanitas I witnessed what had to be the most unbridled display of passion ever. Something with big teeth and claws had taken down a deer about 20 yards off the trail last night and let me tell you, the yellow lab that was feasting on the fresh carcass was seriously in love with life. He was like a pig in mud, a kid in a candy store, me after I unloaded 100 items. He was all in there.
His owner was all the way down the trail, completely oblivious and I was like, “HEY LADY! YOUR DOG IS GOING TO TOWN ON A BLOODY DEER CARCASS OVER HERE! I just thought you might want to know.”
Then another woman walked up and got all Clan of the Cave Bear and recreated the struggle for her hiking partner.
Crouching over the body she was all, “The mature deer was killed over here where the liver is still left intact. Hmm. Odd. Then the body was dragged over here where it was eaten. Mountain lions tend to eat the body cavity while coyotes start at the haunches. Both are missing. The broken neck leads me to believe that it was a large cat that did this.”
I piped in, “Then why isn’t it underneath a tree? Huh? Mountain lions attack their prey from above, thus breaking their spines quickly and efficiently. Are you sure it wasn’t a cave bear?”
I’m totally talking out my ass but I needed a piece of that action! I’ve been listening to The Dog Stars by Peter Heller on my walks and it’s one of those post-apocolyptic-survivalist books. I’ve got hunting and jerky on the brain.
That’s about as mushy as I get over Valentine’s Day. Zeb knows better than to buy me flowers. I don’t like getting them. I’m not going to be a dick about it if someone gets them for me because I appreciate any gesture of love, but really, don’t ever get me flowers.
One, because most are grown in hothouses where women and children work in clouds of carcinogenic pesticides for pennies an hour (ain’t I a drag?) and two, because after enjoying the flowers from Zeb’s garden, flower shop blossoms all look like cardboard. Most of the time I’m just waiting for them to die so can get my counter space back. I know. What. A. Bitch.
I happily enjoy the English heirloom roses cut from the garden. Their beauty is unmatched by anything that can survive all the processing and travel required of commercial flowers and their smell is to die for. Cherry bark, green tea, bergamot, tangerine, grapefruit, musk, it’s pure perfume. The petals usually fall off within two days which gets them off my counter.
Zeb has a way with roses. His philosophy boils down to “If they die, then they were weak and didn’t deserve to live.” He is patient with them, though. He takes a couple of days each spring to savagely cut them back and seal the canes with glue, his arms get ripped to shreds in doing so but in the spring they are ridiculous. I fancied myself a gardener once but figured out quickly that he is the master of this garden. I just tell him what I want and he puts it in the dirt.
You can always tell where he’s been between April and October because there is usually a freshly cut rose on the counter. Sometimes I find one on my dashboard in my car. I simply couldn’t love him more.
I’m going a little limp today because I’m busy and Zeb is taking me to see Habib Koite at the Boulder Theater tonight, so I won’t have time to write after dinner. The last time I saw him I was pregnant with Testiclese, ah, memories.
These curtain panels are from the basement of doom. I got a card from a vintage vinyl dealer yesterday and I’m gonna make the call, but first I need to make some room for the man to work.