It's like I live in the third world, but it's the Hollywood Hills.
My sewage backs up, internet service sucks (damn you, AT&T), cell service is spotty
(damn you, Verizon) and coyotes are more aggressive than agents.
My little Jerry, all four pounds of him, were in the mouth of a coyote so big, my son said the beast was six-feet-tall when it stood on its hind legs to jump over our gate.
Little Jerry had stepped out in our enclosed front yard surrounded by a six-foot fence to take care of business. Based on later examination, it appears Jerry was mid-poo when the coyote struck.
Jerry didn't have time to scream, but the sound of a massive beast landing, was enough to concern my teen son who ran out.
There was Jerry, dangling from the mouth of a coyote. I heard my son scream "NO. NO. NO," and I ran.
The coyote dropped his snack, and Jerry ran in the house. He was covered in wolfish saliva and blood.
I did what every one woman does in a crisis: I called my girlfriend. Okay, okay, there's a sound reason. She's a neighbor who recently had her poodle attacked. She told me to me run to the vet because there could be internal injuries and time was of the essence.
It was the longest drive ever, and not because of LA's legendary traffic. Waiting for us was Dr. Connie Chang and the loving staff at TLC in West Hollywood. We learned later, they go through this drill about four times a week.
Dr. Chang, perhaps the most stunning veterinarian on the planet (hello, this is LA) examined our little Chihuahua, took x-rays and could not believe that except for some scratches on Jerry's snout from biting back... he was fine. No punctures, no internal injuries.
Jerry was beyond lucky.
I keep a statue of St. Francis, the patron saint of animals, in the front yard. St. Francis stands at the very spot where Jerry was dropped from the jaws of the coyote.
Jerry pauses and stares at the "spot" every time we go out. Jerry may see the scene of the crime; I see the scene of a blessing.