2001

Greetings!

It’s been a sad year-my beloved cat “Whiskers” (age 14 ½) died in July after a few months of serious medical problems. Then the horrible terrorist attacks on our country in September brought an added and nation-wide bereavement. So Christmas is not so “Merry.”

Ironically I had just been to an air show in nearby Paso Robles September 9th, particularly admiring the wonderful Navy “Hornet” fighter plane--and the fine young men piloting it. Military aircraft always made me feel so “protected.” Then two days later it became apparent that we are not protected at all against insidious terrorist horrors. A new kind of war. (On the whole I prefer the old.) And now our fighter planes can be forced to shoot down our own passenger aircraft if they are again hijacked by terrorists.

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I was heartbroken at losing Whiskers, my feline “best friend” of so many years. At the end of summer I didn’t feel ready to get a new cat, since no one can take his place. But I accompanied a neighbor (who does volunteer work for an animal rescue group and takes in “foster kittens”) to the pound at the end of August. The pound in this area is called “Animal Regulation” and comes under the County Sheriff’s jurisdiction--in the same building as the JAIL. The place is a jarring array of armed, uniformed deputies, teenagers fetching their criminal pals being released from stir, and a cacophony of barking dogs. The cats don’t make much sound, and t heir cages are small and depressing. Animal-loving volunteers post written notes of appeal on each cage: “My name is _____,” with a description of his/her endearing qualities, in hope of attracting human adoptive parents.

As I walked along the row of feline inmates and read their labels one frail little kitten (“Hello! My name is Jazz! I’m four months old, and I love humans!”) kept reaching both front paws out through the bars of his cage and grabbing my arm. I think he was telling me something: “Get me out of here!” I asked to hold him, and he cuddled happily purring in my arms. I just couldn’t leave such a cute little kitten there in that awful place on Death Row, so I went through the bureaucratic paperwork process and adopted him.

At my house, little Jazz-for whom I couldn’t think of another name, though jazz is not my favorite music-was forlorn and obviously lonely every day when I left him for work. He craved someone to play with and I didn’t have much time for that even when I came home. Also, his being reduced to practicing feline fighting skills on my ankles and hands was not much fun for me. So I took in another kitten a couple months later, whom my neighbor had been fosteringa feral one, who oddly enough likes humans. This is “Butterball,” aka Butterfield, Butterscotch, Buttercup, Butterfingers and Butterface. He’s orange marmalade in coloring, younger and smaller than Jazz. After a couple of weeks they got used to each other and became pals, having play fights and noisy gallops around the house, then nestling together for naps. So things seem to be working out satisfactorily. And Jazz has stopped attacking my legs. They both climb aboard for lap time after dinner and they’re already snoozing on my bed when I turn in. This puts me into the role of pseudo-mother cat.

Jazz, being black with a white bib, eyebrows, whiskers and tummy--and white paws with black pads--looks like something created by Walt Disney. (His personality as well. When I come home in the afternoon, he lies over on his back and waves those paws in the air, then does a deft barrel roll after his tummy has been rubbed.)

There is less to report on my frog friends; there were usually three or four encamped on the rims of the “rain barrels” all summer, but not much song. Now that we have a bit of a rainy season I haven’t seen much of them. Where do they go in the meantime?

Human activities this past year comprise the usual trips to Carmel, Santa Barbara and San Francisco, various concerts and movies, etc. The favorite movies that provided respite from these trying times were “The Closet” (French), “Bread and Tulips” (Italian), and “Greenfingers” (English). Lots of laughs and some heartwarming aspects which we sorely need these days. If you haven’t seen them in the theatres, try to get the videos!

As for movies from the production angle--I again stumbled into a film shoot. This time in nearby San Luis Obispo. (Normally this just happens to me in Los Angeles.)Walking along minding my own business I saw all the masses of huge black electric cables, trucks and film crew chaps flailing about with walkie-talkies. But a sign on the sidewalk said “Shops open for business,” so I kept going. A civilian crew fellow tried to stop me, but another one, evidently higher in authority (he had the walkie-talkie) held out his arm with a grand gesture and said “NO! LET HER PASS!(Dazzled by my great beauty, or just my beautiful red hat?)

So I marched on, in what I hoped was a regal manner, in case any cameras should focus on me. But I could see nocameras anywhere, no director. There were two “cherrypicker” trucks aiming strong lights into the windows of a room above one of the shops on a corner, and I heard a director shout “Roll it!” but saw nothing. All the action must have been inside that room above. Then the director’s voice again, “CUT!”

I went along to do my errands in a drugstore, where I learned that the movie was to be called “Foolproof,” starring Sandra Bullock. I went back the same way and started to turn left at the filming corner. A crew member barred my crossing the street: “Please wait one moment…” Then we heard a voiceyelling “CUT!” and he said, “OK, you can go now,” and off I went, to the reality of my prosaic errands.

It remains to be seen whether my 10 to 15 seconds offame are in the works. My show biz career has been unduly slow coming into full bloom, but one always hopes.

However, an erstwhile neighbor has had great success in his screenwriting career. After some years of making a living at it but never seeing his work actually produced, he finally has a real live movie, which premiered Sept. 28: “Don’t Say a Word.” Starring Michael Douglas. The local theatre luckily opened the film the same date (normally it would be weeks later), and he bought up 175 seats for all his friends.(This left only 150 seats for the rest of the public.). It was exciting, with everyone greeting and congratulating him out in front of the theatre, and he bursting out of his skin with joy. Then when we were all seated and the credits began to roll,his name came up on the screen and we yelled and cheered and applauded (which continued again after we came out at the end). His name is Tony Peckham (on the screen it says“Anthony”), andhe’s from South Africa, but has lived here a few years after fleeing the crowded L.A. scene.

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Look forward to your news, and hope you and yours are OK. Best wishes for Christmas and the New Year.