don't feed a stray puppy unless you intend to keep it.

This morning the trash trucks were ENDLESS and SOOOOO loud! I couldn't sleep one minute from 2 am to 6 am, so when I got back from taking Sophie to the bus stop at 7:30 am, I tried to sleep.
It was one those mornings when JUST as I was dozing off, another monster big truck came up the hill. I live on a hill. The top house at the end of a cul-de-sac. This house is like a fort that looks over all her neighbors, can see any enemy approaching.

Only we're not ALL the way up the mountain. We're just half way. So - no city views of LA sprawling in all her twinkly glory and chaos - just "Canyon" views. (That 's what the realtors call them) I can sit out on my front terrace on a beautiful evening and look across the hills (Adam Levine lives right across from me, and Pee Wee Herman), and as the sun goes down (especially) I pretend I am in the hills outside of Rome. Or in the South of France.
But on a morning like this one - I remember I'm in LA. Land of giant trash trucks. Do I want to kill them - or yell at them? NO! Not today!!!! Not NOW!!!!!

Quite the contrary! I want to go give each man on each truck a flower and say "thank you!" This dangerous, irresponsible balogna in Wisconsin has me thinking about massive trash-worker strikes to come, teachers striking, etc. Have you ever BEEN to a city when the trash workers are on strike? Have you ever BEEN to Mexico (real Mexico - not just the resorts)where the whole country is a "right to work" situation?
I'm sorry for this little side rant - but I WANT my trash picked up by people who are decently paid and cared for. I don't want to do that job! Nor do I want to be a police officer, or a teacher in most of the decrepit, falling down public schools in this country - or a FIREMAN! And YES! I want those people to be adequately PAID!!! I DO! Their jobs are important! On a daily basis! SUPER IMPORTANT! I DON'T want to live in Mexico, thank you very much - where the rich people hide away behind walls and electric fences and machine-gun armed guards. I love this state. I love California. Sometimes, I wish we were our own country.

Anyway - sorry for that side note - where was I?
Oh yes.
Couldn't sleep. For many reasons (as usual), but the last of them was the stray puppy problem.
Let me explain.

When we first moved into this house, a family of raccoons let themselves in through the cat door and left paw prints all over the house, ate all the cat food and made a big mess, and also got into some chips and things.It was adorable. Seeing all the different, distinct sizes of paw prints. But someone said "Don't feed them - or they'll never leave you alone."
Well, we did feed them. Izzy and Max and Sophie used to feed the raccoons cookies out their hands. The raccoons would come right up to them and take the cookies, becoming more bold every week.

Then, it became clear that if ANY food was left out on the sun porch - the raccoons would have a field day and make a great big mess while they were at it. My house sits on 2 acres in the Hollywood Hills. Almost all of the land is in the back of the property, and most of it is super hilly and wild. We have all kinds of animals back there. Families of deer make their way through the back yard, even coming down to the house when they get really hot and thirsty. And skunks. And a giant white barn owl in the pine tree out front. (he is REALLY magical!) And I am woken up (on non-trash days) by tropical sounding birds. And there are hummingbirds all over, and....COYOTES.

A couple years ago, when Alex was living here (renting a room) - we had a coyote that decided he was our pet. The girls felt sorry for him and wanted to feed him. Even Max had a soft spot for this mangy thing.He would come down and make himself comfortable on our sun-porch furniture. Alex took a great photo of him out there - just lounging on a wicker couch, like a big, mangy stuffed animal.

"Don't feed him!" I kept telling the kids.
"But MOM!" Izzy and Sophie replied, "He's obviously lost from the pack - and he's so sweet! He thinks he's our pet!"
"Yea, we could have a pet coyote." Max chimed in (mostly sarcastic I think)
"No, no, no!" I protested. "We are NOT having a 'pet' coyote. Absolutely NOT!"
The girls looked out at the lonely, skinny thing sadly.
"Don't FEED HIM." I said again, firmly.

Well, last night, that lesson came back in a whole other form. Sometimes, people are more like pets than we might realize.

At midnight, an old friend of Max's waltzed into the house without knocking or anything.I'm just going to call him 'Sonny'.
Sonny has been around for a LONG time. All through the Shia and Mike G days...and when Max and WICKER started playing out, Sonny was at every show. Always ending up on our couch, and hanging around half the next day until I would give him a ride to the metro.He got really comfy around here. Helped himself to cereal, or whatever... (which is fine), lounged around on my couch watching super bad TV at a high volume.
Then I'd take him to the metro, and damned if that boy didn't ask me out on a date. Several times.
"Sonny," I'd laugh, "Don't be crazy. I'm WAYYYY too old for you!"
"That's ok." he would say in his high, soft voice (he kind of sounds like Michael Jackson)"I like older women. You look like you're 28 to me.We could get a beer sometime."

It got to the point that I would get real sketched out when he slept over.
"MAX!", I'd pull Max aside to say, "I don't want to give him a ride to the metro...he's gonna ask me out!"
Then I'd get in my car and haul out of here pronto.

Well, the years have gone by, and Sonny still goes to all of the shows - but he stopped asking me out, so that's good. But the thing is - he's like that coyote. Max just let him stay here for all of those years on our couch, and now Sonny thinks he's part of the family. Only he's not - and he lives far away. So, the other night, when he waltzed in here without knocking, I said, "Hey, Sonny. Are you looking for Max?"
"Yea. Yea is he here?"
"He's in his room."
I assumed Max had asked him over or spoken to him, but when I knocked, then opened Max's door, he bolted up from a deep sleep (almost knocking Tess over - who was quietly doing stuff on her computer at the foot of the bed)and barked "What the hell, Sonny? What are you doing here!? It's MIDNIGHT!"

It was chaos for 5 minutes while Max jumped out of bed in his boxers and practically chased Sonny out the door (it ALMOST sounded like he was saying "BAD dog!"), Tess and I couldn't help but burst into giggles, and Max glared at me, demanding to know why I'd "let him in."

"I didn't let him in!" I protested "He let HIMSELF in!"

So, that's the thing, Max. You can't feed a stray puppy unless you're going to keep him.