A few days ago I received two phone calls from my neighbors then ran into a third neighbor who mentioned the same thing: A mile up the road from my house were two Game Warden vehicles and out of the vehicles came 8 or more men dressed in camo from head to toe.
These men were even wearing camouflage face paint and were carrying very large assault rifles.
They unloaded from the trucks and disappeared into the bushes and down a steep trail where I have never seen a human go before.
I’d seen a coyote and two rattlesnakes go down that trail, but never a human.
All three neighbors asked the same thing: What do you think these camouflaged, gun-toting guys are doing running down a trail where people usually don’t go?
Well, I thought to myself, you have come to the right person because I have my figure on the pulse of this mountain. I am “in the know.”
To each and everyone my reply was the same. I told them that I heard there had been a pot farm bust the week before at a different location on the mountain and that this was probably a continuation of the same operation.
All three of my neighbors reply was the same. “Are you sure they’re not going to shoot the lions? They were in Game Warden trucks?”
“Nay-nay” said I.
They wouldn’t go to all the trouble to shoot a couple of lions that hadn’t hurt anyone.
My neighbors breathed sighs of relief and went about their day. Except one. I’m not going to mention her name because she is a friend and I wouldn’t want to make her look bad.
My mind was spinning. I was angry. How could they?
The lions hadn’t hurt anyone.
I needed to do something and I needed to do it fast. I had to stop eight burly guys with semi-automatic weapons from shooting my beloved lions.
So I looked down at the fluffy white poodle I was dog sitting and sprang into action. I threw little Chloe along with Moondoggie in my car and drove up the mountain.
The Game warden trucks were parked along the road at the hairpin turn, a turn I call The Bay Tunnel. I was shaking with anger when I parked my Volvo station wagon behind one of the extended cab, Eddie Bauer green 4wd trucks and jumped out of my car in to the dirt shoulder.
“Excuse me, Excuse me, Hey, is there is anyone one there? Don’t shoot me.”
“Is anyone around, hello?” I yelled to the camo game warden and his crew.
I had relocated two rattlesnakes to this very path and the last time was hiking in yoga pants near rattlesnakes well, all I can say is—Sixty-Six Vials Of Antivenin.
I started to get stickers in the bottom of my yoga pants and I looked down to see a fine layer of dust over my Boca Raton Pedicure and my Cole Hahns.
I had visions in my head or stripping down to my undies and swinging through the trees holding a spear, a la Avatar.
I could hear the Door’s song, “The End,” playing in my head as I saw myself slowly ascending from the bottom of a pond in front of the Game Warden and his team of killers dressed in my own, more fashionable camo make-up, with a knife between my teeth.
A wild berry vine looped over my foot and scratched my ankle so I turned back.