What’s on my mind? My son loves his Mama. That’s good, because I love him, too. A few days ago, my son warned me of a news report that locals on the island where we live have sighted at least one cougar. Tell me something I don’t know. A news story quoted a neighbor that:
“It’s stalking our street, it’s stalking our neighbourhood and it’s not going away. We’re used to cougars here, we have cougars coming through all the time.”
After an aside that a cougar had killed and eaten a local cat, one woman said: “It was pretty upsetting so we’ve been kind of worried about our little chihuahuas.”
Chihuahuas? Hah! Those damn cougars are stalking bigger prey.
This island is full of cougars. One’s even been patrolling our street, always on the look out. Many’s the time I’ve told Himself to: “Run, you fool! Run!” as I stand my ground, snarling: “BACK OFF, BITCH!”
Plenty of retirees live here. Those effin’ cougars are sittin’ pretty - and I and every other woman in this village keeps a close watch.
Unfortunately, what we elderly women lack in muscle, we make up for in flab. So when a cougar moves in for the attack, it’s hard to snatch back what’s ours.
We of the unmuscular, flabby persuasion see cougars every day! Even as they purr and smile with their big, white teeth. we’re guarded as they approach. Every unmuscular, flabby woman in this village knows how to spot the tell-tale signs of a cougar in our midst - the high heels; the makeup on their calves to camouflage their varicose veins; the fake lashes flapping in time to their Botoxed lips.
Our little island is chock-a-block with widowers. Cougars can smell a newly minted widower a mile away. Once a cougar isolates the weakest from the herd, she thinks she can move in. We unmuscular, flabby types (with cows where our calves used to be) fret over who to trust in a tryst … Husband? Cougar? Husband? Cougar? Husband?
I never worry about Himself. I know how to fashion a pretty good lassoo. I rope him in by the neck, and we’re all good. If truth be told, I don’t even need to rope him in by the neck or any other body part ... He’s m’ lovin’ man.
Some neighbor snapped a fuzzy photo of a cougar in his garden. This is the shot he took:
We unmuscular, flabby women know a cougar when we see one, and that’s no cougar, honey. That’s Bigfoot.
© Nicole Parton, 2020
