Changing Times

While not as tragic as the recent theft in Long Island, things in my neck of the woods aren't good, either. It seems our palm trees are dying.

The good news, for those who care about such things, is that they're being replaced by trees that are actually native to the area, but what's the sense in having opposable thumbs and imagination if not to modify one's surroundings? I'm by no means a fan of palm trees, which I consider to be useless for shade and little more than a home for rats, but they are one of the things film producers can use to instantly locate a scene as being in Los Angeles.

Also, they're a reliable indicator of heavy winds. The day following a blustery night always contains wicked fronds on streets and in gutters, just waiting to upset bike riders or puncture tires.

In spite of my misgivings with them, like so much else in life, my distaste is tempered with a fuzzy, warm association. I once had a dog who'd been rescued (or, "found") from living in the wilds of the Ballona wetlands. This dog, a shar-pei, was no more native to the area than any dog ever is, and was evidently either dropped off or ran away. For a couple weeks anyone driving along the coast could see him, and several attempts were made to capture him. Flyers were put up, alerting his owners to his whereabouts, but no one could grab the unfortunate dog from his home under a solitary palm tree.

Eventually, of course, like we all do, he succumbed to bacon.

He was the first dog to literally die in my arms, but all through our time together I'd think of his life in the wilds. If he could talk, which he couldn't, I'm sure he'd have many thrilling tales to tell of that brief time, a time when he could be a dog and hunt and prowl and survive by his limited wits alone.

He had his own little palm tree, no more than three or four feet high, and now it may be dying, along with the others in LA.