Urban Coyote

Woof!

Miley Coyote here. You’ve seen me loping around the neighborhood. Bet you thought I was just gallivanting, but I do have a job, so if I’m moving, I’m on my way to work. Sustainably on my own four paws, I might add. Instead of burning filthy fossil fuels like some species I won’t name, I’m using organic rabbits as fuel. They breed like, you know, rabbits, so when I eat one, a dozen more pop out right behind them. Renewable.

First, the elephant on the block. We coyotes all look the same to you, but you know the one I mean: name rhymes with Smiley, goes around setting crazy traps to catch a roadrunner. And the traps always backfire. You and your pups watch him Saturday mornings, laughing your tails off when he gets flattened by a steamroller, slingshots himself straight into the ground, or gets hit by a train.

What’s up with that? Why are we always the bad guys?

All this time, you thought you got the joke — the bird owns the company that makes the traps, so of course they backfire! Thing is, the joke’s on you, because a coyote would never look twice at a roadrunner. They’re just not good eatin’. Think about it. All that cardio, zooming around the badlands equals no body fat and meat tough enough to break your teeth. Not to mention “meep-meep” is nails on a chalkboard.

So you’ll never see us chasing roadrunners. No, we work for a living. Me, I do public service announcements. Yup, when you hear us yipping, we’re spreading the news — and sports and weather.

My beat is local traffic. I’m watching you drive to work and taking notes, so you don’t get mowed down by some human propelling a two-ton deadly weapon. You’re welcome.

I get paid ten rabbits a week, with a bonus deer shoulder from time to time if my pack had good Will [Rogers State Park] hunting. Sure, it’s less than Alpha gets, but it’s enough for me, the wife, and pups, and I can usually catch a snack or two at work if I meet a slow squirrel.

They pay me the big bucks — see what I did there?— because I save lives.

Okay, just clocked in. Time to get to it. Today, if you see one of these three, run — or roll — far away and fast. But don’t speed, or you’ll be in my next report!

The stop roller

I’ve seen this a million times. Dude gets to the stop sign, slows down, takes a quick look, then leadfoots the gas and out of there. They even call it a California Stop because it’s so common around here.

A victimless crime? Maybe nine times out of ten, it is. But the tenth time... You’re distracted, feel bad after yelling at your pups. Or you’re texting. Sipping coffee. Unwrapping a breakfast sandwich. Wiping egg off your shirt from said sandwich. Shaving. Clipping your toenails — BOOM! Came out of nowhere, didn’t he?

Admit it. You’ve done it. But I’m not talking about you. I’m talking about the guy who’s run so many stop signs, he doesn’t even see them anymore. And if he doesn’t see the stop sign, he doesn’t see anything else, including you.

Eyeballs: use ’em or lose ’em.

Look out, there’s a bad one today. I’ve seen him three times, and I just started. Lives on Oak Street, west of the airport, drives his black Ford Ranger pickup through the neighborhood every day. He’s never met a stop sign he actually stopped for.

Avoid Oak Street for a while, maybe forever.

The speeder

Most speeders roar around in Mustangs or Porsches, but you also see them in low-end Hondas or Nissans sporting aftermarket toys and bling. The guy I saw today is driving a 1997 metallic purple Altima with fancy wheels and a 400+hp V8 stuffed under the hood. Guy thinks he’s on the straightaway at Indy 500 every time he hits the gas pedal, even around here.

I saw him just now doing 50 in a school zone, and he nearly took out a dog walker and her six fares at the corner of Pearl and 14th. The freaked-out puppers tried to bolt in all directions but luckily the pack leader hung on. So did the dog walker.

The pack leader’s a retired K-9 named Belle. Woof, drop-dead gorgeous. What? I’m married, not dead. Belle told me to get lost, said she had it under control. The dog walker just picked her jaw off the ground and backed away.

If not for your sake, then for your friends and family, watch out for the Purple Maimer. If you see him coming, make a hard right at the next street or duck behind the nearest wall.

The cut-offer

And then there’s this guy. Comes out of nowhere, left lane, right lane, bike lane, and suddenly shoots in front of you with inches to spare. That is, if you brake hard and fast, and send everything in the car — your groceries, purse, laptop, toddler, and blood pressure — soaring. Or if you’re on a bike, brake hard and you’re what’s soaring. And not in a good way.

This guy’s a menace, but somehow, he makes his bad driving YOUR problem.

You think it’s the dude with the dented fenders and the sideswipe scars on all four doors. But around here it’s just as likely to be Entitled Jack, black Tesla Model S, $100k base model. He gets away with it because when he cuts you off in his fancy car, you freak out and do everything you can to not hit him, because the law says rear-ending somebody is your fault. I don’t know what to tell you. It’s almost like humans don’t believe in holding each other accountable.

You think you know your neighbors in this cozy beachside city. Their kids go to school with your kids. You see them in church on Sundays and in Gelson’s or Bob’s Market when you dash in for a bottle of milk on your way home. Or more likely, if you’ve run into Roller, Purple Maim, or Entitled Jack, you ignore the milk and head for the liquor aisle.

Do you really know these people? You don’t, but you have me. Hey, I just saw Jack eastbound on Wilshire, a trail of mayhem in his wake. Stay off Wilshire for an hour or so and you’ll be fine.

Remember, if you want to thank me personally, my Venmo handle is @Miley-Coyote, or just leave two or three feral cats in a bag under the 4th Street overpass.

Drive safely.