Cautionary Tail: True Hollywood Coyotelore

A woman in our neighborhood lost her chihuahua. We knew this because she put signs up on every telephone pole from here to Timbuktu with the forlorn dog's picture: black-and-white, quivering, and goggle-eyed, its head turned so it viewed the world through one massive peeled-back orbit. The signs said something like: LOST DOG: MAY OR MAY NOT COME TO THE NAME COOKIE. HE IS VERY TIMID AND SCARED OF STRANGERS. SIZEABLE REWARD.

Everyone knows what happens to chihuahuas who disappear in Hollywood. Some run off to claim minor roles in "Beverly Hills Chihuahua," but most, well most....sigh.

This woman loved her dog so much she went door-to-door inquiring. She upped her reward into the thousands. Finally, she did something she probably shouldn't have done. (Because anyone who lives in this neighborhood, so close to Griffith Park, could've just told her what had happened.) But she did it anyway. She hired a professional pet detective, an actual bloodhound (who may or may not have come to the name "Ellie Mae") to sniff out her Cookie.

Ellie-the-bloodhound was given a full-on whiff of Cookie's pet bed and creamsicle-orange camo vest, Cookie's favorite stuffed carrot, and his sweet little orange rubber shoes. The hound was released. A trained professional, she resisted her urge toward the bag of only half-eaten Kentucky Fried chicken wings some drunk had left out on the sidewalk the night before. The only thing on her mind was to find Cookie. Because if she found Cookie, she would receive something so much better than maggoty fastfood leftovers. She'd receive a steak--a filet mignon medallion, actually, cooked bloody with a sprig of parsely, which is just how all professional bloodhounds like it. Ellie's brain chanted softly to her: must find Cookie, must find Cookie....must find....suddenly, her finely tuned nasal spectrometer detected something small, delicate, and gamey, something nervous, sometimes yippy, with a faint trace of pee--eau de Cookie! She picked up more of the scent, then more. MUST FIND COOKIE! MUST FIND COOKIE! her brain shrieked as she gathered speed and snaked down the sidewalk as if winding through an obstacle course of invisible orange traffic cones, and then under a hedge, across a small patch of grass, under another hedge (which scratched her back, but she didn't care), and back to the sidewalk. Must find Cookie, HERE IS COOKIE!!!

There the hound stood, wagging happily before a tiny patch of red-stained concrete.

Comments

[KB]

HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
(I'm not laughing at Cookie's fate, just your funny post.)
C is for Cookie, and Cookie is for...coyote.

[Mick]

Yet another reason to have a Rottweiler. And a gun.

That's very sad.

[Angie]

That's totally tragic. Just a few months ago I had to scoop lil Harry up in L.A. so a coyote wouldn't snag him. Now we're in St. Louis, where the only predator is the mean-faced black standard poodle next door.