Sally's parents kindly allowed us to borrow their Terratrike today since my injured rib didn't allow mountain biking. It was fun in a harrowing sort of way. We tried to stick to back roads but even those had more automobile traffic than we off-roaders were comfortable with.

I had a rather exciting bike ride today. Rather more fun than one can possibly have, I’m afraid.

There’s a section of the singletrack in the wash that Sally and I have been riding for years. Over time, the rocks have grown bigger and the sand just beyond them looser as traffic and erosion have exposed more of them. Each time we clear* that section we laugh and say, “If we hadn’t been riding that for years, there’s no way we would attempt to ride it.”

Well, today there was a large, loose rock right in the middle of the sand trap which we use for a roll out, just beyond the rocks. Since it takes a certain amount of speed to sail over the tops of the rocks, I pedaled hard into the rock garden and couldn’t see the obstacle until I was hurtling down the face of the last rock. It was one of those damned-if-you-do & damned-if-you-don’t scenarios. Trying to stop wasn’t an option; a quick maneuver in the sand pit would have been fatal; and hitting the rock straight on (the option I chose) didn’t work out so well either. My front end came to a dead stop while my back end tossed me over the bars. One would have thought that nice sand pit would have provided a soft landing, but instead I was pitched off the side of the trail, into a jumble of rocks. The biggest, most protuberant rock arrested my flight by embedding itself into my ribs; while its companions nailed my hip, elbow and knee. As I lay there trying to re-inflate my lungs, Sally came pedaling into the rock garden, trying to gather speed to clear the hurdle. I heard her exclaim, “Oh, $!@#” as she spotted me lying in the trail below. Testimony to her skill is the fact that she managed to stop before running me over. (This is not the first time she has demonstrated such skill)

And then the worst happened. While I’m lying, still moaning, in a most undignified tangle of bike and limbs, the entire Redlands East Valley Mountain Bike team came down the trail. They asked if I was okay as they pedaled past. My response, “Time will tell”, seemed to satisfy them.

Before we started the ride this morning, I noted that my pupils were unevenly dilated. I found information online indicating that there were several causes, most of which required immediate medical attention. Further reading indicated that most of those conditions were caused by head injury so I dismissed them and went on the ride. One of the causes listed was glaucoma. So, I guess I’ll make an appointment with the ophthalmologist tomorrow just to check it out. Thank goodness I noticed it BEFORE my accident or I might have attributed it to hitting my head (which did hit a rock, but only secondarily, the ribs having blunted the force).

So, I guess I'm looking at a couple of weeks of living in fear of getting the hiccoughs while the ribs mend. Thankfully, it's on the other side this time.

*In mountain biking to "clear" something means to ride it without putting a foot down.

My mom, my sister and two of her daughters are all avowed single women. They have been in relationships with men during their lifetimes, but after discarding the last one (or what appears to be the last semi-permanent man) they live contentedly alone. In their youth, they were serially monogamous but as they matured they decided that they were better off without the irritations of sharing space with another annoying person, and face it; we are ALL annoying. Even if the worst habit your husband has is a propensity to leave the dining room chair pulled out rather than tucking it neatly beneath the table, at certain times of the month, he's still irritating.

One of my nieces and I are the only ones with mates and our mates are both difficult men. Of course, when the single women in the family have occasion to observe our relationships, it reinforces their satisfaction with their single status. They can't resist gloating a bit when our mates are particularly assholeish and at that moment we are at a disadvantage. It's almost impossible to think of a single redeeming quality in one's mate when he has just proven himself beyond all doubt to be the most cold-hearted, insensitive, self-centered jerk on the planet.

So, I was inspired this morning, to describe a moment between mates that would normally be forgotten as soon as it passed. In every relationship there are thousands of these moments that cement the bond but they are so insignificant that we take them for granted. Here is a sample of what a single person misses:

There was an episode of Seinfeld where George was trying to cram all of life's pleasures into one moment. For him it was having sex while watching TV, and eating. I'm not as gifted at multi-tasking as George so I contented myself with performing that most essential morning ablution while listening to Mike play a lovely piece of music on his most recently finished classical guitar. Ah, it was sublime! Later, we shared a laugh over something that only he and I would get. It was one of those ephemeral moments where your heart expands with the joy of having another soul on earth who connects with you effortlessly. Someone who doesn't even notice that you don't close the bathroom door; someone who thinks you're sexy at sixty; someone who loves your cats as much as you do; someone who brings home twice as many impatiens as you asked him to because he knows what a tightwad you are and that twice as many will be just the amount you need to fill in that ring around the china berry tree.

Next time my sister wonders aloud why I  tolerate the foibles of a man I'm going to send her a link to this post.

This morning, Mike and I loaded our bikes onto the bike rack and drove up to Mountain Home Creek to join a group of friends for a breakfast ride.

It was just barely light, the sun hadn't yet cleared the top of the ridge when our group started up the old road which is now a trail. Karen, Dean and Patty live in Angelus Oaks, so they start down the mountain before dawn to meet us at the bottom, and ride up the hill with us. Dean and Patty ride a tandem and Karen has osteoporosis, so they aren't very fast on the descent but they're all good climbers. I'm the weak link on the climb so I usually set off a few minutes before everyone else so I can warm up a bit before hitting my stride. Even then, it's all I can do to stay with the group of guys who are between the ages of 58 and 78. Patty''s husband is so strong that he can pedal her up the hill on the tandem faster than I can go on my own. Thankfully, Dean had a cold today so I could stay with them when everyone else pulled away from us.

We were just past the half-way waterfall when I heard/felt something in my left ear. I was hoping it wasn't a bee AND I was hoping it would go on its way without further exploration of my vulnerable orifice. I soon realized that it was most certainly a stinging insect and it was not finding its way out of the maze that was my ear. I began simultaneously swatting at my ear and dismounting. Somehow, I wound up on the ground with my helmet flung off, shrieking like a girl. The more I swatted, the more he stung and burrowed into the safety of my ear canal. Patty and Dean heard my distress and came running back to see why I was lying on the ground, writhing, and making unintelligible sounds. I managed to explain that I wasn't having a seizure but merely had a bee in my ear. Patty looked into my ear and began exclaiming "Oh my God, f!@k!! F!@k!! " She valiantly dug in my ear with her fingernails and after several attempts was able to get a grip on him and pull him out, all the time carrying on with the expletives.  We had barely recovered our wits when Patty started exclaiming that she was being stung under her shirt and on her butt. We collected my scattered gear and hightailed it away from the site.

I gathered my composure, packed my ear with a baking soda paste, put my helmet and hydration pack on and wobbled on up the trail. The climb, never comfortable, was now a throbbing, orgy of misery. Several times I considered asking Dean & Patty to let Mike know that I'd turned back when they regrouped at the 3/4 of the way bench; but my reputation of hardy studliness was at stake so I persevered. Fifty yards from the bench, I saw Mike riding down to meet me. Dean & Patty had told the story and he came down, visibly concerned (which will stand him in good stead). His sympathy dissolved my resolve and I whimpered, "I'm going home."

He followed me down the trail, instead of racing ahead, as he normally does.

I spent the rest of the day feeling sorry for myself. A good ride ruined, no breakfast at The Oaks restaurant, and a throbbing ear that felt the size of a cauliflower but showed no sign of injury, all gave me license to take a nap with Garfield and a good book.

Before dawn I'm out checking on the neighbor's chickens and puttering in my vegetable garden. Today it was cool and overcast, a rare day in July. Strolling through the yard, I noticed three of my cats in a semi-circle, intently watching something. I found the object of their attention immediately: a hapless gopher who had evidently been isolated from his burrow and was now being used as a toy for my overfed house cats. At first I walked away, not wanting to witness the torture. But upon reflection I realized that it was inhumane to allow them to torture the poor thing and, maybe a more motivating thought, was the fact that I couldn't trust the inept felines not to let him go back to wreaking havoc in my tomato patch when they were through with him. I considered how to capture the varmint, thinking I could turn him loose in the field across the street. Nothing came immediately to mind until I thought of Blackie.

Blackie has known many incarnations since he came to us, a fully grown tom cat, lithe and muscular, with chipmunk cheeks. It took several months to gain his trust enough to lure him into a cat carrier so he could be transported to have his reason for living removed. We don't feed strays unless they agree to give up their promiscuous ways. He was prone to biting, never having been civilized in his youth, so we were wary of handling him. I was incredulous when the veterinary technician who brought him to the front after his brain transplant told me what a sweet cat he was. In fact all the girls in the office came to say good-bye to the rake.

Though his obvious name was Blackie, he came to be known as Meathead as neutering did little to mitigate his appetite for a good fight and he always seemed to lead with his head. If you look closely, you can see open wounds just below his ear. He mellowed with age and became close friends with Bob.

He became quite the lap cat, though one still had to beware not to piss him off because he would still bite, albeit gently.

In later years his passion for fighting was replaced by an insatiable appetite for anything that resembled food. Meathead became Tank when he routinely bulldozed his way into anyone's feed dish, oblivious to their complaints and threats (still leading with his head). The other night a family of Raccoons came through foraging for food. One of the adults was intent on having some of the dry cat food that remained on the table after kitty dinner. Blackie, now in his dotage, stood his ground, hissing and growling at the intruder who was twice his size. The benevolent raccoon respectfully looked Blackie in the eye and held his gaze while he smoothly reached out and slowly pulled the bowl away from Blackie's menacing face.

But I digress. In addition to being a cat's cat, Blackie is the consummate gopher catcher. And even though he has only one incisor left, I still rely on him to be my henchman when I drive a gopher to the surface with a garden hose. I went to the patio (where he spends his days near the food bowl) and picked him up.  His frail and wasted body cuddled contentedly against my chest, he allowed me to carry him to the back yard where Garfield, Eva, and Other Gray Kitty had let the gopher escape into the tomato patch. Blackie sized up the situation in an instant. His head came off my chest as he looked around to see what the other cats were interested in. I set him down near the open gopher hole which he sniffed briefly and looked around. He spotted movement in the foliage and faster than I could see, he plunged in. I heard a guttural snarling and moments later he emerged with his prey. He dispatched it as quickly and humanely as his single fang would allow. He looked around at the other cats as if to say, "Don't even THINK about trying to take this prize away from me." He then walked sedately back to the patio to enjoy the fruits of his labor.

This is Blackie-Meathead-Tank as he looks today. He drools uncontrollably, he's gray and bony, but he's still a sweetheart of a cat who can snatch a gopher out of it's hole faster than you can blink.

I'd been off the bike due to a slight accident for three weeks. My neighbors' grown daughter moved back into the family home with her boyfriend and six chickens. When the kids bought their own home, they moved out but left the hens behind for mom to tend. Mom was not thrilled but I was. I've long wanted a few hens and so I happily took over the care of them. The chicken run is nice enough for the half dozen hens but it was designed for very short people. One day I saw that one of the dumb clucks had laid an egg out in the dirt run rather than in one of the six, nice, clean nests. Stooping down I walked the length of the run and then made my way back to the door, being careful not to step on any of the overly friendly girls. For reasons unknown to me, my neighbor had put 2" high, round stepping stones in the pen which, due to the chickens digging holes around them were tilted at odd angles. Somehow my foot slipped off one of these stones and down I went, hitting my back on a wooden chicken ladder. It must have been a funny sight with chickens squawking  and scattering to get out of the way. Two of them got out of the open door and I lay half in and half out of the door with the dirty egg intact in my left hand. Thankfully, it was two of the brown hens who are very tame so I was able to catch them without difficulty.

Day one wasn't too bad but each successive day the pain got worse. I needed help getting dressed and getting on and off the toilet was such misery that I quit drinking. Finally after about a week it started to heal and now, three weeks later I'm back on the bike.

A few weeks ago, Mike paid Richard, my niece’s roommate, for helping us unload the van he brought home from Washington with one of his old mountain bikes that he kept up there. In its day it was state of the art and remains a great bike, in good condition because Mike continuously maintains his bikes.

So, when Richard expressed some tentative interest in going for a real mountain bike ride, I offered to take him up Mountain Home Creek, a lovely tree shaded trail that follows a perennial (so far) stream.

MHC road was my first real off road ride and remains one of the nicest trails around for beginner and expert alike.

It was overcast and not too hot. I had washed my car yesterday and so entertained hope of some thunder showers but didn’t really expect any.

Richard set off up the road in his borrowed helmet and Camelback, and his own work boots. (we serious cyclists have special bike shoes) He seriously questioned the need for a helmet but I gently persuaded him to wear it saying that, in the event of a head-on collision with someone coming down the trail, it could be beneficial. The more pressing concern, which I didn’t say, was that we were bound to encounter some of my biker friends and it would be humiliating to be seen with someone with no helmet. Helmetless riders are immediately recognized as tourists and dumb tourists at that.

He churned up the still paved road at an uncomfortable pace so I let him put a gap on me. We old broads need a long warm up before we settle into our sedate climbing pace. The first stream crossing lured him into stopping to lean over the guard rail on the bridge to admire the stream and look for fish. What a charming novelty, someone who actually stopped to enjoy the scenery! He looked longingly up a hiking path that ran next to the stream before continuing up the road. The pavement gave way to dirt and the path skirted a locked gate which required riding pretty close to the edge of the drop off but he didn’t pause. He pedaled eagerly on like a ten-year old on his new Christmas bike. And like that exuberant youngster, he alternately spun ahead, leaving me grinding at my old lady pace, and stopping to admire some washed out bridge, or some stunning view of the gathering storm clouds, or the crumbling foundations of some long-ago burned out cabin.

I periodically inquired as to the state of his bottom parts as he was riding in regular shorts with no padding and the racing saddle on his bike did nothing to protect his cherry butt. He always replied in his typically cryptic way, “Fine”.

At the half-way water fall (now mostly dry) I again inquired as to the condition of his posterior and told him we were half way, three miles in to the six mile ascent. He showed no sign of trepidation so we continued, stopping to don our gnat nets as the bugs were growing increasingly interested in taking up residence in our exposed orifices. As we continued to climb, he found more reasons to stop for short breaks, but never complained. When we reached the ¾ Bench at the 4 ½ mile point, I saw the first sign of him slowing his pace. I encouraged him by reminding him of my offer to buy breakfast if he made it to the restaurant at Angelus Oaks. I could tell he was ready for the climb to be over but he said there was no chance he was turning back with the top only a mile and a half away.

The next mile is fairly grueling when your ass is already sore and your legs are heavy but he continued to find things along the way to distract himself from the suffering and we soon hit the paved road again. While easier on the dierier, it’s no better on the legs and by this time, I was famished. I pushed the pace a bit and when he stopped to rest, I coaxed him on with the thought of bacon and eggs and a pliant restaurant booth. As we rounded the penultimate turn, I felt a couple of small rain drops.

At the restaurant, Richard hoisted our bikes up onto the hooks under the eaves of the building and we gratefully peeled off our sweaty gloves, Camelbacks, and helmets and settled into a booth by the window. Tiana, the waitress who waits on us regularly (and had waited on me yesterday when I’d ridden up with five old guys, including Mike) came to take our order. I said “Hey, Tiana, check it out; I traded up”, nodding towards Richard who is a youngster at forty something. She laughed and said, “Yeah, I noticed that.”

While Richard went over to the coffee stand to get a cup, it started to rain in earnest and in the few seconds it took for him to get back to the table; it began to come down in sheets. Talk about propitious timing! Our poor bikes, hanging in the drip of the eaves were awash.

The rain continued unabated during our well-deserved breakfast, so we lingered over a second cup of coffee and a piece of pie (they make it on the premises and it’s pretty good). By the time we finished, the sky had lightened a bit so we donned our wet gear and headed out into the now gentle rain. Coasting down the pavement at roughly 25 miles an hour, in wet clothes, made sixty degrees feel like forty; and I was soon shivering so hard I had to slow down for fear of losing control. Once we got to the end of the pavement and had to work a little harder it became more comfortable. Then it dawned on me that I had my downhill gear, arm and leg guards, in my pack. We stopped and Richard waited while I got dressed. It was still raining lightly but he, with his thick Washington blood, wasn’t cold.

I followed him down the trail which was by now beautifully soaked, with traction so good one could do no wrong. Richard set a sensible pace, fast enough to be fun but not so fast that I was worried about him. The last thing I wanted to do was to return him to Tara damaged, since she was gracious enough to loan him to me.

When we reached the hike-a-bike Richard thought he might be able to ride it. He had teased me about not riding it on the way up and I’d made the mistake of saying I didn’t know anyone who could ride it up and only one who could ride it down. That would be Mike, of course, three time California State Series downhill champion. I asked him to please not attempt it until there were more people present to be impressed if he cleared it or more people present to help carry him out if he failed. Being a reasonable man, he walked the steep rocky section, climbing back on only after the trail straightened out.

Back at the car, muddy and spent, I could tell that in his understated way, he had had a good time. I asked him if there was anything better than downhill singletrack and he smiled broadly and admitted, “Nope.” He's a man of few words.

May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view.

Edward Abbey

The following news article was based on a really true story. Only the names have been changed for the amusement of the author.

A Mentone woman was booked into San Bernardino County Detention Sunday morning, after allegedly resisting arrest. She was later released on her own recognizance

According to arresting Officer Dewey Bookem, they were responding to a report of a male, Hispanic, between the ages of 15 – 20, 5’6”, 145 pounds, wearing a green ball cap, who had been seen spraying graffiti on the back wall of the Mentone Senior Center, at the corner of Mentone Blvd. and Opal Avenue.

A person matching the description was spotted behind a bush in the 1300 block of Opal Ave. and Sheriffs deputies ordered the suspect to surrender. When the suspect failed to respond officers fired twenty-five warning shots into the bushes behind which the suspect was hiding. The suspect screamed like a girl and ran towards the nearby house.  Whereupon officers courageously gave pursuit and tackled the suspect.  The suspect had evidently disposed of any evidence as no can of spray paint was found at the scene.

WHAT REALLY HAPPENED…REALLY.

It was a lovely, cool spring morning when I, Judy Rutrider, 62-year old, church secretary, 5’3”, 120 pounds, went out to mow my lawn. I put on my protective gear: earplugs; dust mask; gloves; goggles; and green sun hat. Foolishly, feeling sufficiently protected, I left my bullet-proof vest in the closet.

With the roar of my gas-powered mower muted by my ear plugs, I was fully focused on the task at hand, oblivious to the world beyond the five-foot hedge at the front of my yard. Pausing to pull a couple of weeds with the motor running, I suddenly I felt a sharp sting on my ear. Supposing I had been stung by an irate insect, I “shrieked like a girl” (the reporter’s words, not mine) and hustled towards the house to get some baking soda to relieve the burning.  This was when the heroic officers, apparently seeing the suspect was unarmed, launched their line backer attack which hurled me to the concrete. Before they could rip off my hat and dust mask, they had their cuffs on my obviously girly wrists. Upon removal of my disguise, some of the officers may have felt some concern that this might not be the tagger they were seeking but the residual fear-induced adrenaline silenced any voice of reason whispering in their own heads.

With a bleeding ear and scraped knees, I was escorted to the back seat of the patrol car, with the officer thoughtfully seeing that I did not bump my head as I was helped into the car. The neighbors in this quiet, residential neighborhood gaped like monkeys as the officers sheepishly collected their twenty-five spent shell casings. I suppose they didn’t know whether to be ashamed or relieved that their marksmanship resulted in merely a clipped ear.  Personally, I felt only relief though the ear hurt like hell.

I fully understood that some serious face saving would have to occur so there was absolutely no chance I wasn’t going to jail for at least as long as it took for the neighbors to finish sending their cell phone pictures to their 6,523 friends on Facebook.  At least I was fairly certain I wouldn’t become one of the disappeared under the terrorist act. And luckily, the garage door was closed so my Lexus wouldn’t fall victim to Asset Forfeiture laws.

Booking went pretty much as I expected, just like on TV except without the “You have the right to remain silent” part as I was already anything but silent. I’m not normally prone to overt condescension but I found it impossible to conceal my contempt for these idiots. In retrospect it may not have been the smartest tactic.  

The cavity search might have been fun twenty years ago. But as most post menopausal women will admit, insertion of anything without extensive foreplay is not something we submit to willingly. And herein may lay the charge of resisting. I’m not saying the rotund booking clerk wasn’t as gentle as her kielbasa-sized fingers could be; however, even with the steadying influence of her gorilla-sized coworkers, I’m pretty sure she would rather have penetrated a feral tom cat by the time she got finished with prisoner # !@#! as I became known. It was hard to tell whose blood was whose by the end of it.

The rest was just boring. There was nothing to do but sit and wait for someone to post my bail; nothing that is but write my Xanga blog and plan the revenge sequel.

And this, my friends, is what you get when I don’t listen to audio books while doing my chores. If you think idle hands are the devil’s playthings, just see what comes from an idle mind!

It's been nearly two months now since Gemela died and still the empty stall seems strange.

Florentino, her half brother, who had never been separated from her since birth, did not appear to be unduly concerned about her disappearance. He is still as neurotic and hyper active as always but I fear his death isn't far off as he suffers from the same melanoma tumors that probably took his sister.

I almost wish it were over so I could stop worrying about his possible discomfort. Horses are so stoic about their pain.

FYI the dark patches on her shoulder is her black skin showing where she wears the hair off rubbing on the stall door. She had very sensitive skin.

Southern California winters, if they may be called that, are all too brief. Here we have a week or two of chilly weather, maybe a rain storm or two, and then it's spring. My nectarine tree blossomed in January and I have intrepid little nectarines popping out, which will be ready for harvest when you northerners are watching the last of your snow piles, next to the driveway, melt away. We had a two storms a couple of weeks ago that dumped  an inch and a quarter (both combined) of blessed rain, turning our parched hills into an advert for the Emerald Isle. Don't waste the air fair going to dreary, cold, damp Ireland; come here! It's lush, sunny, and ...oh, yeah, ninety degrees. Perhaps a bit on the warm side if you're not used to it but for Sally and me, it's perfect riding weather.

We set off in the cool of the morning, after slathering sun screen on the exposed parts, heading up the Santa Ana Wash Trails. The wash is a playground of boulders, scrub brush, packed sand, and this time of year, a veritable garden of grass and wild flowers. Later in the season, the packed sand will have become loose and the grasses turn to foxtails that penetrate every bit of clothing they encounter. The wild flowers give way to cactus and yucca which are beautiful in their own way but become tedious after a few months. We NEVER tire of green because it's so ephemeral.

The natural terrain makes for some interesting paths that challenge even the most skillful rider.  After riding these paths for about thirty years, I find they still engender a real sense of self confidence when I manage to clear a section without removing a foot from a pedal (called dabbing). One section in particular requires a reasonable amount of speed and a good dose of confidence as one threads her way between several huge boulders and over an intimidatingly large one.  Insufficient speed means you won't clear the rock and lack of confidence means you won't dare commit to the speed. Every single time we approach this obstacle, it gives us pause because failure is NOT an option. A tip over in this rock garden would leave bruises that would hurt for a week. But of course, we never fail. With the requisite speed, it's easy and each time we clear it, we wonder why we even give it a second thought.

When we came to this great little confidence builder today, I was horrified to find that someone had packed a soil ramp on both sides of the rock, removing all challenge. Any novice rider can now roll easily over it. Sally and I commiserated over the degradation of what we consider our personal playground. The water district has torn up a wide swath for a new pipeline that has obliterated sections of the trail. This we accept because we have no choice. But the ignorant act of some timid rider, who in all likelihood will not ride this trail often enough to become proficient, taking it upon himself to bastardize the trail frustrates me. There are numerous other trails of varying degrees of difficulty that riders can enjoy at any level of proficiency. There's no need to dumb down the "expert" trails.

We continued pedaling up the path and soon forgot our wrath. Sally regaled me with horror stories about her degenerate students (she teaches high school at an alternative school for kids who can't function in a regular school setting), and amused me with anecdotes about her sixteen-year-old daughter's fledgeling first romance.  The climb to the summit would be too painful to bear without her distracting tales.

Wild lilacs in bloom in Crafton Hills

I won't bore you with the details of yet another decent  down the ever challenging Yikes! Suffice it to say that it was over far too quickly. We startled some hikers who didn't hear us coming until we came sliding across their path. I said, "Hi", as I sped down the rutted track and Sally, who was hot on my heels, said they had a look of disbelief on their faces when she skidded into the turn and dropped over the edge behind me. Even under our helmets and glasses it is obvious we are two old ladies riding like complete idiots.

I popped into my local consignment store after my hair appointment, around 4:40.  I was happy to note that my favorite sales associate was working today.  She reminds me of my favorite niece, Tuesday.  She's a cute, good-sized girl, open and friendly.  I've chatted her up when there were no other customer in the shop and easily learned that she has a disability that prevents her from driving.  Consequently, her job opportunities are limited to those within walking distance of the home she shares with her dad.  He suffers from some brain aging issues and struggles mostly with sundown syndrome; so, she makes sure she's home early in the evening to care for him.

A few minutes after I walked in, another woman entered the shop. The likeable clerk informed her that she would be closing in 15 minutes.  I didn't see anything wrong with letting us know how close it was to closing time, but the other woman went off on her.  She exclaimed how rude the girl was for saying that.  The sales clerk politely explained that it was essential that she leave by 5:00 because she needed to attend her disabled father.  The unhappy customer proceeded to tell her how the owner of the shop wouldn't be happy to learn how rudely she had been treated.  Just when I thought she must be finished berating the girl, she continued with telling her what she should have said. Blah, blah blah.

By this time, I was feeling acutely uncomfortable because the tension in the tiny store was palpable, and besides, the attack was unjustified.  When the snotty woman drew breath to launch into her again, I moved between the two women, who were widely separated, the clerk being behind the counter and the crabby lady standing a dozen feet away, and very quietly said to her, "I thing you've made your point."

"I don't need you telling me what to do," she snapped as she strode to the other side of the narrow store.

I sized her up.  She outweighed me by a good 40 or 50 pounds, but I was at least as tall as she was.  I followed her menacingly to where the gently used shoes watched warily from the vantage of their rack.  The ones lined up in rows on the floor, along the wall, cringed a little, aware of their vulnerability.

"Apparently, you do," I hissed as I crowded her space, looking into her beady, unhappy eyes.

I was aware of the sweet, little clerk who had been on the verge of tears, now looking on in nonplussed wonder.

I watched the emotions flicker across the customer's porcine face, loathe to give up her anger, but realizing that it might not be enough of a defense against this hostile old woman with the beautifully coiffed hair.  Anyone with hair this gorgeous, must be crazy to risk messing it up in a cat fight.  I knew I'd made my point when the smell of urine, which was plainly visible now running down her left leg, reached my congested, snot-filled nose.  (I have the remnants of a mild cold)

I stepped aside to allow her to make her way out, resisting the urge to stick my foot out and trip her.

When I got home, I went online and posted reviews on Yelp and FaceBook, extolling the virtues of the store and most effusively, the staff.  I also called the owner of the shop to explain the urine stain on her carpet.