November 7, 2007
I spent part of this morning looking through my art morgue for a comic strip I did in 1971 called "Lippo And Paguna." More on that later. Couldn't find it, but did find some other boards of interest.

Big, bold, blocks of black has kind of been my theme as of late, and I was somewhat surprised to see I have been doing just that from time to time, for a long time. Ha. These images date from the late 1980s and early 1990s:



Over the years we have lost dozens of cats to coyotes. Some lasted a day, most got nabbed within a week or so ('Have you seen the Cuddler?" "No, not since that loud screech last weekend."). So I became interested in the cat's defenses, which was mainly to live on the roof of the out buildings, like our pump house:

We had a white cat (can't remember his name) who lived on the roof of the pump house and would drop down to the jail window and slink through. I got a good photo of this and the resulting image (above) captures some of the nighttime drama these cats lived through.

Jumpin' String Bean Murphy survived the longest of all the cats we had, and he lived on the roof of our house and would come down at night to perch on one of our vigas. He'd look out and swish his tail, no doubt perusing his domain with some comfort and pride. He lasted about four years.



The coyotes hunt in packs and they are very clever when it comes to capturing cats and small dogs. They usually set up a ruse, a feint to one side and when the cat turns to look, another one comes in behind. That's the main trick. Simple and deadly. With dogs, one of the coyotes usually feins an injury and acts scared when the dog barks and comes towards him. Each time the dog barks the coyote limps off cowering, "Please don't hurt me, you big Beast." The emboldened dog feels studly and goes forward and they play this game until the dog is far enough away from the house so that his two hunting partners can come in from behind, cut the dog off from the house and move in for the kill:



Of course the most dangerous predator on the desert, by far, is the honkytonk male, and he can be found up at Harold's, The Mineshaft (in the old days), The Hornytoad or the Buffalo Chip. For some reason he loves fiddles and their demonic, whiny calling:



When the Sonora Desert Food Chain Conga Line gets to crankin' even the giant saguaros seem sinister, like this one, just outside the cave that Cave Creek is named for. Because of ample moisture in the creek bottom, these big cacti often suffer from frost bite, and their arms get bent in weird directions:



"Big, Black & Boze."
—Alliteration that rings my bell