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I knew what was going to happen the moment after the middle-aged cyclist pushed off eastbound from the curb into the La Cienega Boulevard crosswalk from the northwest corner of La Cienega and Venice Boulevard. His immediate destination was the northeast corner of the intersection, but he went to the hospital instead.

I noted how good it was of him to smile and wave a friendly thank you at the southbound drivers on his left who were stopped as he crossed in front of them. But I also noted right away how bad it was that he hadn’t noticed the Don’t Walk sign across the street or me next to it on my bike waving frantically and yelling for him to stop because he also hadn’t noticed the two left turn lanes of traffic on Venice on his right that got their green arrow and had started flowing in an arc from eastbound Venice to northbound La Cienega.

Two cars in a stereotypical hurry in the No. 1 turn lane, managed to zip clear of the oncoming cyclist before he arrived, as did the lead car in the No. 2 lane. But by the time the second car in the No. 2 lane — a Toyota Prius, blessedly traveling slower and safer — entered the crosswalk, the entirely oblivious cyclist literally didn’t know what hit him as he put himself fully in the Prius’ path. The look of surprise on his face was terrifying, and in a split-second 25-feet away from me came the crunch of the collision, which drove the cyclist hard onto the Toyota’s hood, dislodging his City of Los Angeles baseball cap that fell to the ground beside the stopped car while he rebounded off it flying through the air a few feet and landing even harder on the asphalt where he rolled several times until coming to a stop about 10 feet away from the front bumber of the Prius where it had stopped, approximately 20-25 feet away from the point of impact.

In the next moment I was off my bike yelling “goddammit!” and rushing to the side of the downed rider who while obviously in pain and distress, was remarkably and thankfully free from any visible bleeding.

Kneeling beside him, he was coherent and communicative, but in Spanish, so I held his hand and urged him to stay still and not move. As the driver and passenger of the the Prius arrived and tried to keep him calm, others also gathered around I asked if someone could call 911. Someone did.

Paramedics arrived within a few minutes and police shortly thereafter, and after identifying myself as a witness to the senior officer and giving him my contact information, it was good to see that firefighters were able to help the injured man to his feet where he limped over with their help to a waiting stretcher for transport to the hospital.

Needless to say the rest of the ride to work was a safe but somber and sad one and I’m here now at my desk a little unsettled but both thankful that the occupants of the Prius were so concerned and helpful and hopeful that the cyclist’s injuries are minor ones.

Hey Will, I remember you managing to squish your thumb during some routine bike maintenance a couple weeks ago! How’s the digit doing?

Well, she don’t really hurt no more, but still sure looks angry. Thanks for asking.

I almost wasn’t going to post about this old gal, because people can only take so many bummers and I’ve been writing about quite a few of them lately. But just as I can’t not stop and offer help, so can I not keep my own personal spotlight shining on the growing problem of abandoned animals.

I got detoured by roadwork off Redondo Boulevard a couple blocks north of Jefferson on my drive in this morning and ended up on Cloverdale where I found her trotting up the street.

Same old story: Collar but no tag. I parked got out and called to her — even commanded her to “come here!” as had been wisely suggested, but nope. Beyond a lingering look at me from a house away it was nothing but “I don’t know you, leave me alone.”

I can relate.

And I almost left it at that. But then I turned around and parked up the block past her as she nosed around  in the gutter looking for scraps. Getting out with my requisite bag of kibble and jerky treats a house away from her, she paid me no mind. But her ears perked up and I got her attention when I shook the bag and clucked my tongue. Was it enough to bring her to me? No. She just stood there.

So I sat on the curb and poured out the bag’s contents onto the grass. She took a tentative stop toward me, but no more. So I got up and got back in my truck. Before I’d closed the door she was on the food, eating heartily. I debated getting back out and trying again, but I stayed put watching her eat, not wanting to risk frightening her away from what may have been the best meal she’d had in a long time.

I take equal measures of comfort and sorrow in that. Victory and defeat.

Literally a day after yesterday’s failed attempt to help out a lost dog in Jefferson Park, comes this morning’s success story, and one much closer to home. Two blocks away even, at the intersection of London and Bellevue.

The encounter with the  young pit bull pictured above had all the makings of a repeat performance of yesterday — and practically every stray I’ve encountered since deciding to be something of a half-assed samaritan a few months ago. He was skittish, stressed and didn’t really want to have anything to do with me. He had a collar, but it was tagless.

He was in better shape than yesterday’s pit, and at least he wasn’t flat out running to keep away from me, so instead we ended up at this bit of a stand-off until in a wonderful case of excellent timing a fellow came walking down the sidewalk to the right. When I pointed at the dog and made the international gesture of “Is this yours?” the guy shook his head.

“He lives here,” the man said, pointing to the house in the picture behind the dog.

Well that makes it easy, I thought. It’s just a case of the dog escaping its yard.

“He always barks at me when I go by,” the guy added as he got to the corner.

Dismounting my bike sent the dog charging down London away from me but I whistled and started walking up Bellevue to where the gate was in the home’s perimeter fence, and the dog came back to follow me. I noticed several large enough gaps in the bottom of the fencing that would allow the animal to get through and I hoped someone was home so I could point that out. Opening the gate, the dog slinked obediently  past me inside, and sure enough immediately upon closing it he turned and commenced barking ferociously while lunging at the fence (although his tail never stopped wagging).

I stood there hoping the front door might open but it didn’t. So I made a note to stop by maybe on my way home to let the residents know what happened. As the dog kept barking I just laughed and scolded him  to stay in his yard while walking back down to my bike where the man was still standing at the corner.

“Why did he behave like that,” the man wondered to me. “He showed you respect outside the fence, but none inside.”

I wasn’t sure of the answer, but I chalked it up to the dog being back on the safe and famliar turf it’s charged with protecting and said so. The man nodded.

“Well it’s a good thing you were here!” He offered.

“You too!” I replied. “If you hadn’t walked by I wouldn’t have known where he belonged.”

“Cool,” he said and started crossing the street. “Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas!” I replied and rode on my way with the dog barking after me like he wanted to kill me.

But I knew better.

What you’re seeing in the photo above is the end of my attempt this morning to help this half-starved and lost pit bull. At this point we’re  at St. Andrews and 36th, a couple blocks south of Jefferson, which is where I first sighted her a couple minutes earlier. We were both westbound on the boulevard on this rainy morning; me driving to work and the dog moving at a quick and furtive trot on the sidewalk looking way too skinny, scared and wet. I shook my head as I passed it, but then I saw some sort of tag on its collar and I remembered the baggie of dogfood, and spare leash I always carry with me just in case I can come to an animal’s rescue — be it temporary in the form of a snack or more permanent in the form of showing it some love and perhaps ultimately getting it back home or into a new one.

So far I’m batting zilch. Of all the stray critters I’ve encountered these past few months, one big dog on Venice Boulevard allowed me to pet it last week, but none have taken me up on my offers of food assistance  — and this gal was no exception.

I accelerated to get ahead of her and pulled a left turn, parking southbound on St. Andrews. Grabbing the food and the leash I exited my truck and strode back to Jefferson where she approached me from about 100 yards away. I whistled and knelt down, but the pit did not see me at first. When it did, about 25 yards away, she immediately broke left into a strip mall parking lot to detour around me. I knew right then it was a lost cause but I tacked right and tracked her heading through the lot to its St. Andrews exit. A jerky treat that I held up got no interest whatsover. In fact the dog’s trot picked up speed when she saw I was in pursuit so in vain I pitched the treat in an arc that landed about a dozen feet from her exiting the lot, That only succeeded in spookingher and she galloped south on St. Andrews.

Perhaps I should have given up there. But the fact that there was a tag on the collar left me with a glimmer of hope that this dog may have guardians who are missing it as much as it’s missing them. Certainly such evidence doesn’t preclude the animal’s abandonment, but more often than not anyone dumping an animal will strip it of any identification.

So I hustled back to the truck and got inside, the object of curious and direct glances from the locals who looked on probably wondering what kind of crazy this white guy must be to  be carrying nothing but a baggie full of kibble out in the ‘hood. And oh look, there goes the honkynut deeper into it.

Following behind the dog as it padded south, there was a split second after it crossed 35th and passed a female pedestrian at the corner, when it stopped and turned and regarded the lady obediently, but in a flash it had turned and again bolted down the street. Halfway down the block she stopped upon hearing me clucking my tongue at it and lingered long enough to let me dangle the baggie of kibble out the truck’s window and pour a bit out onto the street. Then she took off again and I lost sight of her behind some parked cars. Racing ahead and parking at 36th, I got out out with the kibble and crossed the street, pouring it in a little pile (it’s that brownish splotch on the sidewalk  just to the left of the red section of curb) before retreating back to the truck in hopes that she would find it.

Instead the pit beelined it to the gutterbag you see its muzzle buried in, finding some bread there. I had time to take the pic before it had wolfed that down and — totally ignoring the mound of kibble — again bolted south on St. Andrews. I watched it until it got beyond my sight, never slowing down.

And I choked up putting a circle of love around it as I got back on my way to work.

A lot better than expected given how it looked the day it happened, thanks for asking. Pardon the stubble after the jump… hard to shave that promintory without opening things up:

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Better than they look. I’ve been dousing them pretty regularly with isopropyl alcohol and hydrogen peroxide (no, not at the same time), which has been key in minimizing what coulda/woulda been a gnarly infection since there’s still a fair amount of burning and bubbling of the respective liquids when applied. And I’ve been pretty persistent in keeping them slathered in antibiotic ointment and bandaged up, while also letting them out in the open air to make Susan go “Eeeeesh!” and to promote the healing that will replace the channels of flesh I plowed off of them as if with a linoleum knife.

Somewhat mercifully color-desaturated snap of the carnage as seen this morning, mercifully after the jump. You don’t have to go there if you don’t want to.

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Susan called me at work yesterday afternoon. There was a nervousness to her voice that I picked up immediately and I feared one of our animals had been hurt.

“Joe’s passed away,” she told me. Joe was her tenant, the last of the three renters who occupied the house when she bought it in 1999. He lived upstairs since 1986. She said Joe’s brother was there and there were men in white coats and gloves and by the time I got home at 6 p.m. his body had been removed and all looked like nothing had happened.

I last saw Joe when I came down to the garage to help get the rest of the groceries out of Susan’s car Saturday afternoon. He was on the sidewalk talking with another man I didn’t recognize. I said hi to Joe as I started back up the front steps with the bags and he nodded back at me. Joe was HIV positive and in his 60s and in the last couple years his physical bearing had deteriorated significantly to the point of Susan and I wondering how much longer it would be until he needed hospice care. He moved slower and more stooped whenever I saw him and as of a few weeks ago I noticed a delivery of oxygen tanks standing outside his front door.

Joe’s brother said to Susan that he was told by the attendants that the death looked to be a result of natural causes and that given the condition of the body he may have expired sometime over weekend. Susan said she could smell the decomposition as the whitecoats struggled getting him out of the house. His brother told her he’d opened up the windows and turned on the air conditions to help air the place out. It’s weird to think of Joe’s body right over our heads for two days. Maybe more. And that he might have died while we sat watching television or grilling in the backyard.

Apparently, he was discovered earlier in the day by his weekly housekeeper. Whatever her reaction might have been it was enough to alert our neighbor Ralph across the street who phoned the police and Joe’s brother. The police came, as did the coroner. I’m guessing the whitecoats were mortuary personnel. Ralph told Joe’s brother that when he last talked to Joe he’d mentioned having trouble breathing.

I didn’t know much about Joe in the almost four-years Susan and I have been together here. The extent of our contacts pretty much involved passing each other on the way in or out. Our longest conversations involved him complimenting the Halloween or Christmas decorations or telling me something that wasn’t working properly. I knew he could be a pain in the butt, but he was the type of person that would vent his frustrations in a letter or an email or a voicemail message about Ranger’s barking or a malfunctioning heater other such matters and then follow up with an apology the next day. Most months that he paid his rent, he’d adorn the envelopes with a happy face. He’d worked for the city painting out graffiti. He had a pizza delivered Friday night. He drove an increasingly dinged-up Dodge Neon. He walked with a cane. He like the colors we painted the house last year. On occasions recently he took to listening to the TV with the volume way up. There’s an old Univega bike of his down in the basement.

Joe played a part in Susan and I meeting. He’d taken the picture of her that she’d posted to her match.com profile. It was taken from above, with her looking up into the camera and the light vibrantly illuminating her blond hair. In one of his missives sometime after I moved in during the summer of 2004 expressing his outrage over a rent increase or similar matter he even took a modicum of credit for our relationship because of that snapshot as if it somehow should exempt him from such things. I’m pretty sure he said he was sorry for the outburst shortly thereafter.

Joe’s brother said he hopes to have the place cleared out in a week or so. I can only imagine what a chore that will be packing up and moving 22 years worth of stuff, emotionally as well as physically. And in the meantime, Susan and I are obviously shellshocked not only at the reality check that comes with death, but one that happened so close to home.

Rest in peace, Joe.

I’m throwing in the towel. I had planned on writing something/anything fictional every day for the rest of this year, but after two months, I’m done — at least on a once-every-24-hours basis. In the more immediate time frame, after a morning on the bike and an afternoon helping my baybee in the backyard, I sat down and basically… I got nothing. I could let fly some frivolity at the peril of the Quakzons of Planet Zarneg, but pffft.

I still hope to post my make believings, I just ain’t gonna do it every. single. day. Thanks for reading, be it one entry or all 61.

I deviated the route slightly this morning, taking Vermont all the way down to Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard, which I stayed on across to Leimert Park.

At MLK I rolled to a stop before the red light at Normandie and from the sidewalk behind me at my four o’clock walked a petite woman perhaps somewhere in her 40s directly towards me who when I turned to look at her responded to my attention with a very kindly smile that I returned with a head nod as she passed alongside me and then into the crosswalk across my bow.

As she advanced to the other side of MLK my smile disappeared when I saw that strapped behind her to her belt was a sheath that held a long fixed-blade knife, its carved handle sticking straight up and next to it a two-way radio.

It left me realizing how different a world it is down in that area where one would chose not to walk its streets  at 8:30 in the morning without someone on the other end of a walkie-talkie and a ready-to-filet Bowie-type knife on display.