Laundromat Bobcat This bobcat looks much like the one found in the glossy pages of your National Geographic: long legs, large paws, tufted ears similar to those of their larger relative the lynx. Most are brown or brownish red with a white underbelly and short, black-tipped tail, which appears to be cut, or "bobbed." They are fierce hunters and can kill prey twice their size. A solitary animal. They prefer the barnyard cat's hard-boiled autonomy to the co-dependence of some of the larger wild breeds. This particular variety of bobcat can be discerned by the sloping back and drooping belly resultant of a life accustomed to lazy dryer afternoons, a glut of unhurried heat-seeking mice. The first one appeared around the time of the contentious mayoral campaign. Some believe our current mayor ultimately won the race due to the hard line she took on preservation. Her opponent was advocating capture and release, and she reacted to this position with considerable public outrage. Her campaign immediately switched gears, from a platform of family values and more park and pool security, to animal-human co-existence. You probably remember those commercials: bobcat stretched out atop the dryer, looking as if it just swallowed a bottle of Vicodin, and our mayor, surrounded by her five angelic children: "For whatever reason, this magnificent beast has chosen our Laundromat as a place it would like to inhabit. Who are we to deny it? Who are we to say, no, bobcat, I'm sorry, but you're sitting on my whites?" The camera panning from her dazzling smile to the coached cherubic faces of her children, then back to the bobcat, which made it appear, at least to the discerning viewer, that they were not even in the same Laundromat. Then the slogan, so catchy you can still hear it recited mockingly on the playground or in the Applebee's parking lot: "Respect the Laundromat Bobcat. Avoid eye contact." There have been other cats since spotted in and around the Laundromat, and if you can believe the photographs, they have become progressively larger and more ferocious-looking, dagger incisors that no longer fit inside mouths set in bemused satiety. Last month the local paper published the image of a10-foot trailer unable to fully conceal a set of hulking paws. There have been disappearances. A dozen or so cats, a few small dogs. A toddler snatched from his backyard, a ten-year old in the parking lot after swim practice, a female jogger at rosy dusk. It's been rumored that Mrs. Harding, retired divorcé, and Roger Powers, bad-boy bag-boy, were ripped limb to limb one night five years ago, after sneaking into the Laundromat after-hours. You usually hear the story from a friend-of-a-friend: scattered organs on the confetti linoleum, sprays of blood across tacked-up ads for tai chi in the park, Spanish lessons, missing poodles. But every community must make sacrifices. It's important to maintain some wildness at the edges, to remind people there are boundaries that shouldn't be crossed, natures that just shouldn't be troubled. Excerpted from The Rapture Index: A Suburban Bestiary by Molly Reid All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
