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Sometimes the sounds that come from it defy textbook identification as to what it is, precisely. One would guess a cat but the normal meow has been replaced by an often-grotesque attempt at communication. Communication with what, exactly? Even my noisy neighbor Ted was annoyed the other night, banging on his window in an unsuccessful attempt to silence the animal. Assuming that it is in fact a cat, it does not scare easily.
Most of my time living in Baja has been spent in neighborhoods where cats were neither seen nor heard. Dogs are everywhere, strays more than anything else, some so ugly with mange they barely even resemble a dog anymore. The definition of a naturally smart dog is a dog without a limp. Educated dogs, then, often have one leg that never reaches the ground. The canine educators come in the form of automobiles, and the dog gets one lesson. If it needs another, it will not survive here.
This particular school is a cruel one.
There are several adjustments that an American must make in order to thrive in Baja. Learning to speak the Spanish language is obvious, adjusting to certain cultural differences is to be expected, and having the mathematical ability to convert currency exchange rates in one’s head is helpful. But there are some aspects of Baja that some Americans can never come to terms with. Those people with an extreme affection towards dogs and cats usually do not live here for very long.
Maybe ten years ago, after yet another failure of the second used washing machine we bought here in Baja, and after the repairman informed us that the repair would be as expensive as a new machine, we decided to buy a brand new Maytag. My visions of the lonely Maytag repairman in the many commercials shown on the televisions of my youth remained burned into my memory. We were pleased that our investment would be worth it. What could go wrong with a Maytag?
Two motors, several other parts, and perhaps five hundred dollars later, I am still trying to convince myself the purchase of the Maytag was worth it. At least, I was, up until recently. While there are certain problems that one can expect with a washing machine of any brand, there are also problems that one should never expect. The Maytag sits out back next to a used dryer in a narrow five-foot by twenty-foot corridor covered by a thick white tarp. Rocio came in from attempting to wash a load of clothes with some strange, if not downright gross news.
"There are maggots in the washing machine."
I had to ask her three times, fearing that possibly my Spanish was failing me.
"Maggots," she said, this time in English. "Maggots in the washing machine."
We called the repairman out, who is by now no doubt delighted that we covet our Maytag as we do. Accompanied by his assistant, he tore apart the machine over the course of an hour until finally, the probable source was located. A dead rat had somehow become lodged in the drainage tube. Once removed, they cleaned out the machine. All looked fine once again.
It didn’t take long for me to decide that the cat was psychotic. The attempts at communication – and again, I stress that there is nothing with which this animal could possibly communicate – were nothing short of bizarre. For several evenings in a row, lasting for a period of no more than an hour, the cat would wail - not like a normal feline in heat, but more like an animal possessed. I decided that it was female, or else, one very confused male.
The only time the cat makes what could be considered as normal feline sounds is during what appears to be confrontations with another cat. Except that the psychotic cat is much louder. I can barely hear the other cat beneath the loud posturing. I have never heard any of these confrontations turn into an all-out fight.
Other times certainly not limited to nocturnal hours, the cat is communicating to no one. Never a simple meow, the sounds last for between three and seven seconds. Sometimes the vocalizations seem to take the form of questions and other times the cat is making obvious statements, but the messages are lost on me. The messages are lost on anyone, and the cat doesn’t seem to care.
Not more than two hours after the repairmen left, Rocio went out to the Maytag and came back in, exasperated. More maggots. I figured that perhaps they were left in the drainage tube and made their way back up, so we purchased a couple of gallons of bleach and ran a few cycles. Everything seemed okay at first, but when we went to check an hour later, the maggots were back. Fun times.
Two days later we pulled the repairman back in and he took the machine apart again, even breaking the water seal this time (after all, money must be spent on something), and they found nothing. Rocio’s mother decided that the machine had somehow become possessed with an evil spirit and offered to call in a witch to set things straight (it is surprising how often this is done in Mexico when something goes wrong). I told Rocio to call Ernesto, that if anyone could figure out what was going on, it was he. Ernesto drove down the hill and took a look.
Apparently, between the first and second stories of this house there is a space, perhaps twelve inches tall in the front and back of the house, and maybe two inches tall in the middle. The second story is an addition, and the original first story has a cement roof with a pitch of about three degrees. Whoever constructed the second story put rectangular cutouts to vent the space, above the thick white tarp, but failed to install a screen. According to Ernesto, there is a dead animal somewhere in that space, and when nature took its course the maggots worked their way out of the vent, which is over the washing machine, but just inside of the tarp. Neither of us have the tools or the knowledge to get the carcass out of there.
At least temporarily, the vents have been boarded shut, solving the problem with the maggots.
"It doesn’t really solve the problem," I told Rocio. "That dead animal is still there."
"Will the maggots find another way out?"
"That’s the big question. But regardless, they’ll hatch into flies and more maggots will be produced, and there will be flies and maggots and so on until the carcass is consumed."
"I’m calling the landlord," she said.
A few days ago, I sat here in my office typing away, radio in the background, sipping on coffee, a usual morning. Rocio was at work and Anna in school, the house was mine. For the moment. Outside of my office window, which is where the Maytag sits, there was quite a commotion on the tarp over the Maytag. I got up and went out back, and heard the psychotic cat babbling away, with the positive imprint of its body sitting on my tarp. I grabbed a broom and surprised it; the psychotic cat ran quickly, vocally protesting while knocking loose blocks off of my wall as it scampered a few feet away onto the wall of a neighbor.
I replaced the blocks back onto the wall and put the broom on top of the covered Maytag. Just as I entered and began to close the door, the psychotic cat jumped back onto the tarp, with more strange vocalizing, except this time I almost understood it. Not that my interpretation is accurate, but it seemed to be indignant over being removed from what it rightfully owned. I began for the broom again, but stopped when a thought occurred to me. Was the psychotic cat somehow connected to the dead animal enclosed in the vent space? I came back inside and went back to my office.
For whatever reason, I haven’t heard any noise from the psychotic cat since that morning.
Yesterday, the landlord appeared. We discussed the problem with the dead animal and he asked if we knew of or could possibly find an exterminator to handle the problem. Apparently, the landlord has allergies. I told him I would turn that project over to my wife and have her contact him.
I can’t speak for my wife, but I would rather have the landlord’s allergies than my headaches.
Sometimes the sounds that come from it defy textbook identification as to what it is, precisely. One would guess a cat but the normal meow has been replaced by an often-grotesque attempt at communication. Communication with what, exactly? Even my noisy neighbor Ted was annoyed the other night, banging on his window in an unsuccessful attempt to silence the animal. Assuming that it is in fact a cat, it does not scare easily.
Most of my time living in Baja has been spent in neighborhoods where cats were neither seen nor heard. Dogs are everywhere, strays more than anything else, some so ugly with mange they barely even resemble a dog anymore. The definition of a naturally smart dog is a dog without a limp. Educated dogs, then, often have one leg that never reaches the ground. The canine educators come in the form of automobiles, and the dog gets one lesson. If it needs another, it will not survive here.
This particular school is a cruel one.
There are several adjustments that an American must make in order to thrive in Baja. Learning to speak the Spanish language is obvious, adjusting to certain cultural differences is to be expected, and having the mathematical ability to convert currency exchange rates in one’s head is helpful. But there are some aspects of Baja that some Americans can never come to terms with. Those people with an extreme affection towards dogs and cats usually do not live here for very long.
Maybe ten years ago, after yet another failure of the second used washing machine we bought here in Baja, and after the repairman informed us that the repair would be as expensive as a new machine, we decided to buy a brand new Maytag. My visions of the lonely Maytag repairman in the many commercials shown on the televisions of my youth remained burned into my memory. We were pleased that our investment would be worth it. What could go wrong with a Maytag?
Two motors, several other parts, and perhaps five hundred dollars later, I am still trying to convince myself the purchase of the Maytag was worth it. At least, I was, up until recently. While there are certain problems that one can expect with a washing machine of any brand, there are also problems that one should never expect. The Maytag sits out back next to a used dryer in a narrow five-foot by twenty-foot corridor covered by a thick white tarp. Rocio came in from attempting to wash a load of clothes with some strange, if not downright gross news.
"There are maggots in the washing machine."
I had to ask her three times, fearing that possibly my Spanish was failing me.
"Maggots," she said, this time in English. "Maggots in the washing machine."
We called the repairman out, who is by now no doubt delighted that we covet our Maytag as we do. Accompanied by his assistant, he tore apart the machine over the course of an hour until finally, the probable source was located. A dead rat had somehow become lodged in the drainage tube. Once removed, they cleaned out the machine. All looked fine once again.
It didn’t take long for me to decide that the cat was psychotic. The attempts at communication – and again, I stress that there is nothing with which this animal could possibly communicate – were nothing short of bizarre. For several evenings in a row, lasting for a period of no more than an hour, the cat would wail - not like a normal feline in heat, but more like an animal possessed. I decided that it was female, or else, one very confused male.
The only time the cat makes what could be considered as normal feline sounds is during what appears to be confrontations with another cat. Except that the psychotic cat is much louder. I can barely hear the other cat beneath the loud posturing. I have never heard any of these confrontations turn into an all-out fight.
Other times certainly not limited to nocturnal hours, the cat is communicating to no one. Never a simple meow, the sounds last for between three and seven seconds. Sometimes the vocalizations seem to take the form of questions and other times the cat is making obvious statements, but the messages are lost on me. The messages are lost on anyone, and the cat doesn’t seem to care.
Not more than two hours after the repairmen left, Rocio went out to the Maytag and came back in, exasperated. More maggots. I figured that perhaps they were left in the drainage tube and made their way back up, so we purchased a couple of gallons of bleach and ran a few cycles. Everything seemed okay at first, but when we went to check an hour later, the maggots were back. Fun times.
Two days later we pulled the repairman back in and he took the machine apart again, even breaking the water seal this time (after all, money must be spent on something), and they found nothing. Rocio’s mother decided that the machine had somehow become possessed with an evil spirit and offered to call in a witch to set things straight (it is surprising how often this is done in Mexico when something goes wrong). I told Rocio to call Ernesto, that if anyone could figure out what was going on, it was he. Ernesto drove down the hill and took a look.
Apparently, between the first and second stories of this house there is a space, perhaps twelve inches tall in the front and back of the house, and maybe two inches tall in the middle. The second story is an addition, and the original first story has a cement roof with a pitch of about three degrees. Whoever constructed the second story put rectangular cutouts to vent the space, above the thick white tarp, but failed to install a screen. According to Ernesto, there is a dead animal somewhere in that space, and when nature took its course the maggots worked their way out of the vent, which is over the washing machine, but just inside of the tarp. Neither of us have the tools or the knowledge to get the carcass out of there.
At least temporarily, the vents have been boarded shut, solving the problem with the maggots.
"It doesn’t really solve the problem," I told Rocio. "That dead animal is still there."
"Will the maggots find another way out?"
"That’s the big question. But regardless, they’ll hatch into flies and more maggots will be produced, and there will be flies and maggots and so on until the carcass is consumed."
"I’m calling the landlord," she said.
A few days ago, I sat here in my office typing away, radio in the background, sipping on coffee, a usual morning. Rocio was at work and Anna in school, the house was mine. For the moment. Outside of my office window, which is where the Maytag sits, there was quite a commotion on the tarp over the Maytag. I got up and went out back, and heard the psychotic cat babbling away, with the positive imprint of its body sitting on my tarp. I grabbed a broom and surprised it; the psychotic cat ran quickly, vocally protesting while knocking loose blocks off of my wall as it scampered a few feet away onto the wall of a neighbor.
I replaced the blocks back onto the wall and put the broom on top of the covered Maytag. Just as I entered and began to close the door, the psychotic cat jumped back onto the tarp, with more strange vocalizing, except this time I almost understood it. Not that my interpretation is accurate, but it seemed to be indignant over being removed from what it rightfully owned. I began for the broom again, but stopped when a thought occurred to me. Was the psychotic cat somehow connected to the dead animal enclosed in the vent space? I came back inside and went back to my office.
For whatever reason, I haven’t heard any noise from the psychotic cat since that morning.
Yesterday, the landlord appeared. We discussed the problem with the dead animal and he asked if we knew of or could possibly find an exterminator to handle the problem. Apparently, the landlord has allergies. I told him I would turn that project over to my wife and have her contact him.
I can’t speak for my wife, but I would rather have the landlord’s allergies than my headaches.