So, it’s been a pretty interesting day today. I was helping a friend with this animal he got. It’s called a Coatimundi. From South America. It’s a furry brown animal the size of a beagle. It has shoe-button eyes, an anteater nose, and a long slender tail circled with black rings.
Check out a pic of these things:
http://www.rfadventures.com/images/Animals/Mammals/coatimundi central america rainforest bg.jpg
Anyway, my friend is Dominican and he wanted it for some Santeria ceremony he was going to perform. I just wanted to see the animal and watch the superstitious mumbo-jumbo ceremony. He only half believes in it himself, but it’s like a cultural thing for him so he does it. He was supposed to get a rooster or something for this, but the guy who sold it to him made a good offer for it, so he wound up getting this. It wasn’t going to be a sacrifice or anything, because I wouldn’t have gone for that. So I drove him there and we picked this thing up and took it to his house. As we drove up, we saw his wife’s Chevy backing out of the driveway; his wife and her mother, undoubtedly off to shopping. We waved. They waved. They didn’t know about this, but they knew he was into Santeria. His wife’s mother is like the definition of a mother-in-law. Impossible.
My friend gloated, “Perfect timing. For once I’ll have the place to myself.” Quickly we dragged the wooden crate into the garage and lowered the electric door. The coati huffed in objection. From a cane-wicker chest, my friend removed the implements of the ceremony—tarnished pennies, coconut husks, the bleached ribs of a cat (I’ve no idea where he got that), polished turtle shells, and an old pewter goblet.
For sustenance, apparently this Santeria god is known to favor dry wine and candies; the best my friend could do, on short notice was a pitcher of sangria and a roll of stale wintergreen Life Savers. He lighted three tall candles and arranged them triangularly on the cement floor of the garage. Inside the triangle, he began to set up the altar. The coatimundi began to pace and snort. My friend stepped inside the triangle of candles and improvised a short prayer to his god, (who no doubt would understand that he was pressed for time).
Afterwards he took a pry bar and started peeling the wooden slats off the crate. The sacramental coati became highly agitated. He attempted to soothe it with soft words, but the beast wasn’t having any of it. It shot from the crate and tore crazed circles throughout the garage, scattering cat bones and tipping two of the santeria candles. My friend tried to subdue the coati by stunning it with the pry bar, but it was too swift and agile. I was like, “hey, don’t hit it!” Like a monkey, it vertically scampered up a wall of metal shelves and bounded onto the ceiling track of the electric door-opener. There it perched, using its remarkable tail for balance, squealing and baring sharp yellow teeth. Meanwhile one of the santeria candles rolled beneath a lawn mower, igniting the tank. We were like, oh shit! Cursing, my friend ran to the kitchen for the fire extinguisher. When he returned to the garage, he was confronted with a fresh disaster.
His wife had come back. Why she had come back, I have no idea. But I’m standing there trying to put out the fire when the garage door opens. Her mother gets out of the car first. What followed was so stupefying that we temporarily forgot about the flaming lawn mower. For reasons beyond human comprehension, the overwrought coatimundi had jumped from its roost in the garage, dashed outdoors and scaled my friend’s mother-in-law. Now the creature was nesting in the woman’s coiffure, a brittle edifice of chromium orange. I had always believed that she wore wigs, but here was persuasive evidence that her fantastic mop was genuine. She shrieked and spun about the front yard, flailing spastically at the demon on her scalp. The jabbering coati dug in with all four claws. No hairpiece, I decided, could withstand such a test.
His wife bilingually shouted that he should do something, for God’s sake, don’t just stand there! The pry bar was out of the question; one misplaced blow and that would be the end of his mother-in-law. So my friend tried the fire extinguisher. He unloaded at point-blank range, soaping the stubborn animal with sodium bicarbonate. The coati snarled and snapped but, incredibly, refused to vacate the old woman’s hair. In the turmoil it was inevitable that some of the cold mist from the fire extinguisher would hit his mother-in-law, who mashed her knuckles to her eyes and began a blind run. My friend gave chase for three-quarters of a block, periodically firing short bursts, but the old woman showed surprising speed.
Finally he gave up and trotted back to extinguish the fire in the garage. Afterwards he rolled the charred lawn mower to the backyard and hosed it down. His distraught wife remained sprawled across the hood of the Chevy, crying: “Mami mami, luke what chew did to my mami!” Above her keening rose the unmistakable whine of sirens—someone on the block had probably called the fire department. “Why can’t people mind their own goddamn business,” said my friend.
His mother-in-law eventually came back without the animal in her hair, and she was more-or-less okay. But I would hate to be in his shoes. I got out of there as fast as I could.
Check out a pic of these things:
http://www.rfadventures.com/images/Animals/Mammals/coatimundi central america rainforest bg.jpg
Anyway, my friend is Dominican and he wanted it for some Santeria ceremony he was going to perform. I just wanted to see the animal and watch the superstitious mumbo-jumbo ceremony. He only half believes in it himself, but it’s like a cultural thing for him so he does it. He was supposed to get a rooster or something for this, but the guy who sold it to him made a good offer for it, so he wound up getting this. It wasn’t going to be a sacrifice or anything, because I wouldn’t have gone for that. So I drove him there and we picked this thing up and took it to his house. As we drove up, we saw his wife’s Chevy backing out of the driveway; his wife and her mother, undoubtedly off to shopping. We waved. They waved. They didn’t know about this, but they knew he was into Santeria. His wife’s mother is like the definition of a mother-in-law. Impossible.
My friend gloated, “Perfect timing. For once I’ll have the place to myself.” Quickly we dragged the wooden crate into the garage and lowered the electric door. The coati huffed in objection. From a cane-wicker chest, my friend removed the implements of the ceremony—tarnished pennies, coconut husks, the bleached ribs of a cat (I’ve no idea where he got that), polished turtle shells, and an old pewter goblet.
For sustenance, apparently this Santeria god is known to favor dry wine and candies; the best my friend could do, on short notice was a pitcher of sangria and a roll of stale wintergreen Life Savers. He lighted three tall candles and arranged them triangularly on the cement floor of the garage. Inside the triangle, he began to set up the altar. The coatimundi began to pace and snort. My friend stepped inside the triangle of candles and improvised a short prayer to his god, (who no doubt would understand that he was pressed for time).
Afterwards he took a pry bar and started peeling the wooden slats off the crate. The sacramental coati became highly agitated. He attempted to soothe it with soft words, but the beast wasn’t having any of it. It shot from the crate and tore crazed circles throughout the garage, scattering cat bones and tipping two of the santeria candles. My friend tried to subdue the coati by stunning it with the pry bar, but it was too swift and agile. I was like, “hey, don’t hit it!” Like a monkey, it vertically scampered up a wall of metal shelves and bounded onto the ceiling track of the electric door-opener. There it perched, using its remarkable tail for balance, squealing and baring sharp yellow teeth. Meanwhile one of the santeria candles rolled beneath a lawn mower, igniting the tank. We were like, oh shit! Cursing, my friend ran to the kitchen for the fire extinguisher. When he returned to the garage, he was confronted with a fresh disaster.
His wife had come back. Why she had come back, I have no idea. But I’m standing there trying to put out the fire when the garage door opens. Her mother gets out of the car first. What followed was so stupefying that we temporarily forgot about the flaming lawn mower. For reasons beyond human comprehension, the overwrought coatimundi had jumped from its roost in the garage, dashed outdoors and scaled my friend’s mother-in-law. Now the creature was nesting in the woman’s coiffure, a brittle edifice of chromium orange. I had always believed that she wore wigs, but here was persuasive evidence that her fantastic mop was genuine. She shrieked and spun about the front yard, flailing spastically at the demon on her scalp. The jabbering coati dug in with all four claws. No hairpiece, I decided, could withstand such a test.
His wife bilingually shouted that he should do something, for God’s sake, don’t just stand there! The pry bar was out of the question; one misplaced blow and that would be the end of his mother-in-law. So my friend tried the fire extinguisher. He unloaded at point-blank range, soaping the stubborn animal with sodium bicarbonate. The coati snarled and snapped but, incredibly, refused to vacate the old woman’s hair. In the turmoil it was inevitable that some of the cold mist from the fire extinguisher would hit his mother-in-law, who mashed her knuckles to her eyes and began a blind run. My friend gave chase for three-quarters of a block, periodically firing short bursts, but the old woman showed surprising speed.
Finally he gave up and trotted back to extinguish the fire in the garage. Afterwards he rolled the charred lawn mower to the backyard and hosed it down. His distraught wife remained sprawled across the hood of the Chevy, crying: “Mami mami, luke what chew did to my mami!” Above her keening rose the unmistakable whine of sirens—someone on the block had probably called the fire department. “Why can’t people mind their own goddamn business,” said my friend.
His mother-in-law eventually came back without the animal in her hair, and she was more-or-less okay. But I would hate to be in his shoes. I got out of there as fast as I could.
