And off in the distance, a frightened pooch ...

The lovely Miss Wendy and I were out and about earlier today, running a few errands and enjoying some, ah, quality time with one another. We zipped onto a major boulevard in our little corner of the world and a block later noticed that cars were screeching to a halt and swerving around what appeared to be an accident.

A moment later we passed a pickup truck that was wobbling atop a nearby curb and a smashed up SUV in the intersection. The entire front of the vehicle was caved in, the window shield shattered and tires flat and spinning. Off to the side, a small crowd was gathering and several people were surrounding a woman who seemed to be conscious but shaken and, perhaps, going into shock.
We maneuvered our way slowly around the scene, but noticed that a bunch of cars in front of us were still crawling along, blocking the intersection. I wanted to get out of the area so emergency vehicles and medics could make their way in and didn’t understand what the holdup was.

Then, as one car zigged while another zagged, I spotted the problem. A tiny dog, trailing a longish leash, was dashing up the highway. It was spooked and seemed totally lost and bewildered! I’m only guessing, but I think it quite possible that the dog – a terrier mix of some sort – had been in the SUV and was tossed from the vehicle when it crashed. A dozen or so cars were trailing the pooch and, finally, one driver managed to get in front of the dog and force it to the curb. She jogged over to the trembling animal, offered a few soothing words before picking it up and getting it out of harm’s way.

I detail this little slice of life to offer up this observation. When I spotted the wreck, my first feeling was annoyance – backed up traffic, rubber-neckers, wasted time. Then when I saw the injured woman, I mostly thought that that’s life in the big city and hoped she wasn’t seriously injured. But seeing the small dog touched my heart and had me feeling sad. It was obviously confused, frightened and, well, completely innocent of all the madness we humans unleash on one another. That said, it was nice to see most everyone slowing down a bit, making an effort to shield the dog before it could dash into traffic.

Five minutes later and a mile down the road, cars were once again whizzing about, most everyone focused on the distant horizon, feeling the urgent pull of life. And so it goes.

Katrina, Camille and a massive oil spill

The images out of the gulf coast are alarming, nature once again showing who's boss -- and who ain't. The daily horror show -- oil-slicked beaches, wetlands, birds, turtles and other critters -- is a heavy price to pay for our inexhaustible craving and need for energy.

The area, of course, has been hit hard before, most recently and dramatically when Hurricane Katrina roared onto shore, demolishing man-made structures and pristine beaches from the Florida panhandle, across Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana.

New Orleans has yet to fully recover. And it's the Crescent City that I've been thinking about lately, that jazzy happening of a place snuggled up close and tight against the mighty Mississippi.

A little over four decades ago -- it was the summer of 1969 -- I was working as an intern for my hometown paper, the Columbus Enquirer. I stayed busy taking obits over the phone, writing short feature stories and occasionally tagging along with the cop reporter as he made his daily rounds.

The job was all about the basics -- read and study reports; know the right people to interview and the right questions to ask; take good notes and transcribe them quickly; pay attention to everything that is said and everything to be seen. When writing, use active verbs and short, declarative sentences. Grab attention with the story's lead, then explore and explain and finish with a flourish!

I learned more that summer about reporting and writing in eight weeks than four years in journalism school. But that's another story for another day.

The last week of my internship, we began hearing about massive storm clouds building in the Gulf of Mexico, a deteriorating weather system that spilled across hundreds of miles of ocean. It seemed headed for the Texas coast, then turned on itself and sprinted toward Mississippi.

It was called Camille, a monster of a storm, a category 5 Hurricane with sustained winds nearing 190 mph. On the evening of August 17 and throughout much of the following day, Camille made landfall. When she finally moved inland, 259 people were dead, thousands were injured and tens of thousands were homeless. Back when the dollar was worth, well, a dollar, Camille caused $1.42 billion in damage.

There were no computers back then, no web to monitor the storm's progress, or 24-hour Weather Channel to broadcast warnings. It was a different time, when things happened and it took hours -- sometimes days -- to learn the facts.

Slowly news began trickling into the newsroom, press reports from the Associated Press and wire photos in black and white that detailed broken buildings and broken lives. It was days before the full extent of the damage was widely known.

Just a month later, I was on my way to New Orleans, traveling along a road that hugged the Gulf of Mexico through Western Alabama and Mississippi. The interstate system was still only an idea in this region, so I meandered along the coast on U.S. 90, passing through major cities and little villages -- Pascagoula, Gautier, Biloxi, Gulfport, Long Beach, Pass Christian and Bay St. Louis.

The destruction was massive. Entire blocks of buildings were reduced to rubble, trees uprooted and power lines snapped. Cars and trucks were tossed about like toys, pushed aside now into vacant lots to allow traffic to once again flow smoothly.

Two images linger.

A huge barge, tons of twisted metal and broken glass, had been grounded by the storm in Gulfport. It rested atop a home, at least 100 yards from the beach on the far side of the coastal road.

A bit further west, in Bay St. Louis, the facade of a two-story house had been ripped away by gale-force winds. The capricious forces at work, however, had left the home's furnishings in place and intact.

It only took a month or so to clear away the obvious signs of the storm, a year to mend and rebuild most of the homes, offices, schools and resorts. Lives were lost, tears shed, families uprooted.

But life went on. Camille became a distant, painful memory. It's been left to the poet to suggest that "time heals are wounds". But nature has returned, offered an opening by our collective wants and needs. This time around time is killing us, an open wound on the ocean's floor spewing death and destruction that apparently can't be stopped.

If you're the sort to cry, weep for a way of life slipping away in an oil slick that grows by the hour. Then take a little time to pray that the smartest and the brightest figure out a solution soon, before the Gulf of Mexico becomes a distant, painful memory.

SIGN OF THE TIMES: Oil-stained pelican (photo above) tries to leaves its nest as oil washes ashore near barrier island just inside the coast of Louisiana / AP

Call of the wild -- in my neighborhood!

It's a zoo out there. No, really, my neighborhood is starting to look like a zoo.

There have always been dogs and cats, birds, squirrels and chipmunks. Occasionally I've spotted a snake sunning itself on my driveway and a raccoon or two looking for a snack on my patio. Rabbits have been multiplying like, well, rabbits around here for years.

But this week nature has grabbed hold of my little corner of the world and reminded me once again of the collision the 'burbs and the beasts are facing these days.

While weed-whacking my yard into shape recently, I took a break to adjust my, ahhh, whacker and something grabbed my attention. I whirled around and caught sight of what, at first, I thought was a good-size rat staring back at me. Yech!

What I saw was mostly a mound of fur with a huge tail, but it seemed a bit unsteady and a little puzzled. After only a moment I realized I wasn't looking at a field mouse, but a really tiny, baby raccoon.

Apparently my weed-whacking had disturbed its nest (do raccoons have nests?) and now the baby raccoon was lost and unable to find its mother. I figured I had a couple of choices: Go ahead and weed-whack the ball of fur and dump it into my neighbor's yard or the ivy-filled outer regions of my yard, invite some friends over for burgers and raccoon, or call animal control.

Since I like my neighbor and want to hold onto the few friends I have, I contacted animal control. An officer showed up a few minutes later and carted the ball of fur away, hopefully somewhere pleasant -- and far away.

But nature week was just beginning.

Two days later, once again in my yard (this time hedging and edging and, yes, I do need to get a life that doesn't involve lawn tools), I heard a startled yelp from my neighbor and glanced around to see two deer loping into my yard. This way definitely a first. I don't know who was the most startled -- the deer or me.

We stared at one another for an instant before the deer dashed off down the steet, hanging a left into a nearby stand of trees. A moment later I heard the yelping of a couple of dogs, spotted two hounds -- you can't make this stuff up, honest -- dashing across my yard, sniffing the air, obviously picking up the scent of the deer and looking to corner dinner.

It appears someone is invading someone's space. The question, of course, is who's the invader?