the week before i leave, one of my sister's cats disappears. it's a small brown kitten and my sister says that last night she could hear squealings and a yelp. there are pieces of matted fur and dried blood near the side door. a lot of cats in the neighborhood have had to be kept inside because, if they're allowed out at night, there's a chance that the coyotes will eat them. on some nights when the moon's full and the sky's clear, i look outside and i can see shapes moving through the streets, through the canyons. it was only later i realized they were coyotes. on some nights, late, i've been driving across mulholland and have had to swerve and stop suddenly and in the glare of the headlights i've seen coyotes running slowly through the fog with red rags in their mouths and it's only when i come home that i realize that the red rag is a cat. it's something one must live with if you live in the hills.

less than zero

bret easton ellis