"Beauty emergency"

      Tuesday morning, after our walk, I went up our driveway to toss Kitty's morning contribution into the trash can by the garage and spied half a rabbit. Our dog, who, truth be told, can be slow on the uptake, didn't notice the offal, thank God. 
      After I squired Kitty into the house, I went into the garage, got a shovel, and returned to what indeed turned out to be the hindquarters of a bunny, the upper portion cleanly snapped away mid-spine, as if cleaved in two with an axe. I considered taking a photo but, yuck, right? I buried the lower half in the strip of woods running along our property, covering the grave with a log, to deter it being dug up.
    It was clear to me what had happened: an alien spaceship had bisected the rabbit with a space laser, taking the upper half for study, or whatever nefarious purpose inspires extraterrestrials to flit about our planet in a way that manages to be both omnipresent and elusive.
     I considered reporting my confirmed alien sighting to the proper authorities, but realized that, without tangible evidence, my information would not be given the weight that it deserves ...
     Okay, okay, not being serious here. With so much rampant credulity — really, we live in the Golden Age of Gullibility —  I don't want you thinking, "Oh no, not Steinberg too." I've gone on record about what I think regarding the tendency to automatically view UFOs as visiting aliens, for all the good it does. (The wistful, who want so much to believe, try to skew the issue into, "You don't believe there could be life anywhere in the vast galaxy?" A red herring, and not the relevant question, which is: "Are they here, now?" The answer to that must be a resounding "No!"  The whole UFO phenomenon is based on people not grasping the hugeness of space, nor the expanse of time. "Star Wars" nailed it: if there is life in the galaxy, the overwhelming odds are it was both "long ago and far away.")  

      Still, there is something useful here. When we consider how smoothly people make the leap, from a flash in the sky to a mothership from Rigel 7, the whole Trump disaster should be no surprise. We knew long ago, or should have known, that too many people are eager to believe the most jaw-dropping nonsense based on nothing at all; why is it surprising that this tendency functions in realms beyond specks in the sky?

     Wednesday, standing in the kitchen, I though I saw something flash in the back yard. Looking harder, I saw nothing. "These microships are fast," I thought. Again, not really. Ten seconds later, my wife said, "Look!" and I saw I had left the grill open the night before, eager to convey our steaks to the table. 
     "I must have left the ..." I began.
     "The coyote!" she said. I redirected my gaze, and there was maybe 40 pounds worth of loping piebald manginess, heading around our house and west down Center Avenue. My wife alerted the neighbors across the street, who are watching a dog for friends and might conceivable let her in their fenced-in back yard. 
    They saw the coyote, parked in front of their house, and one let out a shout they've developed to alert the other that a momentary phenomenon demanding attention is something marvelous, not dire. A pretty bird, not a car accident. "Beauty emergency!" she said. I'm going to borrow that one. Her husband snapped the above picture but, being a more modest sort than I, waved off the idea of credit.
     Given this new information, I'd like to revise my theory about what happened to the rabbit. Space aliens didn't cut the rabbit in half: they left the rabbit carcass there, as bait, trying to attract the coyote. That must be it.