That’s sweet. My cats turn into Tasmanian Devils in the car, screaming non-stop and bouncing around like Mexican jumping beans in their carriers. And what a pretty kitty.
And then there’s this story about a very big pretty kitty:
Before P-22 died in December, I’ll admit I was only vaguely aware that there was a mountain lion living in Griffith Park.
I had heard the name and was familiar with some of the many perils that pumas in the Los Angeles area were facing — shrinking territory and an attendant lack of genetic diversity, speeding freeway traffic and exposure to rat poison — but I didn’t know much about what made P-22 singular.
Then, late last year, P-22, who had made an unlikely home in Los Angeles’s biggest municipal park for more than a decade, started behaving more aggressively. Wildlife officials took it as a sign that after a long, difficult life, his health had deteriorated and that he should be euthanized. After his death, he became inescapable.
There was his feline face on a giant yellow mural at a fitness studio where I sometimes take classes. There was a memorial at the Greek Theater, attended by thousands of locals, including celebrities. The Los Angeles Public Library hosted a reading of “love letters” to honor him, and issued a limited edition library card. Representative Adam Schiff emailed constituents to say that he was hard at work pushing for a P-22 postage stamp.
Last week, the Los Angeles City Council approved a motion to build a permanent memorial to him at Griffith Park, which would put the puma in league with James Dean, whose bust is on display near Griffith Observatory.
All this had me wondering: What was it about this wild animal, living in a city full of human celebrities, that inspired such fervent adoration?
What I found while reporting my recent article about P-22’s legacy is that his star potential was recognized years ago and magnified by wildlife conservationists like Beth Pratt, the National Wildlife Federation’s executive director for California, who became the cat’s unofficial agent.
She helped make him the face of a successful campaign to raise money to build the world’s largest wildlife crossing, which is under construction over Highway 101 in Agoura Hills.
But his story of isolation — he was a bachelor who never mated — and survival in a city that has a tendency to grind down individuals also resonated with Angelenos.
To Warren Dickson, a hip-hop artist who tries to get students from South Los Angeles engaged in environmentalism, P-22 is at once a kindred spirit and a vexing point of comparison.
He recalled meeting Pratt by chance after he was hired to drive her to a wildlife conservation fund-raiser. She invited him into the event, and he was struck by the level of concern even for predators.
“Black people just want you to love them like you love mountain lions,” he recalled telling the mostly white guests.
Rather than turn away, Pratt was appreciative of Dickson’s honesty, he said, and the two struck up a productive friendship. She eventually helped him record and make a music video for his song “If I Was Wild.”
Dickson believes that fostering a connection with P-22’s story can help build empathy for marginalized human communities like his own. He hopes to make a full-time career out of wildlife conservation.
Some of P-22’s appeal was more instinctive. At the Natural History Museum of Los Angeles County, where there is an exhibit dedicated to his “hero’s journey,” I found Michelle Davis pointing at a big map, showing the cougar’s territory while her 5-year-old son, Benjamin, poked at buttons to represent other known pumas.
Benjamin, she explained, had been assigned a “passion project” through his school. Last year, he tackled Metro trains. This year, he planned to learn about the big cat.
“Why did you pick P-22?” Davis gently prodded her son.
He squirmed shyly, his eyes downcast.
“I miss him,” he said. Then he bounded away.
I miss him too.
