Betty Diaries: Cougar town | ParkRecord.com
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Betty Diaries: Cougar town

You can have this town when we're through with it. Which will be never.

Kate Sonnick
Kate-Sonnick-3

Did you see the recent news story about the big cat spotted in Old Town?

That was me.

Please, whatever you do, don’t call me a cougar. I prefer the term mountain lion.



It wasn’t always this way. There was a time when I was proud to be a cougar. Strong, fearless, independent. Hey, I’m the boss of me. Just don’t cross me. I’ve been known to lash out when I feel threatened. Like right now.

Then somehow my species got reassigned to sassy, 40-something human divorcees with lip injections and boob jobs. It wasn’t their fault. My guess is they didn’t come up with the name themselves. And I gotta give them credit for flipping the script. If middle-aged dudes can chase women half their age, why can’t women do the same?



For the record, male mountain lions are called Tom. Guess what they call females?

Queen. I rest my case.

I’m really working on myself this year. Trying to eat right, keep my blood pressure down. Be cool, just chill. Which is exactly what I was doing when someone called the Park City Police Department the other day to report that I was, quote, roaming the streets.

Really? You called the cops on me?

News flash, long-time Parkites who call yourselves local: This was my town long before you got here. And definitely way before the Sundancers. How come nobody’s calling the cops on them? They’ve been roaming the streets all week.

Not that I’m not enjoying the parade. I literally just saw a guy in a shearling coat, Marlboro Man hat and cowboy boots. Slow your roll, Butch Cassidy. That get-up is about as cliche in Park City as someone in a beret and mariner-stripe boatneck standing next to the Eiffel Tower.

Let’s forget cougars in the wild for a minute and take a look at influencers in the wild, shall we? Call me catty but I just counted seven shiny Canadian Goose black puffer jackets, three pairs of Danner boots and two pairs of pristine Joan of Arcs, all of which looked like they were unboxed five minutes ago in Swede Alley.

Nobody walks in LA. And I guarantee none of them have ever prowled the slush-covered sidewalks of Park City before either.

Not that I have anything against Hollywood. P-22, the OG mountain lion of Los Angeles who was euthanized last month, was one of my heroes. Dude journeyed over 20 miles from his natural habitat to cross not one but two extra-wide California freeways. He eventually took up residence in Griffith Park, where he hung for about 10 years. Yes, he ate a couple of chihuahuas. Honest mistake. And no one called the cops on him. Now LA is inundated with ideas for ways to memorialize him.

I know I’m no P-22. I’m just a regular cat, trying to make my way in this cold world. I’m not looking for a statue or my paw prints in cement on Main Street. I just want a little respect. A little empathy, maybe. I think I deserve it.

After all, I was here first.

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