Civet Cat in the City

     When that craving for a yard sale hits on a warm Sunday in Tokyo, make a beeline for the International Forum. Outside the ship-shaped convention center, vendors set up their wares in tasteful displays and even hold parasols to shade customers from the solar rays. Of course, haggling is out of the question. With a growing collection of kokeshi (wooden dolls) and haori (kimono jackets) this hunter-gatherer has a purpose. Digging through one rack of haori two begged to live with us at the Manor: One, a translucent black number with a sheer rose lining, the second in lilac with fan design for spring. Total bill = Y 1,000 (about $12).

     Purchase bagged, money accepted with a bow, time to invest Y120 in the ubiquitous drink vending machines. Hydrate, hydrate, these machines silently implore. With a dazzling selection of flavors, could this be the day to taste Pocari Sweat? Musume-chan (daughter) believes that "sweat" was intended to be sweet, but is more memorable spelled this way. Suddenly, a most fanciful wild animal emerged from the other side of the vending machine: Long snout, masked face, about the size of a weasel. Except for colonies of feral felines, who are fed every evening by legions of women on bicycles, Tokyo is critter-free. Parks have no frisky squirrels or obvious rodents. This slinky guy could have walked off the pages of Dr. Seuss.

    Tanuki, one vendor said, referring to the raccoon's Japanese cousin. Habishi, said another, habishi!  Minutes later two policemen with clipboards arrived to a summons for help. The habishi (palm civet cat) climbed up an external staircase, and tried to ignore the small crowd below who were aiming their cell phones in its direction to capture the moment. With any luck the animal was transferred to the zoo, which is doing its best to collect these solitary felines who are now popping up around town.