Doctor Marg chuckled. “How about scratch marks on trees outside?”
“Oh, yes. There are plenty of those.”
“He’s marking his territory with the scent from his paws,” she explained. “Another cat will know his size by the height of the scratch marks. I’m curious. How do you discipline him? Does he respond to your commands?”
“Like with a human child, it’s been a bit of a learning curve for both of us. Of course, I never strike him, or even act like I intend to.”
“Good!” she heartily approved.
“I don’t shout at him either. I simply say ‘no’ in a firm voice.”
“And he responds positively?”
“Yes. Well, most of the time. I think he always knows exactly what I want. He often looks at me as if waiting for my response.”
“Hmm . . . interesting. Has he learned the meaning of any words yet?”
“Yes. You’ll see a list of words he understands in my log. I’m leaving a copy for you. He’s developing a nice vocabulary.”
“Wonderful,” she smiled. “And it includes the command, ‘no’?”
“He also responds when I say his name in a sharp tone. So, he seems to understand the importance of tone as much as the actual word. After we correct him we give him lots of love and attention by stroking his head and back. He follows us about the house, observing what we do. He wants to be involved.”
“What you describe sounds like a normal domestic cat. I’m pleased, and a little surprised he is behaving like one. Do you think, at this point, he believes he is human? So many owners say that about their pet.”
“Not at all,” I reported. “He thinks I’m a cat, just not a very capable one. I can’t jump up on a wall, I’m not very fast on my feet, and my tree climbing abilities are nonexistent.”
The doctor leaned back in her chair and laughed. “Well, you’re growing up together,” she said. “That will form a good bond between the two of you. By the way, you’ll soon notice his coat becoming thicker. Winter will be here in a few weeks. As with all animals, it’s not only the changing temperature, but the position of the sun affecting their fur. Trooper’s body doesn’t know he’ll have a warm house to sleep in this winter.”
During our visit with Doctor Marg, I learned that Trooper’s physical and blood test results proved him to be a healthy young bobcat. Very much relieved, we returned home in time for my afternoon nap, which I usually enjoyed on the living room carpet.
Up until this point, Trooper had neither been a lap cat nor had he enjoyed being cuddled. His affection towards me was limited to purring when petted. So what happened next on that October afternoon came as a happy surprise.
As I awoke from my nap, I became aware of some kind of weight on my right leg, just below the knee. I lifted myself up on my elbow and saw that Trooper had fallen asleep with his head on my leg and his front paws wrapped around my calf. To say that I was excited would be an understatement; I was utterly thrilled! This animal, who had been totally wild a few months earlier, had begun to express not only his affection, but his trust.
After a few moments, I asked him a silly question. “Are you awake?” He opened his eyes, stared at me, then stood, stretched, and walked towards the cat door as if nothing unusual had occurred. Guess he was awake after all.
We repeated this sleeping position over the next several days, then I decided to try something different. I lay on my back, extended my arm with my palm facing upward, and promptly fell asleep. I awoke with my cat’s head resting in my hand. The next day he cuddled next to me, using my arm as a pillow. From that day on, whenever we napped together, his snuggling position was the same. I had replaced Yellow Bear as his sleeping companion.
Winter neared and Trooper’s coat changed. Soon he resembled the fuzzy bobcat we saw in pictures. My skinny little cat had grown considerably, enough so that we enlarge his cat door once again, and yet one more time a few weeks later.
Each day, I was reminded by Trooper’s behavior that I had a most unusual cat. As expected, he had become very protective of not only his food, but also of what he considered his territory, which at the time was only our small yard. This protection also extended to Chi and myself. He would growl if someone came near us until we assured him all was safe. Yet he was still young, and if the situation appeared threatening, he simply disappeared, but not completely. I learned that he remained nearby in some special hiding place, watching from a crouched position, ready to attack if necessary. It’s true: to be a good protector, one needs practice.
One morning as Chi and I prepared to go out, Trooper rushed past us and out the front doorway as if on a special mission. He suddenly stopped, looked back at us, and then flattened himself on the sidewalk with his four legs sticking out
“What the hell is he doing?” I exclaimed. I was answered with a strange, shaking sensation. For a second or two, my head felt as if I had consumed too many shots of bourbon.
“Earthquake!” Chi announced. “Very far away.” (As it turned out, the epicenter of the quake was near Los Angeles.) My Japanese wife knew instantly what we were experiencing. People living in Japan grow up feeling quakes routinely. To them it is an expected part of life.
Trooper remained low to the ground for a few more seconds, then he stood and walked slowly towards the house.
“He knew something was about to happen before we felt anything,” I said.
“Animals always feel the quake first,” she replied. “Oh, look!” she added, pointing towards two women across the street. They were walking with a cat. “Isn’t that cute? I wonder if Trooper would stay near us if we went for a walk together.”
“I doubt it,” I answered. “We never . . .”
“No, Trooper!” she interrupted.
Before we could stop him, Trooper dashed across the street and slammed himself into the cat. With all the screaming that followed, from both the women and the cats, I feared I would find the other cat severely injured. I rushed across the street and somehow managed to lift Trooper away from the battle. I apologized to the women and discovered with relief that their cat did not appear to be hurt. Neither did Trooper, but fur from both cats was floating in the air. “Take that big bully home!” one lady shouted at me.
“Yes, ma’am! I’m very sorry. It will never happen again. Your cat appears to be okay.”
“He’s not hurt,” she replied with anger, “he’s frightened. We all are!”
I carried a squirming Trooper to our yard and gave him a harsh scolding. “You must not attack other cats! This is your territory, over here!” I waved my hand in a circular motion as if covering our entire front yard.
He understood by my tone of voice that I was not pleased, but I’m sure he could not grasp the reason. In the days to come, I observed him watching people as they walked their dogs and, once in a while, a cat. But I didn’t see him launch another attack. I had started thinking that it might be a good time to relocate. We needed inventory storage room for our growing business, and our cat needed space to be himself. We had been looking into some small ranch properties for sale on the south end of town. Some were actually in the desert and appeared to be perfect for our needs. Trooper would have lots of room to explore. We then prepared to place our house on the market.
I’ve learned from browsing the Internet, especially from Facebook groups, that most cat owners report bizarre behavior from their pets. Trooper was no exception. There was one episode, in particular, which we shall never forget.
One afternoon, shortly after a nap, Chi and I were working at the kitchen table when Trooper bolted in with what appeared to be a piece of wood in his mouth. He proceeded directly to his dinner bowl and dropped the object on the dry food. I moved closer to learn the identity of the treasure.
But it turned out not to be a piece of wood, but the mummified remains of a small bird with which he now shared a meal, normally reserved for Yellow Bear. After a few moments on the pile of dry food, the mummy bird received a dip in the wa
ter bowl. Then the cat snatched it in his mouth and carried it to the top of his cat tree.
We watched silently, wrapped in curiosity. What did the cat plan to do?
Suddenly, with a quick jerk of his head, Trooper flung the mummy bird into the air. It fell directly to the floor with a dull thump. Trooper stared at the bird for more than a minute, then brought it back to his food and water bowls for another dunking. With the bird in his mouth, he sprang up the cat tree to toss it in the air once again. Sadly, it fell with the same dull sound. If he was trying to make the bird fly again, Trooper’s experiment with resurrection surely failed. He yowled from the top of his tree. Finally he climbed down, picked the bird up in his mouth, and disappeared with it through the cat door. We never saw the mummy bird again, but I was left wondering what this cat had been thinking.
Skeptics will say that a cat cannot think or plan; that an animal only behaves by instinct. These same skeptics would say Trooper had been playing a game with his mummy bird. Cat owners, of course, might argue differently, and propose a hypothesis something along the lines of what I came up with to explain this strange episode.
True, I had seen Trooper feed and water Yellow Bear, but I think he did that out of affection, not as a wish for resurrection. He had never seen a live Yellow Bear, and there were no others in his world to compare it to. Yellow Bear could not be expected to fly or walk or sing because it never had before.
However, birds were different. They are supposed to fly and sing. Trooper had seen them do this every day he lived with us. Perhaps he thought that if he provided food and water, then the bird would come back to life. If this were truly his intention, then I felt a little sad for Trooper. After this experiment, did he now realize that death is final? How could I expect a simple animal to comprehend this when we humans, with our vast intellect, have such difficulty accepting a final fate?
Of course, I cannot say with any certainty what my young cat had been thinking during his experiment. But I had learned that despite his lineage, Trooper was sensitive with a sweet disposition. His curiosity seemed to reach beyond that of other cats I would meet in later years, or perhaps it was simply different, for he often combined this trait with some sort of experiment.
Unfortunately, in the years to come, Trooper would witness death many times and eventually be forced to face the animal that had killed his feline family. On that day of the mummy bird I decided it was time to become more involved with Trooper’s play. I planned to introduce him to little fuzzy toys which, some day at our new ranch, would be replaced with live animals.
CHAPTER 6
Games We Cats Play
“In nine lifetimes you’ll never know as much about your cat as your cat knows about you.”
Michel de Montaigne
THEY DESCENDED UPON LAS VEGAS in wave upon wave of noise. News broadcasts on television announced their arrival all day and into the late evening. They quickly became the subject of conversation around Las Vegas. No, I’m not talking about tourists—well, not exactly. These visitors were cicadas, buzzing insects welcomed only by birds who would enjoy endless meals for a few days, even though their constant feasting didn’t make a dent in the bugs’ population. Fortunately, these insects were harmless to all creatures, great and small, but they were annoying nonetheless.
I returned home late one afternoon and noticed my neighbor working in his flower bed next to their driveway.
“What’s that buzzing noise?” I asked.
He mopped his brow with a shirt sleeve, “Cicadas. They started that racket a few hours ago. My dog has already eaten a handful of ’em.”
“Make him sick?”
“No. According to the news, they won’t make pets sick.” I was somewhat relieved to learn that I had no worries about Trooper eating one of those bugs, but I didn’t really expect him to be interested in insects. I entered my house and found my wife waiting for me in the kitchen. “Your big cat is having a great time catching bugs,” she announced jokingly. “He’s been busy at it all afternoon. That’s what we have, a bug-catching cat!”
Trooper was lying on the floor at the open glass door with his front legs outstretched. A high-pitched buzzing sound indicated there must be a bug trapped under his paws.
“He catches the bugs,” Chi explained, “bats them around the floor. Then he takes them outside and releases them. They fly away.”
I lay down next to Trooper, my face near his paws. “That’s a very nice bug,” I said to the cat.
He sat up and answered me with a crunching sound. No more bug.
I watched as the cat trotted across the little bridge and into the backyard. Suddenly he leaped into the air and snatched a bug with his paws. It was still buzzing when he placed it in front of me and pushed it close to my face.
“Thank you, Trooper,” I said graciously. “You’re a good hunter. This is a wonderful bug!”
He seemed pleased with my compliments, and trotted back to the yard for more hunting.
“Are you going to eat it now, or save it for later?” my wife asked teasingly.
“I’ll wrap it up and you can toss it out the front door. I don’t want him to see you do it. I might disappoint him.”
Trooper became totally involved in hunting cicadas from this point forward. I never knew exactly how many he devoured during those two weeks before they vanished and the air was silent once again. (In fact, we wouldn’t see the cicadas for another seventeen years.)
A few days later I heard a car horn in front of our house and looked out the window. A large white van had parked there and printed on its side were large red letters that read PRETTY PAWS HOME PET GROOMING.
“Chi! Did you order some kind of pet grooming service?” I yelled.
“Yes!” she answered from the bedroom. “That cat has been with us for a few months and he hasn’t had a bath. He hates to travel so I thought he would be more comfortable with a bath here.”
“Is he supposed to get a bath? I thought cats clean themselves.”
Before she could answer, we were interrupted by the doorbell. When I opened the door, a man stood before me wearing a blue cap, matching colored jumpsuit, and sporting a black, well-trimmed goatee. The embroidered logo on jumpsuit assured me he was from “Pretty Paws” and had come to give my cat a bath.
“Are you Johnson?” the man said sharply.
“Yes. Come in.”
Trooper, who had been sleeping atop his kitchen cat tree, was now awake and alert, his large ears pointed forward.
The man then shouted, “Well! Where’s the cat?”
Before I could answer, Trooper replied with an ear-piercing scream, followed by a deep growl.
“That’s the cat,” I said.
“You gotta be joking . . .” the man mumbled. “Forget about it,” he said as he turned and marched back to his van.
Trooper leaped to the floor, rushed out the back door, and disappeared into the safety of the bamboo grove. There was no time to stop and guard the food bowl. I laughed as I thought, who was more afraid of whom—the cat or the groomer? Battle of the species, indeed.
Except for being trapped in an occasional rainstorm (occasional is a good description for Las Vegas as the city only receives three to four inches of rain each year), that day was the closest our cat ever came to a bath. He, like all his wild cousins, groomed himself and never smelled offensive, at least as far as I could tell. Of course, he had no idea as to the purpose of the man’s visit. He simply didn’t like the tone of his voice. Once the cat was certain the man had departed, he returned to the kitchen, only to be greeted by another disruption to his routine.
“What’s that?” I asked as Chi removed a leather harness from a shopping bag.
“It’s a kitty halter, size large. He might choke with a collar if he got it caught on something. I have a long retractable leash. Now you can take him for a walk.”
“Great idea, but I don’t think he’s going to like this. We’ll give it a try. Come on, Troop; Mama has a gi
ft for you.”
He smelled the leather and started to walk away, but I held him while Chi slipped the harness over his head and managed to buckle the straps at his chest. At first, he thought we were playing one of our wrestling games, but soon realized this was something different. I knew that the moment I released him we would witness a wild reaction.
“Okay,” I said to Chi. “Back up slowly. I’m going to turn him loose.”
I wasn’t wrong. We were in for quite a show. Trooper first rushed to the couch in the living room, bounced from it to the fireplace mantel, then to the coffee table, from which he slinked to the floor and started rolling in an effort to free himself of that horrible thing gripping his body. Finally he ran to me and lay flat at my feet, his eyes pleading for help while he whimpered.
We had been successful, thus far, in domesticating our wild cat, but I had pushed my luck this time. I carefully removed the harness while stroking his back with the palm of my hand. He responded by purring contentedly. In the future, walks would strictly be decided by the cat.
The harness was not his only objection to certain types of domestication. I learned, as many cat owners do, not to rub his chest or belly. Some cats love that kind of attention, but others react quickly to protect this sensitive and vulnerable part of their body. This is especially true for wild cats. If Trooper rolled over on his back and exposed his underside, it signified two things: Either he trusted me, or he was setting a trap to lure me into destruction. For us, the tummy rub became a game of mutual trust. The cat learned that I intended no harm. When I touched his chest or stomach, he instantly seized my arm with his front paws and clamped his jaws down near my elbow. At the same moment, he would kick me with his rear legs. His teeth never broke my skin unless I jerked, which I admittedly did the first few times. I still have scars to remind me of my lack of trust. He seemed amused to play this game. Somehow he knew just how much pressure to apply to my arm without breaking my skin.
Trooper Page 4
