Trooper

by Forrest Bryant Johnson

  “There!” he yelled, pointing to our visitors.

  Sitting next to each other, with Trooper standing nearby, were two alert-looking small animals with long, bushy tails. Herman’s report was mistaken. The two little animals were not dogs.

  Chi tried to control her excitement.

  “The foxes!” she shouted enthusiastically. “Both are here!”

  Trooper rushed towards me, paused, and then returned to join his new friends. They reacted by running in separate circles, confusing the cat who jerked first left, then right. The larger fox charged at Trooper and rolled over about a foot from the cat. Next, the smaller fox did the same.

  This game of attack, chase, fall, and run continued for several minutes as we humans stood, unable to speak. The animals were behaving as if they had been longtime friends and I wondered if Trooper had met them before. It seemed possible, considering their apparent camaraderie.

  This confirmed what I had read in the local newspaper. People often report seeing pets playing with a kit fox in their yard. Nevertheless, it was an odd example. Playful creatures who should be enemies in the wild, playing together in domesticity. My wife’s eyes flooded with tears of joy.

  “How did they find us?” she managed to ask. “First the black cats came and now the fox!”

  “I’m sure it was no problem for the fox. They have been hunting the area north of us. I think they knew where we lived, and maybe were concerned about Trooper guarding the property.”

  “Should I get them some food?” she asked.

  “Maybe not. They are just passing by. Let’s see what they do next.”

  It was a comical sight, Trooper, so much larger than the foxes, twisting and turning in circles, creating a moment’s blur of dark colored fur.

  The larger fox broke from the game, and with his tail pointing parallel to the ground, trotted towards me. He paused a few feet away, his long nose twitching. Then he turned to face the other fox and gave a sharp yap.

  “Maybe he came to say goodbye,” Chi giggled.

  “Yeah. Maybe.”

  Trooper, appearing a little out of breath, came to my side and we watched as the foxes dashed across the road. They paused at the desert’s edge, looked back at us, and then trotted into the brush, heading southwest. We walked to the edge of the road and caught a last glimpse of them, bounding over sagebrush.

  Then, as it often does in the desert, darkness came quickly.

  “They know where to go, to find a new home?” Chi asked.

  “Oh, the fox knows,” I assured her. “In less than an hour they’ll be hunting deep in the desert. It’s good. They’ll be away from people and all that construction.”

  “I feel much better now,” she said, taking my arm.

  “Me too. Come on, cat! Let’s go to the house and find you something good to eat.”

  I was wrapped in a wonderful feeling of contentment as we entered the house. I knew I had been so fortunate to have shared time, even a small part of my life, with wild creatures.

  In my office the next morning, I removed a stick from a drawer, the twig the fox presented me not so long ago. I placed it on the desk in front of me and my thoughts tumbled. I had learned one thing from our wildlife encounter. Sometimes we believe we know so much about a friend, but discover we understand so little. When we think we know, we have only unlocked a new mystery.

  The foxes were gone, safe somewhere in the desert, and I was happy. But we never saw a fox in our part of the Las Vegas Valley again.

  CHAPTER 13

  Vanished!

  “I believe cats to be spirits come to earth.”

  Jules Verne

  SOME SAY THAT CATS ARE traditionally loners, always spurning the companionship of other felines. In the wild this is generally true, except when cats are playing together as youngsters, or mating as adults. Their territorial instincts are necessary in the wilderness as food supplies are so limited.

  Like their wild counterparts, domestic cats are also territorial (and possessive) by nature, but often seek other cats and bond as friends. There are some, of course, who choose to be loners.

  We must have found the black cats shortly after they had been abandoned—they could not have survived on their own for long. Surely they were emotionally damaged, but not “wild.” But now, they were strangers in a strange place and would not trust humans again for a long time.

  Our ranch, with its variety of trees and bushes, provided a safe environment for the pair. They had each other, plenty of food, and some freedom to wander about the property. Trooper enlarged their travel area a little more each week, but Herman’s guest house, the office roof, and our home remained off limits for our newest guests.

  I spoke to the cats each morning as I walked to the office, and they responded by moving closer to me, only to back away if Trooper appeared on the scene.

  One morning in late summer, I didn’t see Trooper as I made my way to the office.

  “Where’s Trooper?” I asked Teri.

  “On the roof,” Herman responded.

  “How does he get up there?”

  “He climbs the big pine tree at the east end of the building and jumps onto the roof.”

  “Oh,” I said as I walked back outside.

  I stood in the driveway, shielding my eyes from the morning sun with my hand.

  It was already hot, and the temperature would reach 110 degrees by 3:00 p.m., as it had the previous day.

  “Hi, Trooper! What are you doing up there?”

  The cat leaned over the low wall, which ran the entire length of the flat roof. He gave one of his playful gestures by jerking his head to his shoulder, then looked back at me as if to say, “Come on up.”

  He hopped upon the wall and walked along it until he came to a thick tree branch that hung over the roof. There he leaped out of sight, but had given me a confirmation as to how he reached that vantage point.

  “He’ll come down when it gets hot,” Herman said as he joined me. “Maybe he thinks you’ll climb the tree?”

  I laughed. “He knows I’m a bad climber. I’m sure he likes it up there. Cats love high places, especially that guy. From there he must have a wonderful view of all our property.”

  I returned to the office and was interrupted, again, by Herman, who announced, “Trooper down now. He saw something interesting.”

  “Really. What?”

  “Don’t know. He ran fast towards the southeast corner of the yard.”

  “Spotted a rabbit, I bet,” Teri chimed in.

  Chi and I went to our gift shop that evening, returning a little after midnight. The black cats were waiting for us near the front porch. We gave them some fresh food and water and retired. It had been a busy day, and I was exhausted.

  The next morning as I awoke, I realized that Trooper did not come to bed during the night. But had I slept so soundly I simply did not feel his presence? In the kitchen I discovered his food had not been touched. I assumed he found something interesting during the night and would return for food later in the day.

  “Trooper come out here this morning?” I inquired as I entered the office.

  No one responded.

  By the end of the day he still had not returned for food. Chi and I discussed the events around the last time he disappeared.

  The next day yielded no Trooper. I decided that if he did not return on the third day I would take some steps to find him. Thus, on that day I organized my first “search party.” The team consisted of Herman, Teri, two of her friends, and myself. We gathered shortly before noon and tested the two-way radios.

  The black cats approached our group and sat down, staring at us.

  “They sure are curious,” Teri noted.

  “Yeah,” I answered, “and this is kind of odd. They never came close to strangers before.”

  “Maybe they want to join us,” Teri said, “or . . . maybe they know something.”

  “I doubt it. They are simple cats.”

  My plan was to fi
rst search the southern boundary of the property. This would include the gully where small trees and tangled vines presented a great place for a cat to play or hide.

  As I entered the gully I thought of an old saying, something my grandmother once told me: If a cat doesn’t want to be found, you’ll not find him. The gully, several feet deep in some places, with sloping side walls, had bottom soil that felt dry and soft beneath our feet. We found no sign of Trooper, no fur left on underbrush, no footprints . . . nothing.

  Someone mentioned rattlesnakes. Could the cat have become a victim of a snake bite? I tried to force that thought from my mind. There are two venomous snakes on our ranch. The most feared in the Las Vegas Valley is the Mojave green rattlesnake, so named for the reptile’s medium-green body with diamond-shaped markings on its back. It is small, and its bite, with dispensing fangs delivering venom, can be deadly to animals the size of a coyote (or bobcat), though less than one percent of humans die after being bitten.

  The other rattlesnake feared in our valley is the sidewinder, named for its side-winding locomotion. It can reach a length of thirty inches, but its venom is almost as lethal as that of the Mojave green. One of the characteristics of the sidewinder, which makes it especially dangerous, is the ability to bury itself in loose sand, dust, or gravel and hide, waiting patiently for its next victim.

  I didn’t know if Trooper had encountered a rattlesnake before; I had to assume with all his exploring that he had. At least, to that day, he had never been bitten. I worried that due to the well-known curiosity of my cat, he might be attracted to and investigate the buzzing sound of the snake’s rattle. Would instinct keep him out of danger when the snake lunged to strike? The snake’s strike is fast, but the cat may be faster.

  And then I remembered the time, several years before, when I scolded Trooper for stalking the great snake killer, the funny-acting bird known as the road runner. The cat, fascinated by the long-legged bird’s movements, had indicated a desire to catch it. But with the ability to reach running speeds of over twenty-five miles per hour, the bird neatly outdistanced the cat, and when Trooper did close in, it lowered its feathered crest and flew a short distance. The road runner, with its long tail, has a clownish gait on the ground, and often, after his brief flight, tumbles when landing like a clumsy acrobat. Then it springs to its feet and, with a shake of feathers, runs again. It appears, as it spends so much time on the ground and flies so seldom, to forget how to land gracefully. It was no wonder that the cat found this bird interesting, but quickly learned that it could only be caught by doing what he did best, waiting and attacking from ambush. This I discouraged, and I never found evidence that he had killed a road runner.

  The road runner is found throughout the Southwest, Northern Mexico, and on our ranch. Although the road runner is only twenty-four inches long, it is feared by rattlesnakes, which it hunts on a regular basis. The bird eats scorpions, mice, lizards, and spiders, but snakes are a favorite meal.

  Using its wings like a matador’s cape, the bird torments the rattlesnake while judging its striking ability. The runner, three times faster than the attacking snake, leaps and snatches it in his long bill. Then the bird slams the snake upon a rock or hard ground several times, killing it.

  Though popular as a snake killer, he is perhaps best known as the cartoon character who consistently outruns his animated nemesis, Wile E. Coyote, in Looney Tunes.

  That night we gathered again, this time to manufacture posters, which were to be attached to telephone poles, fence posts, and trees in our area, with special attention to cross streets where vehicles either slowed or came to a complete stop.

  The poster read:

  LOST

  Large brown cat with short tail

  BIG CASH REWARD

  Name – Trooper

  No questions asked.

  Our phone number appeared at the end.

  The black kitties greeted me once again as I walked to the office the next morning. They circled around me several times, apparently enjoying new freedom without Trooper.

  Teri informed me that thirty posters were already up, and some had been placed on mailboxes along our road for almost a mile. She placed an ad in the Las Vegas Review-Journal lost and found section of the classifieds, but I held little hope that it would yield any good news.

  We sent a copy of the ad by fax to Doctor Marg and every veterinarian hospital within a four-mile radius of our home. Our thinking was that someone might find the cat and take him to a nearby clinic. And, of course, we also contacted the private animal shelters, as well as one run by the county.

  Another day, and then another, passed. On the sixth day since Trooper went missing, using ideas from my time in the Army, I organized our helpers into squads and assigned them to sections I had marked on a geological map. The desert south of the gully was the next to be searched. After lunch we planned to comb the rough land to the west beyond the road in front of our property. I knew Trooper often used the culvert pipe to cross under the road to that area.

  While my volunteers were searching there, I walked down the road to visit Jim Butler. The old man, using his golf cart, traveled about the neighborhood, spending time with friends, sharing information and local gossip.

  On the way to Jim’s, I encountered the rural mail carrier and waved for him to stop his white jeep. He already knew about our cash reward offered for the cat and assured me he would stay alert for him.

  I was relieved to see the golf cart sitting in Jim’s driveway.

  “I know your cat is missing,” he said. “Got your ad in my mailbox.”

  “Have you heard anything from your friends down the road that might be helpful?”

  “Nope,” came the fast reply, his stern face reflecting no emotion. “Seems like everyone knows about your cat. No one seen him recently. I told you that wild animals like your cat often return to the wilderness . . . going back to where they came from. You can’t blame them. It’s in their blood to be wild. Maybe that’s what your friend has done. All your love and attention can’t stop the urge. Be happy for him; you gave him the freedom and he had to take it! But . . .” Jim paused. “I think he’ll come back, maybe just to visit. You are part of each other.”

  “Yes,” I replied, quite disturbed by his answer and attitude.

  “You got to accept the fact that he may leave again. You understand?”

  My mind struggled to forget his comments. I could not think of Trooper simply leaving me. We had slept together, had eaten together, had played together. I wanted to believe we were the same, that we had bonded like brothers. I didn’t think the cat even knew he was once wild. Had my feelings all been much too human? I had to be realistic, force myself to agree: wild was in his blood.

  “Coyotes are my biggest concern,” I managed to say in an effort to hide my true feelings.

  “Those damn predators!” Jim exclaimed. “You know, about a week ago, my friend Roger, he lives a mile south of here, he was driving home one night. His headlights caught four coyotes in the middle of the road. They had surrounded a cat. It weren’t yours, a much smaller, regular cat. The coyotes were closing in on that poor cat. Nowhere for him to run. Couldn’t break out of the circle. Roger stopped and got out of the car, cursing the fact that he left his gun at home. He yelled at the coyotes. They paid no attention. So he picked up a few big rocks from the side of the road and began throwing at them coyotes. Hit one in the head. They all ran off into the darkness.”

  “And the cat?”

  “Oh,” Jim laughed, “you know cats. He was a lucky one, he was. When the attack broke off, the cat bounded over a wall and escaped. I’m telling you, we’ll get those predators someday. If they come in this yard they are gonna get shot!”

  I thanked Jim and started for home, my thoughts floating to something Doctor Marg once said. “He’ll find his way home if he’s physically capable.” This vibrated in my mind, and I convinced myself once more: Trooper did not run away to the wild. He was not a victim of
a coyote attack or a snake bite. He had to be trapped somewhere, but where?

  At home the black cats circled around me again, making it difficult to avoid tripping over them.

  Herman was waiting at the office door. He reported that the morning search found no signs of Trooper.

  “Let’s try the desert to the north, all the way to the construction site. I’ll take an ad or two to the workers. Maybe they have seen him.”

  I left the search teams and drove to the construction area. To my surprise, the workers I spoke with were sympathetic, one kindly sharing, “We’ll watch for him, pal. No one likes losing a pet.”

  On the morning of the seventh day without Trooper, a team of a dozen people were waiting at my office. They said they all had met Trooper before while visiting us, had pets of their own, and wanted to help.

  I thanked all of them for donating their time, and was very moved emotionally by their concern. I promised a quick lunch and cold drinks for everyone. I suggested we discontinue the search by 1:00 p.m. as the heat would make extended exercise very dangerous. Weathermen predicted 115 degrees by midafternoon.

  I divided the group into squads once more and issued two-way radios and bottled water. I wanted to search the gully and areas in all directions for at least two hundred yards. We must discontinue the search by 1 or 2 p.m.

  Someone inquired into searching our neighbor’s yard to the east, but both Teri and Herman thought that that would be a waste of time. They had never seen Trooper enter the area, so it was unlikely that he’d be there now. Vines, high grass, and thorny sage, tangled with old tractors, made it almost impossible for one to enter the yard from our property. Maybe impossible for a person, but what about a cat, I questioned. They doubted that also.

  I joined the team on the way to search the gully. My thoughts were on the last time Trooper vanished. That duration was only three days. Now we were at one week. If he was trapped somewhere he could not survive much longer without food and water.