Anyone who has witnessed a cat fight between two males knows that the speed of action can only be measured in split seconds. Every movement is lightning fast and it is almost impossible to judge which cat did what.
This fight seemed to end as fast as it began. Fat Face was stupidly brave, but not ready to die. He stopped kicking and lay still. Trooper leaped backward into an attack position, waiting for the big gray cat to make a threatening move.
But Fat Face apparently had enough. From where I stood I could see no fresh cuts on either cat. Fat Face began to slink away, holding his odd-looking tail down. Then he paused at about twenty feet and went into a crouched position. Was he planning another attack?
Trooper rolled over on his back, exposing his belly, and snapped a few quick glances at his enemy as if to say, “come on back. I dare you.”
I knew Trooper’s trick. He had used that trap so many times while we were playing. A movement at his belly resulted in my arm being grabbed by his mouth, while front legs wrapped around and held me in place. At the same instant, both rear legs kicked simultaneously. For us it was a game, and he never extended his claws. Yet an enemy falling for the trick would be shredded by the rear paws, while powerful legs held him firm.
But Fat Face was an experienced warrior, not about to be lured into that trap. He stood up and walked slowly to the gully, making a strange grumbling sound as he disappeared into the brush.
Trooper sat up and froze in position until certain the enemy had left the battlefield. Then he walked towards the front yard, heading to the office. Brave Little Brother jumped from the stoop and raced to catch up with his friend. Trooper paused as he reached his side and leaned down so they could touch heads. They continued on together at a slow pace.
I believe Trooper had no intention of harming that ugly cat. He was simply giving him a mild warning: “Don’t come here!”
The big event was over. Little Brother proved himself foolish, but brave, and also very sensitive. But I had a feeling we had not seen the last of Fat Face.
CHAPTER 20
Peace Is Shattered
“A cat’s eyes are windows enabling us to see into another world.”
Old Irish Legend
SOME SAY THAT CATS ONLY meow at people, not other felines, but that is not true. Cats will meow at other cats for a variety of reasons. Brother facing down Fat Face is a perfect example of this. Of course, Brother had not yet mastered the art of growling, yowling, or screaming. He only knew how to meow. A cat’s meow to another feline may, at first, sound similar to the ones he issues to people, but the feelings behind the meowing are different. To use an analogy: my wife often smiles at me, and at other people. The smile to me has a different meaning than it does to others, and this is because of feelings. Indeed, the same is true with cats. A “cat’s meow” means different things to different people, other cats, and objects.
A friend of mine, preparing to move out of state, gave me his cuckoo clock, which I hung about five feet from the floor in our dining room. I had always been fascinated with the engineering of those clocks, and was pleased that this one kept excellent time. It had been designed so the little cuckoo bird only sprang from hiding on the hour and half hour, which was fine with me, because after the first day, the cuckoo sound, with the birds appearing, became a little annoying, especially at night.
The clock gained a true admirer the next day.
“Oh how cute!” Chiaki exclaimed when she entered the room to find Trooper sitting in an alert position beneath the clock. Next to him lay Brother, who greeted the cuckoo bird with a tender meow each time it sprang forward.
Over the next day and a half, I noticed that Trooper had somehow estimated the arrival of the bird. Of course, cats can’t tell time the way that humans do, but I was reminded of one old question which haunted me: How did the cat know the hour I awoke? Now, however he managed it, Trooper succeeded in calculating the arrival of the bird. We watched from the living room as Trooper, followed by Brother, arrived a few minutes before the hour and waited.
It was 11 a.m. The cuckoo would appear and make its sound eleven times; just the amount of time the cat needed.
Before we could shout or respond in any way, Trooper jumped, snatched the toy bird with his mouth, and ripped it free of its mechanism.
Landing on all four feet, he placed his prize on the carpet for Brother to smell. The little cat meowed at the bird, picked it up, and the two trotted outside through their door in the kitchen.
“You knew that was going to happen,” Chi said, with a slightly scolding tone.
“Well.” I smiled. “I didn’t think he would actually catch the bird. I thought he was content to just watch it.”
“Sure, sure,” she replied, not quite believing me. “But your cat is teaching that young one bad habits.”
As for the clock, it continued to cuckoo on the hour, but without the bird, until I removed it from the wall and placed it in a closet.
Shortly after the cuckoo bird attack, I strolled outside expecting to find the cats somewhere along my way to the office
I entered the office, passing the two cats already waiting for me in the meeting room. I spoke to Teri. “Good morning. Did the cats bring a toy yellow bird out here?”
“Haven’t seen a toy bird of any color.”
We never found the remains of the cuckoo bird. The cats, appearing very innocent, watched me as if expecting to be questioned about the disappearance of the little bird. But I said nothing to them about the incident.
Trooper began to growl suddenly, at something in the meeting room. I went to investigate.
He was sitting on the floor, his attention focused on a small table that pressed against a wall.
“What’s he growling at?” Teri asked.
“The stuffed squirrel.”
“What for? He’s seen that squirrel every day for the past year, since you brought it back from Kentucky.”
The mounted gray squirrel was a souvenir I found in an old sporting goods store in my hometown of Louisville and brought back with me to Las Vegas for a special purpose, one that had nothing to do with the cats.
I learned over a period of time that some residents of Las Vegas, at least the ones who had lived there the entirety of their lives, had no idea of what a squirrel actually looked like. I thought it might be a fun experiment to have one on display at our office in order to enjoy the comments of our visitors.
I went through quite a bit to implement my experiment. First of all, it was difficult to find a stuffed squirrel in Louisville. People throughout that part of the country, as well as farther north to the Canadian border and south to the Gulf of Mexico, hunt them. Some eat the little gray creatures, but taxidermists get very little profit from them, considering the time involved mounting a squirrel; this held true even for the larger fox squirrel. My find was nicely mounted on a small log for realism.
The mystery of the squirrel’s identity to some native-born Las Vegans is based on the fact that there are no such animals in the Vegas valley. They simply haven’t seen one. Squirrels are, indeed, found in the nearby Spring Mountain Range, where there is an ample supply of water, natural food they require, and trees to climb and live in; all of these are in short supply in Las Vegas.
Most of our visitors recognized the mounting as a squirrel, and only inquired as to why I had the thing. I explained that it reminded me of my old home, where so many of the gray creatures play about the yards. But the fun came with visitors who had no idea of the animal’s identity. One guessed it to be “a large gray rat”; another stated that it had to be a “baby fox.”
Of course, Trooper, like most natives, had never seen a live tree squirrel. He paused on the first day I placed the mounting on the table to sniff it and assure himself it was dead. After that, until this day, he gave it no attention. But now the two cats sat staring at the squirrel, as Trooper continued with his growl, which changed in volume from low to high and back to low.
“I think h
e is trying to teach Brother in the art of growling,” I said.
Teri laughed. “Well, he’s not doing a very good job of teaching. For the past five minutes all Brother did was meow.”
I went to my growling cat, kneeled down, and gave him a hug. He struggled to free himself, and the growl continued. Then the noise stopped, and he peacefully placed his head on my shoulder. I stroked his back and released him.
“Aren’t you afraid he’ll bite you, Dad? He seemed awfully angry!”
“No,” I said, laughing. “He wasn’t angry. But, it’s wise to know the difference in his mood.”
“That’s easy for you! I don’t think anyone else should try to give him a hug, or even touch him when he’s growling!”
“Chi does it now and then. She knows when the growl is play or just a bluff.”
While we talked, the two cats disappeared out the door to seek a different adventure. But a few moments later, Brother raced in, leaped atop the table, and bit my squirrel, sinking his teeth into the dry skin and ripping a three-inch section from its side. With the section of skin held in his mouth, he dashed back outside.
Teri and I looked at each other in astonishment.
“What was that all about?” she said with a laugh.
“I have no idea,” I answered. “I don’t think Trooper put him up to doing that. Something the little cat did on impulse, I guess.”
“What are you going to do with your squirrel now? It looks sick with that hunk out of its side!”
“Guess I’ll turn it around and face it in the other direction.”
She responded with a chuckle.
Then the radio came alive with my wife’s voice.
“Please come to the kitchen.”
“Who?” I teased.
“You, of course.”
I joked with my wife over the fact that her generation of Japanese seldom used familiar, affectionate words such as “honey,” “sugar,” or “baby,” as Americans often do when addressing a special person. Thus, her request would never be “Honey, please come to the kitchen.” She found my use of such words cute, but strange.
“Come through the front door when you get here,” was the next request.
“Okay. On the way!”
She met me at the entrance.
“I want you to see something,” she said, taking me by the hand. She led me to the kitchen.
There, sitting on the back stoop was that ugly cat, the one and only Fat Face.
“What’s he doing out there?”
“He was sitting there a little while ago when I first opened the door. He makes a funny grumbling sound and looked so hungry. So I opened a can of food we had after the black girls left. He ate one can and then another. I gave him a bowl of water, too.”
“Maybe that’s all he wanted before, just food.” I said.
“I’m sure. He is so hungry! Maybe he doesn’t want to be rōnin. He has no choice. No one to love him.”
“What makes you think so? He’s just a feral animal.”
“He let me pet him when I gave him food,” she replied sternly.
“Well, I wonder what Trooper will do if he sees Fat Face out here?”
“He has already seen him! Trooper came up here. He walked up to the stoop. They looked at each other for the longest time, like they were talking . . . only no noise.”
“Trooper let him eat?”
“Yes. They didn’t fight or even growl.”
“Very strange,” I replied. “Let’s feed him on the stoop, as long as Trooper doesn’t object. Don’t let him come in the house.”
“Maybe Doctor Marg can find him a home like she did for the black cats.”
“Going to be difficult placing that fellow. But who knows. Someone may want him.”
There must have been something about our ranch that attracted so many different kinds of creatures. I had become convinced of that after the arrival of Fat Face. But he was not to be the last of visiting animals.
It was a bright sunny morning, perhaps a week after the arrival of Fat Face. Chiaki’s voice came over the two-way radio with a strange announcement.
“Big bird drinking in fountain! Really big bird with long tail.”
Teri and I were at the desk in the office. I shot her a puzzled look.
“Just another bird?” Teri asked.
As a semi-isolated ranch, we have our fair share of winged visitors, including ravens, road runners, and a variety of smaller birds. But never had Chi referred to any of those as “really big bird.”
“Where are you, Chi?” I spoke to the radio.
“On the front porch,” came the fast reply. “Brought a can of food out for Fat Face. Thought I would feed him in front of Herman’s house.”
I noted a slight giggle to her voice and moved to the open door for a clear view of the fountain.
“What is it, Dad?” Teri said as she reached my side.
There, indeed, was a really big bird with long beautiful tail feathers enjoying a drink from the fountain. Its blue neck appeared to reflect the sunlight. The bird turned to look at us, then took another drink as he bent his long neck down to the water.
“It’s a peacock,” I finally answered.
“Where did he come from? They aren’t natural to the desert, are they?”
“No, they’re not natural to the Mojave Desert, so I have no idea where he came from. The only one I have ever seen was at the Brookfield Zoo in Chicago. I took you kids there years ago.”
“Yes. I remember that zoo trip.”
“He must belong to someone. Escaped a pen, I guess.”
Chiaki’s voice came through the radio again. “Is that bird dangerous?”
“No. He won’t hurt anyone,” I replied.
“Good,” came the answer. “I’m going back inside.”
We laughed and then began to explore possibilities as to the origin of our visitor. Meanwhile, the bird hopped to the ground and began to strut about the yard dragging the train of tail feathers behind. Teri suddenly grabbed my arm.
“Here comes Trooper,” she said with some concern.
Apparently the cat had been watching the bird for some time. Trooper crossed the driveway, lowered himself to a rush and attack position, and began to creep towards the peacock. He did not know what kind of bird confronted him. It made no difference to the cat. Surely the bird appeared to him as a big dinner with lots of feathers.
Bobcats prefer to attack via ambush, initially hiding and waiting, then dashing a short distance to their prey. But this time Trooper changed his strategy. He rushed directly at the peacock. The bird flapped his huge wings and lifted with considerable noise to the lowest branch of a nearby tree. He had avoided Trooper’s attack by moments. The cat circled below the bird three times while I held my breath. Trooper, of course, had the capability of quickly climbing the tree to reach the bird but didn’t seem interested in doing that.
“It doesn’t seem like Trooper really wants to catch that bird,” Teri observed with relief.
“He knows that the bird will just fly to another tree. I think that Trooper was only trying to chase the bird away,” I answered.
“Trooper waiting until after dark,” Herman concluded as he joined us. “He can catch that bird easy after the sun goes down.”
“We can’t let Trooper kill that beautiful bird, Dad,” Teri quickly interjected.
Before I could respond, Chiaki joined us.
“This place is like zoo. That is what I married, a zookeeper,” she teased. “Where did you get him?”
“I didn’t get him,” I snapped. “He just showed up. Came to visit, I guess.”
“From where?” she pushed.
“I have no idea. The bird can fly but I don’t know how far. We’ll ask old Jim. Maybe he knows where the bird belongs.”
While our conversation continued, Trooper apparently lost interest in the bird and casually strolled past us and into the office. But I knew my cat well, and I was certain that he had not lost complet
e interest. He would wait and see how we humans reacted to our newest visitor. The cat would rest while considering his next course of action. If we rejected the bird, tried to chase it away, or indicated any anger towards it, then our action would send a clear signal to Trooper. He would be clear to take the next action and that would surely be sad for the bird.
Little Brother made an appearance. He wandered out from the front porch where he had been observing the activity and joined Trooper for a nap. But now it was feeding time for Fat Face. I’m not sure where he was during the Trooper-bird confrontation, but he appeared from the back of the property, moving slowly to the front of the guesthouse where Chiaki now waited with a can of cat food. Like most cats, Fat Face instinctively knew when it was time for a meal.
The cat leisurely approached the open can of food. Suddenly I heard a rustle of feathers. Looking at the tree, I saw the bird leap from his branch and glide to earth. He hit the ground running directly towards Fat Face and the can of food. Fat Face saw the bird coming but he wasn’t about to be robbed of his dinner. He also raced towards the can, beating the bird by a second or two. Reality set in quickly—the bird was much larger than Fat Face. The cat back away as the bird began to peck at the food.
In a minute it was all over. The peacock strutted to the fountain for a drink. Fat Face approached the can. Empty! The bird had eaten it all.
Chiaki had watched the race from only a few feet away. “Poor Fat Face,” she said in a teasing but understanding tone. “Come on. I’ll get you another can of food and feed you on the back porch, away from that mean old bird.”
The next day she attempted to feed the cat again in front of the guesthouse and, once again, a race between cat and bird began, with the bird winning. It was obvious that she could only feed Fat Face at the back of the house or wait until after dark when the bird would be roosting. We had noticed that as the sun began to disappear each evening the bird flew to the top of a seven-foot wall that separated our front and back yards. There he remained all night, safe, he believed, from all dangers.
Trooper knew how to reach the top of that wall. He had scaled it many times by climbing a large pine tree, which also provided him access to the roof of the guest house, and dropping onto the wall from a branch. The peacock was prepared for intruders at night. Perhaps his only defense was an ear-piercing call to announce the arrival of any intruder. Trooper did not like that call. It surely hurt his sensitive ears so he decided not to threaten the bird, at night, at least for a while.
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