Trooper

by Forrest Bryant Johnson

“The same with sound,” she continued. “Cats hear sounds at much higher frequencies than we do, about five times higher.” She paused to read notes on her clipboard. “He has had all his shots and the necessary blood tests. They’ll have your paperwork and rabies tag at the reception desk. I hope you have no objection, but we placed a locator computer chip under his skin so you can be notified if he’s lost and found.”

  “Glad you did.”

  “One more thing. Trooper gave us all a surprise yesterday evening as we were closing the clinic.”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, you already know he purrs. He will make any number of sounds, and some of them might be quite terrifying. As we were closing the clinic last night we heard a loud scream. We rushed back to find Trooper sitting peacefully next to his food bowl. A bobcat scream can be ten times louder than an ordinary house cat’s, and their growl is even more ferocious. They often combine this with a variety of hissing. Just as young hound dogs bay or howl to hear themselves, Trooper discovered he could scream and decided to practice for really no reason. You might want to educate your neighbors and tell them not to be alarmed.”

  “I’ll prepare them,” I said. “We plan to move to a place with more land in less than a year. It’s a small ranch with lots of trees and space.”

  “Excellent. But remember, if he gets to be too much of a problem, bring him to me and we will reintroduce him to the wild. He’ll be strong enough to survive in a year’s time. But if we wait too long, his natural hunting skills will fade and that could be dangerous for him.”

  As I signed the release forms in the reception area, a young nurse entered the room carrying my travel crate. “We’re going to miss this fellow,” she said, beaming.

  “I’ll bring him back for visits.”

  Trooper was quiet until I started the car, at which point he released a variety of snarls and shook his crate violently. My voice had no calming effect on him. However, the moment we pulled into the driveway of our home and I turned the engine off, he became peaceful again.

  Chi sat on the couch, her hands clasped in front of her as she calmly waited. She didn’t appear excited about the coming event. But a number of concerns raced through my mind.

  Would the cat leap out and attack us? Even though he was only an eight-pound kitten, his claws worried me. Would he race through the sliding glass doors, which Chi had opened? I knew at least that he could not escape our small backyard, for it was completely enclosed by a block wall which was much too high for a young cat to scale.

  I slid the latches of the crate back slowly, held my breath, and gently opened the top. For a few moments Trooper sat motionless and stared at me. Then he raised his head out of the crate to conduct a visual survey of the strange world around him. His eyes fell on a bowl of dry cat food Chi had placed on the kitchen floor. His nose twitched and he gracefully sprang from the crate and rushed to the kitchen. A crunching sound told us he accepted it.

  His eyes then caught something in the backyard and he rushed out the open door, crossed the little wooden bridge spanning a narrow fish pond, and quickly crawled into a grove of bamboo in the corner of the yard. He remained hidden somewhere in that cluster of greenery for more than two hours while Chi and I discussed what to do next. We decided it was best to simply wait and see if Trooper would return for dinner. But I could not yet think of food. My stomach felt twisted as I sat and stared out into the yard, trying to control my worry for our mysterious pet.

  CHAPTER 4

  How to Domesticate a Wild Kitten

  “An ordinary kitten will ask more questions than any five-year-old.”

  Earl Van Vechten

  HOW DOES ONE BEGIN TO domesticate a baby wild cat? In my saga of the relationship between man and feline, it became my most interesting challenge.

  First, I considered the environment my little friend once thought of as home, and what he might have learned before we met. His mother would have provided everything for him, from food to a warm and comfortable den for shelter. Bobcats, like all cats, are trained by their mothers in the art of stalking and hunting, as it is a path to their future survival. True, this is an instinct the cats are born with, but it is perfected for practical use by the mother.

  After much thought, I concluded that Trooper’s mother was apparently killed by coyotes before he had the opportunity to learn much of anything. If she had survived the coyote attack, then she would have returned to search for her young. But the day I found Trooper I saw no evidence of that, no cat tracks in the dirt, which would indicate she had not been in the area. I did see coyote prints, easily identifiable by the extended claw marks. A bobcat would leave no such print, as their claws are retracted when they walk. Sleeping and playing had probably occupied most of his time. I thought this relative lack of education might work to my advantage. He had had little experience living “wild.” I guessed that his family had been training or hunting when they were ambushed by a pack of coyotes. No doubt his mother had put up a fight to give her kittens time to escape to the safety of their den. The evidence suggested that only Trooper, by a twist of fate, had survived.

  So, at first, my job seemed simple. All I’d have to do is provide him with food, a safe, warm place to sleep, and supervision during play. (Play is essential to the development of most animals and it usually involves siblings.) Though Trooper invented many of his own games, which he alone enjoyed, when he and I played together, things often got a little rough. (I still have small scars on my arms, which were unintentionally caused by his sharp claws and teeth.)

  Chi and I planned to impose some restrictions on Trooper when he was in the house, but could not agree on what these should be. Clawing on wooden furniture would surely be forbidden and climbing drapes a big no-no, as well. We knew what to expect from a spoiled child, but had no idea how a spoiled cat, especially a wild one, would behave.

  That first day with Trooper at home, I was reading at the kitchen table, still trying to calm my nerves, while my wife cooked dinner. A quick glance towards the small bamboo grove outside our sliding glass doors confirmed that Trooper had us under observation. The bamboo stalks moved from time to time, revealing the cat’s fuzzy face peering out.

  Finally he broke from the bamboo and moved slowly to the pond. The goldfish swimming about captured his attention. How strange a picture it must have been for him. He had never seen fish before, nor a pool of water. There had been no rain in our part of the desert for months. As a kitten, the moisture he needed came from his mother’s milk and whatever he ate.

  Trooper crouched low as he studied the fish. He reached out his paw and cautiously touched the surface. He withdrew the paw quickly, studied the drops of water on his fur, and then licked it dry. He repeated the experiment and the fish responded by darting about and breaking the surface with a splash.

  What a wonderful discovery for the cat! He had found a large source of water and interesting creatures in it to play with. Then he decided to take a long drink of the pond water. What is it about cats that impels them to drink dirty water when fresh, clean stuff is available?

  “Maybe he thinks if he drinks all the water he can get closer to the fish,” I commented to Chi, upon observing this odd behavior. I couldn’t think of any other explanation.

  I watched Trooper stroll across our little wooden bridge and enter the kitchen through the sliding doors. He paused for a quick scratch from me before heading to his bowl for a snack. The next object for investigation was the carpet covered cat tree, which he gave a good clawing before bounding to the top platform, looking around, and leaping to the kitchen table, landing directly in front of me. That gave Chi and me a jolt as we had no idea what to expect from a wild kitten. But for an animal near death just a few weeks earlier, he displayed surprising acrobatic abilities.

  What happened started a series of events which gave us lasting memories for years to come.

  Chi had a yellow teddy bear that I had given to her when we first met. It stood at about nine inch
es tall. She placed the toy against one table leg near the cat’s food bowl to watch his reaction. Of course, Trooper noticed the bear the moment he hit the floor and sniffed it carefully.

  “Yellow Bear is for you, Trooper,” Chi said.

  The cat looked up at her. Then he seized the bear in his mouth and carried it to his food bowl. We watched as he placed the bear face-down in the kibble, where it remained for a full two minutes while the cat studied it with apparent concern. After that, he carried it to the water bowl, where it received a quick dunking. Then he returned the bear, dripping wet, to its original position against the table leg. We thought that maybe he remembered the time when his mother first attempted to wean him and his siblings by introducing solid food. Perhaps she returned to their den with a freshly killed rabbit or some small creature. She would have carried her kittens, one at a time, to the dinner and waited as each sampled that new kind of food.

  It appeared as if Trooper was sharing his most treasured possession—food—with a toy. After a few days of feeding, Trooper apparently concluded that Yellow Bear had had enough to eat. It then became his sleeping companion. We soon learned that the bowl of dry food would be offered to any object he cared for or considered important.

  A week later we decided to begin the cat’s education in earnest by introducing him to certain key words: Yellow Bear, dry food, yum-yum (for all other food), water, “Mama” for Chi, and “Johnson” for me. This proved a good test of Trooper’s ability to recognize by association things in his daily life. In time, his understanding would exceed our expectations. Chi could say to the cat, “Go find Johnson,” and Trooper would explore the house until he found me. At first, he’d made a sharp barking sound, like a small dog, while he searched for me. I had no idea that cats made such noises until I heard it from my kitty’s mouth. But from later watching a old Disney wildlife TV show, I learned that mother wild cats, including mountain lions, use a similar bark to call their young. Trooper remembered the bark and used it to locate me, no doubt expecting me to answer in a similar fashion. As months went by we heard the bark less and less, and eventually not at all. He had learned to depend on his keen sense of smell and hearing to find me. Cats can hear much higher-pitched sounds than humans, going as high as even an octave above that of a dog. Further, cat ears can swivel from forward to side to the rear, and their ability to see in very dim light with a vast visual field allows them to be perfect predators. Their sense of smell is fourteen times stronger than that of humans.

  As with all cats, Trooper’s curiosity seemed endless, and he used his heightened senses to help him explore. The entire house required investigation, and he often waited for me to join him in that duty. Every closet, cabinet, and piece of furniture had to pass a smell test. We assumed everything met with his approval, as we never noticed him avoiding a particular object. I often wondered how much information his little brain could retain from smell alone. Likewise, everything in our yard demanded examination. Trees, plants, stones, and flowers were checked each time he passed by. Special attention was given to flowers, which he seemed to enjoy.

  A good nap always followed this routine. We had purchased a comfortable cat bed, which he promptly rejected, selecting instead our luxurious living room couch. But that piece of furniture was more than just a place to sleep; it also became a favorite scratching object. While lying on his back on the floor, Trooper would often pull himself along the length of the couch by sinking his claws into the bottom edge. He’d scoot along from one end to the other, flip himself over, and reverse direction. I made a slight attempt to discourage the practice by demonstrating how much fun it was to use his carpet tree, but he preferred the couch, and we had to accept the fact that it must be sacrificed for his pleasure.

  Food, as we expected, was paramount in Trooper’s life. No doubt the memory of going for extended periods between meals in the wild was locked in his mind. We provided him with dry food and fresh water around the clock. We let him sample a variety of wet food until he decided that chopped chicken was his favorite, with beef as a close second. That first year we found no evidence that he killed birds or any small animals. (That activity would come later, when we relocated to a ranch.) Trooper guarded his eating area with serious concern if we had visitors. Whenever the doorbell rang, he’d rush to the kitchen from wherever he was and block his food with his body. “People don’t eat cat food,” I tried to reassure him, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

  It was another story with human food, however. As a rule, everything Chi cooks smells delicious and inviting. The first time Trooper sampled spaghetti, he used his paw to lift a long noodle from my plate. “No,” I scolded him softly as I prepared a small plate for him and placed it next to mine. Next his head disappeared into the salad bowl. Again, I placed a small amount on his plate and discovered it was the French dressing that had tempted him. From then on we permitted him to smell our food, but insisted he eat from his own plate on the floor. Gradually he lost interest in human food, except for fried chicken. While some might be critical of our dinner experiments, Chi and I thought they were a good way to show Trooper that he was a member of our family and to learn a little discipline in the process.

  Summer passed. Trooper was now almost five months old and had gained weight, yet none of it was fat. He seemed to be all muscle and fur. We had to enlarge the cat door for a second time.

  His curiosity peaked one day when I came home with a fax machine. This electronic marvel was something new at the time, and we invested in it to speed communication with our gift shop suppliers. Our early model fed thermo paper from a roll, which could be problematic, we learned, if the paper was exposed to sunlight, heat, or moisture.

  We still don’t know why Trooper became fascinated with the fax machine. Perhaps the buzzing sound it produced or the fact that we placed it on the kitchen floor until we could decide on a permanent location attracted him. I forgot that anything on the floor becomes the property of a cat.

  The next day, Chi called for me to come to the kitchen. “Look at that!” she said, pointing to Trooper’s water bowl.

  In it a fax letter floated. Once exposed to water, the print had completely disappeared and the fax was unreadable. So much for speeding up communication with our suppliers! Trooper had removed the letter from the machine, and as he had done with Yellow Bear, decided to feed and water it. Two days later, the machine chime sounded and Trooper sprang to it. While eating dinner, we watched him remove the paper and head towards his bowls. I caught him a moment before the paper hit the water.

  A month later we invested in a new invention, a “plain paper” (or, the current letter-type paper) machine, and no longer feared the loss of important messages. The cat showed no interest in the new machine, perhaps because it did not make the buzz sound and lacked the pleasant chime announcing the arrival of a letter.

  Three additional months passed, and it had come time to visit Doctor Marg for Trooper’s checkup. After quite a struggle to get him into his travel crate, Chi and I loaded him into the car for the brief journey to the hospital. But before I started the engine, my wife hit me with a strange question.

  “Did you read about the big cat?” she asked.

  “What big cat?”

  “It’s here in the morning Review-Journal. I brought it for you to read.”

  I quickly read the article, which told of an eight-year-old girl reporting to her father that a “big kitty” was sleeping under the family car in the driveway. The father took his daughter by the hand and led her outside. There he froze. Stretched out on the driveway, enjoying the morning sun, was a mountain lion. They quickly returned to the safety of the house and phoned 911.

  Police officers, news teams, animal control agents, and representatives from the US Department of Wildlife flooded to the yard to see this unusual visitor to Las Vegas. The lion was tranquilized, examined at the nearby wildlife hospital, and then released high in the wooded Spring Mountains west of town. Mountain lions, mostly young ones
recently separated from their mothers, have occasionally visited the suburbs of Las Vegas but neither cat nor humans have ever been harmed.

  When I started the car, Trooper began to growl and his crate rocked until we reached the hospital.

  During the short trip I thought of how relieved I was to be caring for a young bobcat and not a cougar. My kitty was at least a manageable weight and size.

  CHAPTER 5

  Getting to Know You

  “Time spent with cats is never wasted.”

  Sigmund Freud

  “TROOPER IS AT FIFTEEN POUNDS,” Doctor Marg stated during his checkup. “He’s a little more than half grown and appears to be in excellent health. Do you have any questions regarding his condition? Is there anything worrying you?”

  “No, not really,” I replied. “He’s strong, and runs and jumps as I expected. But, I wonder about his legs.”

  “What’s wrong with his legs? Have you noticed a lump or . . . ?”

  “No,” I interrupted. “He’s short compared to bobcats I have seen in photos.”

  The doctor smiled, and for a moment, dodged my statement. “The nurses are playing with Trooper in the exam room,” she said. “He truly enjoys human attention. This is a pleasant surprise. Did you notice the man wearing a white shirt waiting in the reception area?”

  “Yes.”

  “He is much taller than you are, yet you are both white American males around the same age. Every species is built differently, including bobcats. Do you recall your concern about Trooper’s rounded ears when you first brought him to me? Look at those ears now—they’re large, pointed, and erect. Trooper will grow a little taller. Be thankful he doesn’t get much larger. I’m sure he is difficult to handle already. Does he let you pick him up and carry him about?”

  “Not very easily,” I admitted. “I can pick him up, but if I try to carry him very far he kicks and squirms and makes funny whirring sounds. Luckily, he doesn’t use his claws on me. He saves those for his kitty tree and the couch.”