One morning Chi called me into the living room. I stumbled in, still half asleep.
“Look at that!” she said, pointing to a wadded candy bar wrapper lying in the center of the floor.
“Don’t blame me!” I responded. “Where did it come from?”
“Your cat brought it in.”
“That’s silly! Why would he bring that thing in here?”
“Every morning for the past two weeks there has been something different at the same spot. He’s bringing in trash from the street during the night.”
“He wants us to find it, doesn’t he? I wonder why.”
“I think so,” she said. “The first few days I tossed the stuff into the garbage, but then I decided to save it and think logically. What is he thinking? Go look on the kitchen counter at the box of stuff.” She had marked the box with a felt-tipped pen: “Trooper’s Treasures.” It contained an odd assortment of chewing gum wrappers, a bottle cap, crushed soda and beer cans, a plastic coffee cup, a piece of rubber from a tire, half of a cigar, and, the strangest of all, a twelve-inch piece of rope tied with a number of strands of clear plastic fishing line. Despite its seeming oddity, it became a very special possession. “Rope,” as we called it, was fed and watered like Yellow Bear, and Trooper began carrying it about, introducing “rope” to his world.
If we said, “Go find rope,” or “Where is rope?” he would retrieve it from a hiding place and walk about with it in his mouth. Unlike a dog, he never fetched it to us; he only proved he knew rope’s location.
The trash gathering continued until we moved to the ranch, which we had been planning to do for some time. With an unending assortment of things and places to investigate at the new property, his trash gathering ceased. Rope, however, retained a special place in his life for years. Some days he carried it about the house and property, and then it disappeared, only to be retrieved a day or so later.
Trooper had another box filled with a variety of kitty toys. Like many cats, he was more interested in climbing in and out of the box than actually playing with toys. It finally occurred to me that he didn’t know what the small, fuzzy creatures were for. Apparently he had never seen a live mouse, or didn’t recognize the similarities.
I selected a dozen little toy mice from the box. The cat watched as I carefully arranged them in a military formation and began to move them forward as if they were marching towards an objective. I lay on the floor and was quickly joined by the cat, who at first appeared interested in the game.
“Now watch, Trooper,” I firmly said. “First line is for the tough soldiers. The next line we move up slowly because they’re the reinforcements.”
My wife watched the experiment, covering her mouth to hide a laugh. She quietly slipped out of the room.
Trooper studied the mice and watched as I scooted the toys about, simulating a fight sequence. After a few minutes, it was then his chance to join the game. He first smacked at several mice with his paw, then picked one up by its tail and carried it outside to the bamboo grove. He returned, seized another mouse, and joined it with the first one. This continued until he had relocated all the mice.
“What happened to your game?” Chi inquired as she reentered the room to check on our progress.
“I’m not sure. He has his own ideas.”
“Where are all the mice?”
“He carried them outside.”
The next morning we woke to discover the mice scattered helter-skelter across the living room floor. The cat had returned them. After that, he showed very little interest in the fuzzy toys no matter how much I tried to interact with him. The goldfish swimming in the pond were far more of an attraction and spending time observing them apparently was more important than playing with toys. In time, as with all children, cats or people, his interest would change.
But it was in the backyard that I made an interesting discovery: Cats don’t know that humans can’t see in the dark. Of course, cats cannot see in total darkness, but in the desert, or forest, it is never totally dark. There is always some light from the moon and stars. Even on a cloudy night, there is reflection from the clouds, and it provides enough to aid the night creature’s visibility. The night belongs to the cat. Felines have predatory instincts and their vision in dim light aids their survival. If given the opportunity, cats will hunt shortly before dawn and just after sunset when the light is not so dim or bright. The creatures the cat hunts during those hours also have good vision in dim light, but alas, we humans have limited visual ability.
To prove my theory, one crisp winter evening, I decided to walk along the gravel path that wound its way a short distance through our backyard. I moved slowly as it was very dark while searching intently for Trooper. Suddenly something smashed against my left leg, almost knocking me off balance. There had been no sound. I could not see what hit me. It was as if someone had thrown an invisible football with a powerful arm.
Certain the aggressor was Trooper, my eyes strained to see him. No luck.
I took two more steps and the strike came again, this time against my right leg. And again, not a sound.
“Trooper!” I called.
No response.
“Trooper! Where are you?”
The reply was a whirring sound as the cat neared.
“Come on! Let’s go inside!” I called to him, and he trotted beside me to the warmth of the kitchen.
So albeit unwittingly, I had participated in a new game for Trooper. A few nights following, it became fun to guess which leg would be hit as he rushed at me, silent in the darkness. I thought about how I might match his surprise attack capabilities. Of course, we humans must resort to scientific equipment to accomplish such things. This need led me to a gun show at the Las Vegas Convention Center the following weekend.
To me, the interesting thing about gun shows aren’t the guns, but the odd assortment of other items sometimes only remotely related to guns, like beef jerky, T-shirts, jewelry, and antiques. I moved directly to a table loaded with an impressive assortment of obsolete Russian military gear, including night vision equipment.
A man standing next to me remarked, “Funny. For a million years no one could see in the dark. Look at this crowd! Now everyone wants to see in the dark!”
His comment rang with an element of truth. I found exactly what I wanted: a cheap, first-generation scope that resembled a bulky pair of field binoculars. It was battery powered, used the light from stars (or any available light for that matter), and had an infrared beam that was activated by simply pushing a button. This was perfect for my use.
I rushed home with my purchase and waited patiently for darkness to capture the desert, anxious to try my new hi-tech equipment. “Now, Mister Cat, we are going to be equal,” I mumbled determinedly, before traveling into the backyard and activating my new toy. A slightly greenish, fuzzy image appeared before my eyes. I pushed the infrared button and the image became clearer. But where was the cat?
I scanned the yard, pushing the infrared button, and then remembered he had to be looking directly at me for his eyes to reflect the beam. Suddenly I saw him. He was crouching low in the bamboo grove, his favorite hiding place. I began to walk slowly along the path, pretending I did not know his location. I turned slightly, keeping the cat in sight with my equipment.
Without a sound, Trooper sprang to the top of the block wall, crept a short distance, then dropped to the ground. He was about eighteen feet away as he silently struck the earth.
Crouching low, he began to flit from shadow to shadow, always keeping the bushes between us. Now, for the first time, I realized the stealth of a cat as he moved. He calculated the placement of each paw as he moved closer and closer, preparing for a rush attack. The cat knew every inch of his territory and what would most benefit his stalking. For a complete surprise, his final rush must be very short so that his prey had little or no time to react. If he were really hunting, he would strike at the back or side of his prey, aiming his bite for the neck, just below
the skull. Of course, stalking me was only a game. His brush against my leg was the same as a touché in fencing.
I turned off my equipment and let him attack. As before, he quickly disappeared into the darkness afterwards.
I went into the house to prepare for bed and closed the louvered double doors to our room behind me.
“Did your new toy work?” my wife quietly inquired as I climbed into bed.
“Oh, yes,” I answered. “I learned so many things. Did you realize that cats don’t know we can’t see in the dark as they do? They stalk and use the moonlight shadows for concealment, thinking we might see them.”
“I never thought about it,” she replied. “I always . . .”
We were interrupted by a crashing sound. The louvered doors rattled.
“What was that?” she exclaimed, sitting up in bed.
“Don’t know. Something is trying to force the doors open.” My response was followed by another crashing sound at the door. I wasn’t frightened as I figured it had to be my cat.
Then, one of the doors swung open with Trooper holding the handle lever. He had learned he could not force the door open by smashing into it. So he tried, with success, to use the handle, just as we did. His weight, then about twenty pounds, was enough to push the latch and swing the door open.
“You belong on the couch,” Chi said to the cat. His answer was to curl up on the bed at our feet.
“I guess he’s tired of sleeping alone,” I whispered. “We play together and eat together. Now we sleep together.”
Trooper began to purr. In a minute there was silence. He had fallen asleep. It was strange how the presence of this once wild animal gave us a comfortable, secure feeling.
CHAPTER 7
Tough Guy
“What greater gift than the love of a cat.”
Charles Dickens
THE DESERT ENVIRONS WHERE WE lived was slowly disappearing as rows of new tract homes, all of similar size, design, and shape, and in a row, began dotting the landscape. Even the ravine where I had found Trooper a few months earlier felt the leveling blades of earth-moving equipment.
One Sunday morning, while there was no construction going on, I decided to hike over to the ravine and see that part of the desert one last time. I confess that I was being sentimental and desired to visit the spot where my cat and I were first united before it, too, disappeared.
But I was too late. The ravine had become a concrete canal used to control the flow of water through a culvert under a nearby road, and on to the Colorado River, miles away. That day it was dry, but it was built to handle the flash floods that would inevitably come in the rainy season.
In such a short time, everything there had changed. Dirt roads, soon to be paved, crisscrossed and circled through the desert floor where I once spent so many hours refreshing and relaxing my mind through hiking.
While lulling into my familiar meditative hiking stance, my thoughts were interrupted abruptly by a rasping scream high above me. It was followed by another scream that tapered downward. It sounded like an unusual steam whistle, but I had heard the scream before and knew it came from a red-tailed hawk.
I looked up into the clear sky to see a pair of hawks soaring above me. It was a thrill to see those large, dark brown birds with their russet-red tail feathers circling and then flapping their fifty-inch wings slowly to conserve energy. Even though they can fly at forty miles per hour, they appeared to be hovering in the air. It was truly a majestic sight.
The birds must have spotted a small rodent, rabbit, or lizard—all scrumptious snacks for hawks—because one of them banked sharply, folded its giant wings, and dove earthward. (These predators can reach speeds of over 120 miles per hour when they dive for an attack.) The other bird continued to circle overhead, only tighter while lowering its altitude. In this way it served as a backup for its diving mate.
The first bird smashed onto the ground, snatched the small animal, and lifted it by its talons into the sky. Joined by its mate, the pair flew off to enjoy their meal in private. I’m sure they could still see me as they flew away, as a hawk’s eyesight is eight times that of humans. It is not surprising, I thought, that many Native American tribes consider the feathers of those magnificent birds sacred.
I walked home feeling somewhat sad that my cat’s ravine had disappeared and distraught over the destruction of the desert. The more homes the developers sold, the more I dreamed of our move to a ranch, further out from the city. But that day was still a few weeks away. With these new homes came a variety of people who were relocating to Las Vegas from all parts of America. The town was growing faster than anyone, including the city’s original planners, had anticipated. I would soon discover that one can meet a variety of interesting people through the friendship of a cat.
Trooper was now a young adult even though he behaved like a large kitten. According to Dr. Marg, he was now at twenty pounds, and had probably reached more than one-half his expected full-grown weight.
Even Trooper seemed concerned about our rapidly expanding neighborhood, especially the heavy trucks on our streets. During daylight hours he hid in our backyard, safely away from all the traffic, or napped near his goldfish pond. We had no idea how far he roamed at night. But it was far enough for him to meet a new kitty friend. This was a young gray cat that Trooper invited over to play. Or perhaps the gray cat had simply followed Trooper.
However it started, one day the gray cat followed Trooper through the front door to the dry food bowl in the kitchen where they enjoyed a brief snack together. Trooper made no effort to guard his food this time. Chi and I watched with interest as he led his friend into the backyard and introduced him to a variety of trees and bushes which all had to be examined with typical cat curiosity. But things changed when it came to the fish pond. Trooper made it understood, with a short growl, that the pond and its secrets were off limits.
Observing Trooper’s pal, I intuited that the young cat belonged to our neighbors from three houses away. I had watched children playing with him in their front yard. Their mother seemed friendly. She often smiled and waved to me as she drove them to school.
Her husband stayed home during the day and made a grand appearance by mid-morning to work in their driveway on an old pickup truck. Other neighbors referred to him as “that tough guy” because of his large size and loud voice, which he frequently exercised by shouting obscenities at no particular target, except, perhaps, his old truck. His work clothes consisted of stained and patched jeans and an oil-spattered T-shirt. He never exhibited any anger towards his wife and children, but his deep, thunderous voice carried his vulgar words yards away, causing parents to cringe.
Tough Guy, as I inwardly christened him, worked on his truck almost daily until dinnertime, when, to the neighborhood’s relief, he drove away to a night job wearing a clean T-shirt and well-fitting jeans. The next day, the truck repair began again, along with the shouting and the sound of a hammer pounding on metal. Actually, if it wasn’t for all the noise, I doubt if anyone would have known Tough Guy existed.
One Saturday morning, Trooper was playing “hide and seek, chase and roll” with the gray cat in our front yard. Eventually Trooper became bored and curled up under a bush next to the house to take a nap. His gray friend joined him.
It occurred to me that Tough Guy’s family might be unaware their cat was with us, so I thought it wise to let them know by introducing myself.
“Hey!” I shouted towards my neighbor as I waved my arms. “I have your kitten over here!”
Tough Guy turned away from his truck and stared at me a moment. He wiped his hands on his T-shirt and started walking in my direction.
Never wanting to miss out on my activities, Trooper crawled out from his resting place, followed by the gray cat.
In a few moments the towering figure of Tough Guy stood before me. “Were you calling me?” he asked in a deep raspy voice.
“Yes, I have your kitten here. He follows my cat around and they p
lay together sometimes. I thought your children might miss him and worry.”
Tough Guy hunched his huge shoulders and turned to look at his cat. “There you are, you stupid cat.” Then he noticed Trooper and exclaimed, “Damn! What the hell kind of cat is that?”
“Oh,” I answered quickly, “he was a stray. Found him a few months ago.”
“Looks like some kind of wild cat, don’t he?” Tough Guy observed.
“Yes,” I replied, “he looks wild, but he is very tame and friendly.”
“Oh,” he said, and then shouted at his kitten, “Come here, you stupid ugly cat!” And, with a big hand, he reached down and scooped up the kitten. “You’re more trouble than you’re worth,” he continued scolding. “Damn cat! If it weren’t for the kids, I should break your neck! Maybe I’ll do it anyway.”
Men who verbally abuse their pets have always irritated me. I’m not interested in learning about their frustrations with life or their psychological problems. To abuse a creature who depends upon us for food and shelter, an animal who is helpless, is, in my opinion, an act of cowardice. I worried about the future of the gray cat, and decided to play it safe by seeing if I could convert him, even in the slightest degree. “I’m sorry. I haven’t introduced myself. I’m Johnson.”
To my surprise, Tough Guy held out his empty hand. “I’m Schultz. Glad to meet you. I don’t know many people in this here neighborhood. I work at night, busy working on my truck most days.”
“That’s an interesting truck. Does it run good?”
“Needs lots of work,” he said. “It don’t look like much, but it gets me there.”
“You are fortunate, Mr. Schultz. These days, most guys have no idea how to fix their own vehicles.”
“Yeah. You can forget the mister. Just call me Schultz.”
“Okay, Schultz. May I take a closer look at your kitten?”
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