Trooper

by Forrest Bryant Johnson

  “Well,” I chimed in, “I never liked killers of any kind. Let’s hope they decide to move to a deeper part of the desert.”

  “Not likely,” said Jim Butler. Then he added that he was always available to help us, if we needed him. As he started to climb into his cart he stated, “Civilization is moving in on us, you know. I heard that the old golf course is gonna be leveled. Developers plan to build medium-priced homes on the east side of the road and elegant ones on the west.”

  He shook his head and added, with an element of sadness to his voice, “That will bring more traffic on this old road. Guess I’ll be needing something faster than a golf cart to come over to see ya. I hope that beautiful cat of yours don’t turn wild and leave you. I’d like to see him again.”

  Butler turned the key, which resulted in the cart’s motor eliciting a high-pitched, electrical shirring sound.

  With Jim’s departure, Teri and I returned to our work at the desk, but in a few minutes were interrupted by another guest, this time an unwanted one.

  Trooper, who had been asleep near my left arm, suddenly awoke. He sat up, ears pointed towards the open doors, his eyes fixed on something we at first didn’t see. Then, in a crouched position, he moved slowly to the desk’s edge.

  My eyes searched the room. There was our intruder only a few feet away, running towards us. It was a large, opaque scorpion, his tail cocked up, stinger poised for a victim.

  “Teri! Look!” I shouted, pointing towards the scorpion. But as the words left my lips, Trooper sprang forward, landing a few inches from the arthropod. The next movement came so fast I could not determine what he actually did. We heard the crunch. Trooper had eaten the scorpion, leaving only the tail with its stinger on the floor. He leaped gracefully to our desk, curled up, and appeared to fall asleep.

  “Gosh, Dad!” Teri exclaimed. “Did he get stung?”

  “Don’t know. He doesn’t act like anything hurts. Try to get Doctor Marg on the phone. Let’s find out if we need to take him to the hospital.”

  Teri placed the call and handed me the phone. I heard the doctor’s voice and explained.

  “I know the sting from that kind of scorpion can make humans very sick, but it’s not deadly. What about cats?”

  She responded quickly, “If Trooper is not licking or chewing at a wound then he didn’t get stung. But if he did . . . or in the future if he does, get him over here. We can treat him.”

  “I think he is OK. Just wanted to be sure.” I said. But then inquiringly added, “How did he avoid getting stung?”

  “Instinct and speed,” she answered, as if it were the simplest thing the world. “He knows he must avoid the stinger and speed, in this case, is his best weapon. He’s simply faster than the scorpion, killing it with a fatal bite before the stinger can strike.”

  “Really?”

  “House cats in this area often kill scorpions, but they seldom eat them. Remember, Trooper has natural instincts ingrained into his very DNA. People in some parts of China eat scorpions, so your cat’s diet isn’t strange. There is only one dangerous scorpion around Las Vegas. It’s called the Arizona Bark Scorpion. They arrive on the leaves of imported palm trees, and are darker in color, usually brown.”

  I thanked Doctor Marg and related the conversation to Teri, whose response was simply, “Ugh!”

  In the years to come, Trooper’s war with scorpions continued. We found pieces of their tail sections from time to time on the porch and driveway. He seemed determined to eradicate the species. Scorpions have been on earth for over a hundred million years, but their survival in our area seemed questionable.

  There was one small creature, however, that he both hated and feared. A large, noisy blackbird flew, ran, and hopped about parking lots in town and residential neighborhoods, creating quite a racket with its ear-piercing shriek. I soon learned this bird, with long black tail feathers, is called a great-tailed grackle.

  All cats in the valley hate grackles, for the bird knows that felines can climb trees and threaten their nests. To frighten off potential enemies (including dogs and people), grackles dive and peck at the heads of their intruders.

  At first, Trooper did not use his ability to defend himself—rather he would seek the cover of bushes and other places the bird could not easily reach. Using his speed, the cat could knock the grackle to the ground with one swing of his paw. The cat was exercising restraint and had, I guessed, no desire to harm the bird.

  But the day finally came when Trooper could take no more of annoying attacks and decided to strike back. As usual, the grackle began his diving attack while the cat strolled towards our office from the front porch. Catching the cat in the open area provided the best opportunity for the bird. This time the cat decided to turn quickly and spring into the air. At four feet above the ground he slapped the bird with a paw.

  The grackle tumbled along the pavement, jumped up, hopped a few feet, and took flight, landing on a tree limb, apparently unhurt.

  Trooper chose not to pursue his enemy, but continued his journey to the office. Had our bobcat become compassionate, or did he know that grackles don’t taste good? Either way, the grackle had learned a lesson and never tried to attack the cat again.

  Over the next two years Trooper remained busy exploring his territory as if it were brand-new. He napped on my desk part of the day, and no matter how occupied with adventures, he slept in my bed most every night.

  I had given all nearby residents a photo and description of my cat when we first moved into the area so they would not mistake him for a true “wild” cat. Naturally they were concerned for the safety of their own pets, but I assured them they had nothing to fear from Trooper. He avoided dogs of all sizes. One yap or bark and he was out of there. During the many years we lived at our ranch there was never one report of Trooper harming a pet. The main concern was coyotes. Everyone feared them and attempted to guard their pets from those predators.

  One April morning I heard Herman calling me with his deep voice.

  “Trooper has fuzzy animal!” he reported.

  “What kind of animal?”

  “A little fuzzy animal!”

  Trooper moved past me, heading towards the house and presumably his cat door. Indeed, a small animal dangled from his mouth.

  This came as no shock. Almost all cats, if given the opportunity, hunt small rodents. Wild cats, for their survival, must be professional at that job.

  I returned to the house, prepared to clean a gory mess in one of the rooms before my wife discovered it. To my surprise, Chi met me at the front door.

  “We have a zoo in the living room. I was on the way to the office to get your help,” she said, with a slight smile.

  “A zoo? Did Trooper deposit a dead rat in there just now?”

  “Not dead. Not rat. Chipmunk!” she stated, pointing at the living room.

  Trooper was racing about the floor, chasing his fuzzy animal. As he did, other chipmunks scampered here and there in desperation to escape their captor.

  “I’ve counted three so far,” Chi said, “plus the one he just brought in!”

  “Four! All alive?”

  “Very much alive,” she replied. “I think he wants them alive to play with and has plans to eat them.”

  I sat down and watched as the small, striped rodents with their pudgy cheeks raced about the floor. They were lively and speedy, their flat, bushy tails with white and brown fur held high, appearing to enjoy the game of hide, catch, and hide again.

  Trooper had worked hard to accumulate those playmates and relocate them safely to the house. I doubt, however, if they were as happy as the hunter.

  The cat disappeared through his kitty door, but within a few minutes, while I calculated how to remove all his toys, he reappeared carrying another chipmunk, which he released unharmed. This one was reddish-brown in color, and like the others had stripes on the side of his face, extending down the back to the tail.

  It’s likely that those feisty creatures we
re not actually chipmunks, but desert white-tailed antelope squirrels. The two are closely related and have a resemblance. Either way, to Trooper they must have appeared as if his little fuzzy toys had come to life, like the characters in the Nutcracker ballet.

  The chipmunk roundup continued into the next day, and then, as suddenly as it began, it all ended. Trooper lost interest in the hunt and the game he created. None of the little creatures were harmed, but it required two more days for Herman and me to capture and return them all to the wild.

  Over the next few years the cat and I played together whenever time permitted. I, of course, am not a cat and never had the ability to pretend to be one. Trooper did not always understand that fact, and often led me into different corners of our property in search of some adventure he had in mind. There were places he wanted us to go together, places such as narrow paths through the underbrush and up the steep bank of our gully. This came easily for him, but was nearly impossible for me.

  Seldom did I learn exactly what he wanted me to see, but sometimes the obvious lay before me: the remains of a half-eaten jackrabbit or a pile of feathers from an unknown bird. Those, I assume, were his prize kills. He was proud of his accomplishments, and I, on all fours, felt obligated to praise and thank him for sharing those important secrets.

  More than once he led me to a large tree in the front yard for a climbing lesson. First, he dashed up the tree to show me how it should be done. He looked down and made yowling sounds, as what I interpreted as words of encouragement. Once, in response to his request, and pretending to be a cat, I started climbing up, one limb at a time. Trooper left his position and came down to check on my progress. He brushed my cheek with his whiskers to indicate satisfaction. He turned then, climbed higher and paused to give his yowling sounds once more. Apparently my climbing failed to meet with his approval.

  My energy soon diminished. Trooper leaned over a large limb, his front legs dangling, and watched me carefully descend. I dropped to the ground with an audible groan. And there I sat so my breathing could return to normal.

  The cat joined me, brushing his body against my leg while purring.

  “I’m not very good at climbing, am I?” I asked him. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

  Trooper responded with another brush of my leg. Cats are so forgiving, even if they cannot understand human failure. To him, it must have been confusing to see all the things his human could and could not do. As humans, we build, provide food, drive cars, and on and on. Yet I could not do something like climb a tree with any skill at all.

  The cat ascended the tree once more, perhaps to demonstrate the technique, or maybe simply for the fun of it.

  As the months sped by, life continued this way for the cat and me. When time from business permitted, we played together, exploring his special places. But of course, most of his life’s activities outside remained a mystery. It seemed that as soon as I learned his routine, I would soon discover that he had changed it as if to keep me uncertain of his next destination.

  In our home there was one mystery that I never solved to this day: how do cats know the time you wish to wake, or when the alarm clock will sound? But perhaps a more difficult question to answer is, why will the cat wake you minutes before the alarm sounds?

  There are many theories on the subject, some centering on the exact purpose of that behavior. None, to me, explain why cats do it.

  CHAPTER 10

  Disappearing

  “What sort of philosophers are we who know nothing or the origin or destiny of cats.”

  Henry David Thoreau

  ANYONE WHO HAS FACED MAJOR surgery knows the multitude of worries that follow the doctor’s announcement. I had to have colon surgery as soon as possible. It seemed I was more worried about the business continuing successfully and about my cat thriving than I was about my own physical condition. But I was blessed with caring, hardworking people who helped to maintain the family business; Teri managed our office, while Herman and Chi watched over all activities and still found time to visit me each day at the hospital during my three-week absence.

  So, with everything under control, I had only to concentrate on my recovery and a remaining worry . . . Trooper.

  Understanding my concern for the cat, everyone had a “Trooper story” to relate during phone calls and visits to set my mind at ease while I was away. Teri told of him taking naps on her desk during the day, Herman reported that Trooper continued to patrol the perimeter of our property, and Chi assured me he slept with her each night. But she also told me the cat spent a few minutes going from room to room for the first several days I was away and scratched on closet doors until she opened them to prove I wasn’t hiding inside.

  Some say that cats are only curious, but not intelligent enough to comprehend why a friend has disappeared. They believe the cat understands whether one is there or not there, and nothing more. That conclusion, I am certain, is incorrect. Based on my years with Trooper and conversations with many domestic cat owners, I can report that cats, like dogs, grieve for a missing friend, human or animal, and they often attempt to learn where that friend has gone. Their logic may be limited to considering places that they remember visiting with their friend, such as a previous home, office, or their animal hospital. It remains a mystery as to just what else their mind may consider.

  This worried me. Would Trooper take off on a journey? And therein lay another mystery. How do cats find their way home after wandering for miles? Perhaps only cats know the answer.

  My wife’s report that Trooper slept with her assured me he had not wandered off—yet, anyway. But then I received the good news. The doctors assured me that all tests for cancer had negative results. I was cancer free and, after those three weeks, was released from the hospital and could go home. I would, however, be restricted to walking no more than a short distance the first three days. But the surgery was successful and I was healing.

  Chi prepared the guest bedroom for my recovery. It had a connecting bathroom that required very little walking to reach, perfect for those first few days.

  With Chi at the wheel, we entered the circular driveway and drove to the front of the house. My reception committee waited on the front porch. Teri and Herman stood with broad smiles, and next to them sat Trooper. In this time with us thus far, he had learned to recognize the sound of our car, distinguishing it from all others. No doubt he knew I would be arriving because Teri and Herman were waiting for someone special, and hearing our car gave the final clue.

  As Herman helped me from the car, Trooper came and brushed against me. I spoke to him while scratching the top of his head, then he disappeared into the house.

  I hobbled to the guest room with Chi supporting me on one side. There was Trooper, sitting at the end of the bed, his ears pointing forward, his big eyes studying me.

  My meal that first night, which Chi delivered on a tray, consisted of soup, ginger ale, mashed potatoes, and Jell-O, all of which were prescribed by the doctor. Trooper believed he must approve the meal, so without hesitation, he leaped onto the bed and smelled each item on the tray. Like me, he was unimpressed. He then inspected my bandages, his face appearing concerned as he apparently recognized the bitter odor of antiseptic from his days in the animal hospital. His mind must have pondered what was wrong with his friend Johnson. Maybe that horrible food had something to do with my problems.

  My first night home, I drifted off to sleep with the cat snuggled next to me. Trooper believed his presence and warmth would aid my recovery. I awoke shortly after daybreak, having slept deeply for the first time in many nights. No one woke me for a blood draw or to check my blood pressure. I stretched and let my left arm collapse to my side. And that’s when I felt it: my hand had come to rest on something strange, something with . . . feathers!? I sat up slowly. A dove and a pigeon, very dead but still warm, were within easy reach. I knew their purpose at once. I called to my wife.

  “Chi! Could you come in here, please?”

  She
was at my side in an instant.

  “What’s wrong?” she exclaimed.

  “Nothing, really,” I answered. “But just to be sure, I’ve got to ask, did you put these dead birds here?”

  “Oh my gosh. No! Of course not! I checked on you about midnight. You were sleeping so soundly. Trooper was gone. There were no birds here then. He must have brought them later. There is no blood on the bed. How did he kill them? Why didn’t he eat them outside?”

  “I don’t know how he killed them,” I answered. “Maybe I’ll ask him later. These birds are for me. If he wanted them, you’re right. He would have eaten them outside. Guess he thinks I need protein. He checked my dinner carefully and found nothing of interest last night.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Get me a plastic shopping bag.”

  She returned with the bag and watched as I removed a few feathers and scattered them about the bed.

  “What’s that for?” she asked.

  “I want him to think I ate the birds,” I replied.

  “Feathers . . . and, everything?” she joked.

  “Sure. He does.”

  I placed the birds in the bag and tied the top.

  “Ask Herman to put this in the big trashcan by the road and close the lid tight. Let’s find out what Trooper will do next.”

  That night I struggled to stay awake, but fell asleep with Trooper at my side. He had spent an initial moment smelling the feathers and I thanked him for the special meal. My mind was still on “hospital time” and I awoke a little after dawn. Trooper was gone. In his place at my side lay my evening meal; another dove and a black lizard, its species unknown to me. Once again I called for Chi to bring a plastic bag.

  “Ugh!” she exclaimed with a glance at what Trooper had delivered. “No pigeon this time?”

  I laughed. “I guess not. Nothing like variety. I think he is testing to see what I prefer.”