Trooper

by Forrest Bryant Johnson

  So Trooper had moved jealousy and territorial concerns aside and eliminated our worry for the cats’ safety. He had led the pair inside, and to our surprise, allowed them to remain there all night.

  When the sun warmed the morning air, the two returned to their outside world. But the sleeping arrangement continued until winter yielded to a balmy spring.

  I complimented the cat for his compassion and have always wondered, were those warm, inside nights his way of rewarding them?

  CHAPTER 15

  The Night Visitor

  “Everything in kitty’s world belongs to kitty.”

  Old English Proverb

  THE SALESMAN SAT WITH A rigid, military-like bearing in the chair opposite my desk, waiting for me to make a decision on how many monogrammed polo shirts to purchase for our gift shop.

  We exchanged polite conversation on other subjects from time to time as we had in previous business meetings, but I always had to pay close attention to understand, as his words were heavy with a Chinese accent. His merchandise was, however, of good quality and priced competitively. I only needed to make a decision on the exact quantity to buy.

  While we discussed delivery time we were interrupted by a horn blowing in the driveway. He responded to the puzzled look on my face.

  “Mother, father wait in car. They from China. Visit me in LA.”

  “Oh,” I responded. “Why don’t we invite them in? They could join us for something to drink; a soda perhaps. I didn’t know you had anyone with you.”

  “They don’t speak English,” the salesman said, “only Chinese.”

  “That’s OK,” I replied, “maybe they will be more comfortable . . .”

  The horn sounded again, a longer blast this time. Then the salesman’s cell phone rang. A brief conversation followed in Chinese. A strange look dominated his face as he closed the phone and stared at me, eyes wide.

  “Father say . . . large wild animal trying to get in car!” he said, with a slight element of doubt in his voice.

  We rushed out the office door. There in the driveway was a blue compact car. Trooper sat on the hood, his face only inches from the windshield. He had one of his large fuzzy paws pressed against the glass.

  “That’s my pet cat. He won’t hurt them,” I assured him, “he’s only curious.”

  The salesman approached the side window and shouted words of comfort to his parents through the glass. The elderly couple did not appear convinced.

  “Here,” I said, “come over here next to me and touch the cat. His name is Trooper. Maybe your parents will understand that the cat is harmless.”

  He came to my side and reluctantly stroked Trooper’s back. Then he returned to the side window and spoke to his father again. The old man answered, and nodded his head with a slight smile.

  “Father say, ‘thank you very much’, but . . . they will wait in car. Been in USA three days. Never seen cat that big. Me also.”

  “Trooper is a funny cat,” I said as we returned to the office. “He is possessive. He believes everything on this property, including cars, belongs to him. He investigates all visitors.”

  Our business meeting ended in a friendly manner.

  Trooper’s possessiveness was never-ending. Non-living things, such as automobiles, concerned him less than living creatures, especially humans who entered his territory. Though often shy, his curiosity was nevertheless apparent. Protecting his world remained his responsibility, a serious assignment assumed, actually, by all cats.

  Felines often sleep sixteen to eighteen hours a day and must rely on their keen senses to perform their duties. Beyond the usual sight, smell, and hearing, the cat has yet another sense he can depend upon. That intangible is the natural instinct of feeling something, especially danger, is near. This will tell the cat to flee, stand and fight, or hide. If none of those apply, he will investigate. Naturally, the longer a cat has lived “in the wild,” or the more time he has spent outside, the keener this instinct.

  It was a beautiful, warm night in October. A full moon projected a glow on the desert floor and beams flooded through our windows like mellow floodlights on a stage. We retired early, and in my haste to enjoy a full night’s sleep, I made one dangerous mistake: I forgot to activate the alarm system, which was designed to emit a shrill, heart-stopping siren if a door or window opened, or if someone over four feet tall moved about the room. Activating the alarm required the simple task of someone pushing two buttons on a keypad located near the front door. Another keypad was on the wall in our bedroom, but for some unknown reason, I paid no attention to it that night.

  So we fell asleep, oblivious to the possible danger my negligence might have caused.

  Trooper, free as always to venture out his cat door, was outdoors somewhere, unlocking mysteries in dark shadows. Sometime after midnight he usually came to our bed to sleep at my feet or snuggle under my arm. I awoke each time the twenty-eight-pound cat jumped into bed. My wife always continued to sleep peacefully.

  That October night had been an especially restless one for me. I slept lightly and had no purring cat next to me. Perhaps my brain was trying to tell me to get up and turn on the alarm.

  Suddenly I awoke to a strange noise. It came from the narrow hall that connects our bedroom and the front of the house. It sounded as if a fat man was having difficulty squeezing between the walls. Then, a series of thumping sounds. I was wide awake and reaching for my .45 automatic in the drawer of the bedside table. I slid back the receiver, loading the first round.

  From the dark hall came a loud scream followed by a growl. Trooper! There was no other creature that a scream like that could have come from. But what had caused his alarm?

  I glanced at the clock: 2 a.m.

  My wife was now awake.

  “What is it?” she whispered.

  “Don’t know. Trooper must have something trapped in the hall.”

  “Oh,” she gasped. “I didn’t set the alarm. Did you?”

  “No,” I confessed, “I forgot.”

  “Oh, no!”

  I grasped her arm. “Get your cell and slide out of bed as quietly as possible. Stay on the floor and keep the bed between you and the doorway! Be ready to call 911.”

  “Yes,” she answered as she rolled from the bed.

  I moved towards the open door, pistol in hand. There had been no more noise from the hall for almost two minutes, but then the thumping sound began again.

  “I’m going to check it out,” I announced in a low voice. “I’m sure it is Trooper . . . at least I think it is, with something.”

  “Or someone,” she added.

  That thought gave me a cold chill. With the alarm system deactivated, Trooper could, indeed, have someone against the wall.

  “If I shoot or yell, you call 911, and stay on your side of the bed. If anyone comes through that doorway . . . that’s not me, you lay flat. Understand!?”

  “Yes.”

  Then another scream in the hall followed by a sound I had never heard before. It was more of a screech than a scream.

  My left hand moved along the wall, seeking the light switch. I found it, but hesitated.

  The thought that someone might be in the hall with the cat made me pause and take a deep breath. I raised the pistol, pointed it into the darkness, and flipped the switch.

  “Oh my gosh!” I exclaimed.

  There, blocking the hallway between the cat and me, was a very large bird, its wings extending wall to wall and partially blocking a view of Trooper. But I could see that the cat was crouched in his leap-and-attack position, mouth wide and open, exposing his long teeth in a threatening snarl.

  His enemy had a barreled shape, a feathered body, and stood almost two feet tall.

  “Wait, Trooper!” I shouted.

  The bird turned his head towards me and blinked large yellow eyes. At once I knew he was an owl, a very angry one.

  “What is it?” my wife called.

  “An owl!”

  “What?
Did you say owl?”

  “I think he’s a horned owl—the biggest one I have ever seen.”

  “How did an owl get in our hall?”

  “Don’t know,” I answered. “Trooper must have caught him and he’s bringing him in to show us.”

  She peeked around the doorway. “My! He’s huge!” she announced with excitement.

  I pushed her back gently.

  “Careful,” I warned. “Don’t get close—this guy can be dangerous. He has strong, sharp talons. I don’t know how the cat got him this far without a fight.”

  “He is sooo beautiful,” was her reply. “How are you going to get him to leave?”

  “I’ve got an idea,” I said, placing the pistol on the floor. “He’s not going to leave without our encouragement. Get me a thin, lightweight blanket from the closet.”

  She was at my side in a few moments and handed me the blanket.

  “I think the hall light has him blinded. I hope so! But he has great hearing and can detect movement so we’ve got to act fast.”

  “OK . . . and do what?”

  Trooper began to growl and hiss loudly. He was answered by a high-pitched screech from the owl.

  “No! Trooper. Don’t attack!” I ordered the cat.

  “I’ll throw this blanket over the bird,” I said. “When I yell, you run to the front, open the double doors, and turn off the porch light. I’ll grab the bundle with the owl and get him out the front door. Hopefully, he’ll head to the darkness. Ready?”

  “Yes.”

  I tossed the blanket. Quite luckily, it fell atop the owl, covering his body completely. I quickly gathered the blanket around him, taking care not to harm his wings, which he began to retract.

  “Run!” I shouted.

  The cat turned and darted down the hall, slid across the marble foyer, recovered, and waited at the door for Chi, who followed closely behind him.

  Chi opened the double doors and turned off the lights as I scooped up the owl and rushed to the porch. The owl remained still as I carefully uncovered him. Then I stood back a few feet and waited.

  My wife, the cat, and I watched as the feathered visitor turned his head for one last look at his captors. His yellow eyes blinked and he faced the darkness of our front yard.

  His wings opened, raised, and then lowered, as if being tested. Then they flapped a few times as he lifted from the porch and flew quietly some twenty or thirty feet, parallel to the ground, clearly visible in the moonlight.

  At this point, his flight reminded me of scenes of World War II fighter planes leaving an aircraft carrier deck. The bird banked left, then right, then glided gracefully, silently between two pine trees and disappeared into the night.

  We stood, as if hypnotized by the flight of the owl, grappling with the thought that this was really happening. Somehow it seemed as if I had dreamed the entire evening’s event, especially the beautiful, quiet flight of the owl. For a moment I felt I was flying with him. What a thrill it would be to sail through the night sky so effortlessly. That dream quickly faded, but it had been a wonderful experience with a happy ending.

  “He’ll sure have a story to tell his family.” Chi broke the silence.

  “Right! Now we can find out how Trooper caught him and managed to get the bird all the way down the hall with no damage to either one of them.”

  Trooper stared at me with an inquisitive look and said nothing. But I could feel him asking, “What was it?”

  “That was a horned owl—the strongest predator in our sky. How did you catch him?”

  The cat looked away and did not answer.

  “He flies so quietly, not a sound,” Chi said. “Thank you, Trooper, for not killing him.”

  “Trooper had no intention to kill the bird,” I said. “If he had, he would have done so before he brought him in and there would be a big pile of feathers out here somewhere.”

  “We can investigate after sunrise,” Chi said. “Let’s get some sleep.”

  “OK,” I agreed. “Come on, Troop. We’ve had a busy night.”

  Trooper followed us into the bedroom, pausing only to smell a tiny feather left in the hall by our visitor.

  “In a little while, you can show me where you caught the owl,” I said to the cat.

  Trooper did not respond. He was already asleep under my arm.

  I awoke shortly after sunrise, anxious to solve the night’s mysteries. I fixed a cup of coffee and strolled to the front door. Trooper was there, stretched out on the red tile. As I neared, he stood, stretched, and shook himself. Dust flew from his fur, revealing he had already rolled in the desert dirt.

  It’s a surprisingly little known fact that all cats roll in the dirt, if given the opportunity. Rolling seems to come as an impulse, but I learned from an old prospector that wild cats—bobcats and mountain lions—use the dust to reduce the sheen of a glossy coat that reflects sun or moonlight. The reflection could alert an enemy, or warn a prey. But after a few active hours most of the dust is gone from the coat. For some cats, the rolling exercise is nothing more than instinct. With others, especially wild cats, it is both instinct and a planned event executed for a valuable reason. The owl had entered the cat’s world. To Trooper, the bird belonged to him. So the “why” he captured the owl was understood. The “how” remained the mystery.

  “Come on, Trooper. Let’s find out where you caught the owl.”

  The cat followed me slowly to the walkway that ran next to the east side of our home. He flopped down on the concrete beneath his cat door located directly under a large picture window and rolled a few times.

  What was he trying to tell me? Asleep? Ridiculous! I laughed. Owls don’t take naps on a sidewalk in the middle of the night. There were, however, a few feathers scattered about on the concrete revealing that something had occurred there.

  Trooper sat and with an alert expression, stared up at the window. The window had been tinted years ago by the previous owner to reflect the brilliant morning sun rays. From the outside where we were it appeared as a large, dark mirror. At night it simply looked like a big, black hole in the wall.

  Suddenly one mystery was solved. A perfect silhouette, a picture print of a large bird with wings outstretched, was there in the dust on the blackened glass.

  The owl apparently had flown into the glass, not realizing it was a closed window. A feather was stuck on the glass in the center of the silhouette. And there was the answer: The bird smashed, while in flight, into the glass, knocking himself out and falling to the sidewalk, unconscious. That was how Trooper found him.

  Trooper brushed against my leg for attention.

  “How did you get the owl through your door?” I asked the cat. “It’s only wide enough for you.”

  Trooper watched me with a blank expression. I reached to touch the entrance of the cat’s hole in the wall and he rubbed the side of his head on my hand. “You must have pushed the bird through the hole. There is no other way.”

  I began to laugh as I visualized the scene, since the bird was almost Trooper’s size. While Trooper had plenty of strength, he would have needed all of it to accomplish such a feat, and he still had had to carry or pull the owl down the hall.

  “You’re lucky he didn’t wake up until he did,” I teased. “You would have had a battle on your paws!” But the bird did wake en route to our bedroom, and that was when all the noise began. I stooped to scratch the cat between his ears.

  “Thank you for sharing your beautiful owl with us,” I said.

  I don’t think Trooper noticed me smiling as I spoke, as he was already strolling towards the edge of his domain. Through it all he pretended the previous night had been nothing more than a routine occurrence. So it is with cats. But of course, my wife and I felt differently.

  After that, a month went by. Our neighbor across the road reported that a large owl had been resting in his tree a few nights each week. Apparently Trooper’s acquaintance had found a new hunting ground, for he never visited us again.

>   CHAPTER 16

  The Bodyguard

  “Some say man is the most dangerous animal on the planet. Obviously those people have never met an angry cat.”

  Lillian Johnson

  I STROLLED SLOWLY FROM OUR little office building to the front porch, breathing in the early morning desert air. It was crisp and clean, and my lungs cherished every breath. A light breeze carried the sweet scent of wild sage, and when I turned to look past the front yard and circular driveway onto the country road, all seemed still.

  Often I made that thirty-yard journey wrapped up in daydreams that I quickly forgot. But that morning my breathing was somewhat labored and I was preoccupied with worries that my asthma might give me problems later in the day. I felt confident, however, with a new emergency inhaler given to me by my doctor a few days before.

  Trooper was stretched out on the red-tile porch enjoying a nap in the morning sun. His fur absorbed the warm sun rays. His short tail twitched and his big ears moved slightly, acknowledging my presence. He hadn’t been asleep, only resting after a long night of patrolling his territory. How quiet he is, I thought, not even snoring. No one would ever guess that this little animal’s scream could make the hair on the back of the neck stand up; no one, that is, except those who have wandered through the swamps of Georgia, the dark pine forest of Wisconsin, the hardwood wilderness of Kentucky, or the rugged deserts of our Southwest and heard that scream pierce through the silence. Once one hears the scream of a bobcat, it is never forgotten. Some mistake the cry to be that of a mountain lion, but it is the bobcat’s first line of defense. He hopes it will scare the hell out of a potential enemy, and it usually does.

  That morning, though, all was tranquil and I felt ready to begin my daily routine. I had no idea that in a short while total pandemonium would engulf my home.

  I entered the foyer, leaving the double front doors open behind me to let some fresh air into the living room.

  Despite my precautions, my cough developed rapidly, dry at first, then deep in my chest. I pulled my inhaler from my pocket. It seemed to help a little with the first puff. Then I saw my wife washing dishes in the kitchen.