“Chi.” I struggled to speak. “Call Teri in the office. Ask her to phone 911. I think I’m having an attack.”
I forgot to preface that with “asthma,” but it made no difference at that point. I fell to my knees, gasping for air between coughs, which were occurring more frequently.
“Teri!” I heard my wife yell into the two-way radio. “Your father is having an attack. Call 911!”
In three minutes Teri entered through the open doors and joined my wife at my side. “Lay all the way down, Dad,” Teri instructed. “Is it your heart?”
“No . . . my lungs . . . asthma,” I whispered.
“What can we do . . . get for you?” My wife’s voice hinted at a bit of panic.
“Nothing,” I answered. “The inhaler isn’t doing its job.”
The coughs continued. I felt as if someone was standing on my chest and choking my throat at the same time.
“I called 911,” Teri assured. “Help is on the way. Herman is also phoning for help.”
Herman can’t clearly speak English, I thought. He often sounds like a German World War II officer when requesting something. I imagined him saying, “You will send help immediately! Do you understand? Jah?” But maybe, in view of my condition, that character quirk might help get results.
I closed my eyes for a moment, then felt something lightly brush my cheek. It was Trooper, pressing his nose and long whiskers against my face. His eyes were wide and his ears pointed directly at me. He sat back, but continued to stare at my face, trying to comprehend my problem and what to do about it.
“It’s okay, Troop,” I said as I reached to touch his side. There was no fooling the cat. He knew I was in trouble.
I heard an ambulance siren. It came closer and closer, then stopped and was replaced by an engine sound near the front porch.
What occurred during the next few minutes seemed at the time, and often since then, like a dream. I heard voices, but as breathing was difficult, I found it almost impossible to answer. Everything and everyone around me was moving in slow motion.
“Oh, thank God, they’re here,” Teri said with obvious relief.
“My husband can’t breathe. It’s his asthma!” Chi announced.
From that moment, and from my position flat on my back on the floor, the scene was foggy. My eyes strained to focus on the foyer.
Two paramedics had entered. One carried a large black bag slung over his shoulder.
At that moment, Trooper sprang from the floor, sailed over me, and landed on the coffee table. He sat erect, his fur bristling, and his mouth open in a snarl, as he exposed dangerous-looking teeth. Then Trooper began to growl, a low gurgling sound at first, but as the medics took their first step into the living room, the threat sounded ferocious. That quickly developed into an ear-piercing scream that tapered into another growl.
The medics froze, fearing to enter the room.
Trooper had never attacked a human before, perhaps simply because no one had provoked him. Actually, he had never bitten or scratched anyone but me, and that was when we were playing. In the past, Trooper often leaped to me and clamped his mouth down on my forearm. His powerful jaws squeezed just enough to prevent me from pulling away.
“Don’t bite! Don’t bite!” I would calmly order, and my wife or Teri or whoever was in the room at the time would yell “Don’t bite Johnson! Trooper, don’t bite Johnson!”
The cat thought this was all great fun and with eyes wide and wild looking would squeeze a little more, but always releasing his grip before breaking the skin. Then he would dash a short distance away, only to return and sit near me. I stroked his head each time, as his mother would have done, and complimented him with, “Good boy, Trooper. You are so strong.” He seemed to crave the praise, but I never learned how he knew the amount of pressure to exert without destroying my arm. My only real skin damage came once when we were both new to the game. I made the mistake, a reflex reaction, of jerking my arm the moment he bit. The result was a torn shirt sleeve and some nasty scratches from his teeth. I couldn’t blame the cat. I had to learn to trust him and not jerk as we played. Such is the value of trust among friends.
The paramedic’s voice broke into my thoughts. “What kind of cat is that?”
“He’s my dad’s pet,” Teri snapped, avoiding the question.
“Well, tell kitty to go play somewhere so we can do our work! Don’t think he wants us near your dad.”
“He doesn’t like to be called ‘kitty,’” Teri replied.
Trooper screamed again.
“OK! We won’t call him kitty. Promise! Please ask him to move!”
At that same moment I heard the sound of another truck, only much louder this time. Suddenly two firemen, dressed in full firefighting uniforms, including black boots and helmets, stormed through the doorway and into the foyer. They were followed quickly by two more firefighters and behind them a tall motorcycle policeman wearing a gold helmet. My foyer had become a little crowded.
From my prone position, the firemen appeared like something from a 1950s science fiction movie, and I began to wonder how many agencies Herman had called.
I am sure that to Trooper none of these intruders looked human; the odds, to the cat, no longer looked favorable. So Trooper screamed once more, turned, and leaped fifteen feet to the bar’s countertop. There, in a crouched position, he resorted to a grumbling type of growl. Cats prefer heights and he had retreated to a safer area.
The now brave medics were at my side. “You fellows need us?” one of the firemen shouted from the foyer.
“Nope. Thanks. We’re good.”
The policeman moved aside and the firefighters returned to their truck.
Teri went to Trooper and began to pet and comfort him. “It’s okay, Trooper,” she was saying reassuringly, “they’re going to help Johnson.”
Trooper’s growl continued.
“Can you walk to the door with our help?” a medic asked me. “We’ll get you on a gurney at the ambulance.”
“I can walk,” I answered.
“That’s a really big kitty,” the policeman remarked as we entered the foyer.
“He doesn’t like to be called ‘kitty,’” one of the medics responded with a smile.
The officer laughed and looked towards Teri. “What have you been feeding kit . . . that cat? Wish mine was that big.”
“Bad people,” Teri joked.
“Well, he’ll never go hungry in this town.” The policeman turned to the medics. You need an escort?”
“No thanks. We’ll have this man at Saint Rose in a few minutes. Not much traffic between here and there this time of day.”
Teri and Chi were calling “Thank you,” and as we went out the door, I paused to look back into the room. Chi was following, car keys and purse in hand.
“It’s okay, Troop. These are friends. I’ll be back soon!” I managed to say.
I didn’t like the idea of returning to a hospital. It had been only two years since my surgery. But this time I was home in three days, breathing normally with new medicine, and I never suffered a similar attack again.
Trooper was waiting on the porch and brushed up against my leg the moment I stepped from the car. I had departed from this point and, to the cat, I would return to the same place. Chi informed me that he remained on the porch during those three days, leaving long enough to eat, then back at his “post,” waiting.
Perhaps he felt uncomfortable in failing as a bodyguard. I hope not. He made an effort to protect me and frighten away those strange creatures who invaded our home. But the odds simply were too great. He had proven his devotion once more and we were together again, ready for another adventure.
CHAPTER 17
Little Brother
“One cat just leads to another.”
Ernest Hemingway
“DOES HE BITE?” THE FEMALE UPS driver inquired as she entered our office with a large package.
Trooper was sitting on the table in the meeting room
. I often forgot how big, and maybe dangerous, my cat could seem to first- time visitors.
The cat jumped to the floor and moved to rub against her leg in a friendly gesture.
“No,” I answered. “He’s never bitten anyone. He’s shy around men, but sure likes women, as you can see. I think it has something to do with tone of voice.”
“May I touch him?” she politely asked with a tone of sincere curiosity.
“Sure. He’ll love it. He always loves female attention.”
She reached down and scratched the top of the cat’s head.
“I have a cat,” she proudly announced. “He sleeps with me and never asks to borrow money.”
“Good friend to have,” I replied.
“This cat is sure fuzzy. Bet he’ll be losing the winter coat soon.”
“Oh, yes. My wife brushes him twice a day. He’s shedding gobs of fur. His thinner summer coat is on the way because of this warm spring we’re having.”
“My cat gets fleas,” she said. “Does this fellow get them too?”
“Funny you asked that,” I answered. “No, he doesn’t, and I don’t know why. It’s like his fur has something on it that fleas can’t take.”
“I think it’s the creosote bushes he brushes against all day,” Teri stated as she entered the room. “Looks like this package is for the shop, Dad.”
In another minute the UPS driver was out the door and backing her noisy truck down the driveway.
Teri had presented an interesting theory about the creosote bush. The bush, with its waxy, small green leaves, dominates the Mojave Desert landscape below 4,000 feet elevation (Las Vegas sits about 2,100 feet above sea level). Trooper roamed among those bushes in our gully and in the desert around our ranch every day and night.
Creosote leaves are coated with a chemical resin, a sticky, wax-like substance which prevents water loss in our hot climate. It is this resin which emits a very peculiar odor, and that smell protects the plant from insects. Bugs simply don’t like the smell, and neither do some people.
However, the plant was a blessing to the desert Native Americans who boiled the leaves in water to create a steam, which relieved congestion when inhaled. The mixture, or creosote, forms a tea which those people often use to alleviate stomach cramps and coughs.
Because of the plant’s ability to survive with very little natural water and to repel insects, they often reach ages of over one hundred years, some more than a thousand years (based on carbon-14 tests).
I frequently noted a slight odor of creosote on Trooper’s fur and have since concluded that this saved him from attacking fleas, ticks, and other insects.
I returned to my office and was about to place a phone call, when Teri went to the door and came back followed by a composed, middle-aged woman dressed in tight blue jeans and a bright yellow blouse, her dark hair, which hung loosely about her shoulders.
“Dad, this lady says she needs to speak with you.” The look on my daughter’s face revealed that the talk might not be pleasant.
“Yes, of course,” I said, standing up to greet my visitor. “Will you have a seat?” I pointed to the empty chair across from my desk.
“No, thank you. I prefer to stand,” she coldly answered.
“What may I do for you?”
“You are Mr. Johnson, correct?”
“Yes.”
“Well”—she took a deep breath—“I’ve come to speak with you about your cat, your bobcat.”
“What makes you think my cat is a bobcat?” I asked.
“A friend of mine lives near here. She said you are keeping a bobcat caged up at your home! I hope that is not true.”
I studied the woman’s face for a moment, then replied, “I have a cat and he is not in a cage or pen. Never has been. See for yourself. He’s sleeping right over there in the chair.” I pointed to the meeting room where Trooper remained asleep, apparently uninterested in the visitor.
“That is a bobcat!” she exclaimed, pointing at Trooper. “I moved here from the Bay Area. I’ve seen bobcats before in California!”
“So?”
“Where do you feed him?” she pushed, accusingly. “Where is his sand box? I suppose you lure him to your house every night.”
I smiled. “He dines out a lot. His sand box? The entire Mojave Desert is his sand box,” I added jokingly.
“Did you know it is unlawful to keep a bobcat?” she snapped, ignoring my humor.
“True in California. Laws are different in Nevada. This cat has been with me since 1987. The regulations regarding wildlife ownership were changed in 1994. I’m permitted to keep him because we were together before ’94. Come”—I motioned with my hand—“let me show you something.”
I moved to the large window above my desk. She followed, after a slight hesitation.
“Look out there,” I said. “What do you see?”
“The desert,” she replied.
“Exactly. That is where he goes whenever he wants. So he really is a free-range cat.”
“Oh,” she responded. “My friend told me that you keep the cat in a pen, that he gets loose now and then.”
“Well, your information is wrong,” I replied firmly.
Her eyes shifted, and she glanced about the room.
“You came here because you feel about something very strongly,” I said. “I can only conclude you believe in saving wild animals, to let them remain wild and roam free.”
“Yes.” She spoke softly now. “I truly believe in doing what I can to protect our wild creatures.”
“A wonderful endeavor. But your visit here was based on misinformation. It may come as a surprise to you, but I, too, am concerned about wildlife, in particular, wild cats. I wasn’t always in that mode. Only since I met that cat in there. Now, if you want to help wild cats, you can try to prevent their slaughter.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Do you know how many bobcats are caught in traps and killed in Nevada, or how many more are killed by hunters during hunting season, or how many are killed by poachers hunting out of season, without permits?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Over 3,000 are trapped for their fur each year. A pelt can bring up to $600 from buyers in China or Russia. Another 1,000 wild cats are shot by hunters or poachers in Nevada alone. That’s a slaughter!”
“That is horrible,” she sighed.
“I believe people should be allowed to hunt, with a permit and in a season. But the season should be shorter and there must be a limit set on the number of cats killed.”
“We should save them,” she replied definitively, “but let them remain in the wild.”
Then, with a nod of her head, she started towards the door, turned, and added, “I’ll think about your point, Mr. Johnson.”
And she was gone.
I sat down at my desk with a sigh of relief at her departure.
Teri reentered the office, having politely remained in the meeting room during the confrontation.
“Want a cup of coffee, Dad?” she asked.
“No. No, thanks.”
“Think she’ll return?”
“I hope not,” I answered. “She has some serious frustrations and I guess I appeared as an easy target. Let’s hope the rest of the day is less eventful.”
I got up and walked into the meeting room. Trooper had remained asleep during the encounter. I sat in the chair next to him. Watching a cat sleep can bring peace to a troubled mind.
He let out a soft cry and his legs twitched. I knew he was dreaming, and I concluded it must be a troubling one. I reached to touch his back in hopes of breaking the dream’s direction.
The old expression “let sleeping dogs lie” doesn’t have to be restricted to canines; it can also apply to cats. There is a danger in waking an animal, as he may respond violently if the mind is still occupied with the dream. That fast response could result in a bite or scratch before he realizes he is awake and free of the dream, and there is nothing to f
ear.
I nudged him again, withdrawing my hand quickly. He didn’t snap into action. Instead, his eyes opened and he stared ahead.
“You were having a bad dream,” I said to the cat.
His sleepy eyes shifted to me.
“What were you dreaming about?” I questioned.
He stretched, arching his back, and lay down on his side, eyes locked on me the whole time. I scratched the top of his head between the ears, the spot where no cat can reach with a paw.
What pictures does the cat brain create from dark corners? Does he relive the moment his family was killed by coyotes, or me finding him? Or would his nightmare be of hunger or fear of rejection, that I might leave and never return, or of growing old without love?
I, too, worried about coyotes, as did everyone in our area. I wanted to tell the cat never to stand and fight. There would be no chance for survival against a pack of those terrorists. He should run and jump or climb to a high place, a wall, car roof, or tree. But suppose he couldn’t reach those high places of safety? He couldn’t outrun a coyote. So there, perhaps, I had his bad dream. It was also mine.
He had fallen asleep again, a peaceful sleep this time, with nice dreams, the way dreams should always be.
“Dad!”
Teri’s call startled me.
“Yes?”
“A nurse at Doctor Marg’s office just called. There’s good news.”
“What?”
“There’s a couple who would like to adopt the black cats. Wanted to know if we still have them. I told them, yes. She wants you to call her back, pronto!”
I phoned the nurse, and was given the contact number for the interested couple. They had lost a pair of cats over the past two years, so this pair seemed perfect. I was excited about the adoption. We had given the girls a home away from the dangers of the desert, but there were so many restrictions that had been placed by Trooper and enforced by myself. They would never be completely comfortable. I was certain they had once been “inside” cats and that’s what these new owners were prepared to offer.
Doctor Marg recommended and approved the couple. I could ask for no more.
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