Trooper

by Forrest Bryant Johnson

  “Coyotes!” Teri and I spoke together, with disgust.

  “Right! Of course! Now, here comes a real shocker. Ruth reports that your cat was up in a cottonwood tree in her yard. From separate positions, Ruth and Trooper watched as the coyotes rushed in and snatched a few of her birds. Then, a day or two later, she reported the same scene. Trooper observed the coyote attack from the tree. Apparently those animals were so busy picking off birds they never noticed the cat above them.”

  “Why the hell would my cat travel so far, two times, to watch coyotes kill birds?” I asked.

  “Don’t you get it?” Jim snapped with a broad grin. “You’ve been with that cat for years. You should know his thinking. He is one very smart kitty. All wild cats are, by nature. He’s planning something, I’m sure of it.”

  I looked at Teri. Her face was etched with a puzzling frown.

  “OK, Jim, I give up. Spell it out for us! Share a sample of your vast wildlife knowledge,” I said with a grin.

  “The birds are educational bait,” said Jim with a slight laugh.

  “Bait?”

  “Yeah, bait. Ruth, her husband, and I discussed it. Of course, they are angry about losing their birds. Trying to raise them in the desert with coyotes around was . . . between you and me, a bad idea to begin with.”

  “My cat, Jim. Let’s get back to him. Why does my cat return to the tree and watch the killing? You think he is just curious?”

  “Tactics, my friend. Your cat is smart. He is observing, no, studying the tactics of those coyotes. He’s learning their attack system, their killing methods, order of rank, their speed, and which one is the leader, the strongest. The coyotes know those ugly birds can fly and run fast, so their attack must be swift, else the birds will escape into a tree. Your cat knows exactly the behavior of the coyote when it moves in for the kill.”

  “That’s an interesting theory,” I said.

  “Of course it is. And the Packers agree. The cat has his plans and he surely is not going to go after a pack of coyotes. Maybe he’ll find a chance to take them one at a time.”

  I stared at the floor, thinking of Jim’s report. Trooper might have been gathering “field intelligence,” as we call it in the army. And I remembered something Dr. Marg once said, to the effect that “cats are superior observers.” But, as I have learned, they don’t always take action with what they learned.

  “When did all this take place, Jim?”

  “About a week after the coyotes killed the cats in my yard. Then, in a few days, I noticed Trooper visiting. Maybe Trooper brought the kitten over here thinking you and him, together, could protect him.”

  Then, as if on cue, Trooper walked in, followed by Little Brother. They paused and looked at us. Brother started towards Jim and gave a few meows.

  “He sure knows you, Jim. You want him back?”

  “No, thank you,” Jim replied. “He’s a cute little cat, but he’ll be much happier here with you guys. I’m not much with pets.”

  Trooper moved to the meeting room and jumped into a chair. Brother made an attempt to join him, but failed with his first leap. On the second try he succeeded by sinking his claws into the seat cushion and pulled himself up as his back legs kicked at the air. Trooper licked at Brother’s head for a brief cleaning, then they curled up and fell asleep.

  CHAPTER 19

  The Legend of Fat Face

  “There are two means of refuge from the miseries of life: music and cats.”

  Dr. Albert Schweitzer

  THE TIME HAD COME TO take Brother to Dr. Marg for his vaccinations and surgery, to be “fixed” or neutered. Luckily, it was also time for Trooper’s annual vaccinations.

  For most cat owners, a doctor’s visit isn’t a major event, and almost certainly not a challenging one. But after years of experience transporting my big cat, I always expected a struggle, though I must admit, Trooper had mellowed somewhat in his senior years.

  But Chi and I didn’t know what to expect from Brother. He was a cuddly kind of cat, and when we first introduced him to his new crate he hopped in and out, probably believing it was part of a game we had planned. We even entertained the thought of Chi simply holding him until we arrived at the clinic. We soon concluded, though, that was a bad idea. If Brother were to leap from her arms, not only might we never find him again, he could get seriously hurt. The travel crate is always the best when moving an animal, big or small. With Trooper there had never been any choice. He was simply too big and feisty for any way but the crate.

  So plan A was to take both cats to the vet in a single trip. But when I phoned for an appointment, a receptionist suggested we try a new program they had implemented.

  “Doctor Marg is getting ready to retire,” the young voice informed me, “and her new partner, Doctor Shelmacker, suggested you may wish to consider our mobile clinic.” She explained that Trooper could receive his shots at our home, and then Brother could be transported to the hospital separately for his surgery. I agreed, as it sounded interesting in theory and was certainly easier than crating Trooper.

  The mobile clinic arrived late morning the next day, driven by a professional animal paramedic, with two nurses as passengers. I had never seen any of the trio before, and at that moment should have known we would have a problem.

  The nurses stated they had reviewed Trooper’s file, knew about his origin, size, medical history, and were thus anxious to meet him. Their enthusiasm unfortunately was not to be shared by the cats, who were asleep on the living room couch when the nurses entered the foyer.

  Trooper awoke like the snap of a twig. His nose twitched as he stared at the two young ladies in their crisp white uniforms. Though usually interested in females, something told him this visit was different. He jumped to the floor, followed by Brother, and they trotted to the guest bedroom. Trooper took a position on top of the bed, facing the door, while Brother scooted underneath.

  “Perhaps I can pull the little yellow cat out,” one nurse said. “We shouldn’t bother the big one.”

  Her statement was greeted by a heavy growl from Trooper.

  I knew he would not attack the nurse. He was bluffing as a warning, partly to protect Brother, but mostly to encourage the nurses to leave, which they did.

  Though the idea of a mobile clinic was a good one in theory, it wouldn’t work for Trooper. So we were left with plan A and struggled with the big cat to push him into his crate. We gently lifted Brother into his with no difficulty.

  In a few days the entirety of the trip—shots, the insertion of Brother’s computer locator chip, and his surgery—was, at least for us, a fading memory and the two cats were back to exploring their outside world.

  One afternoon Las Vegas was treated to a rare heavy rainstorm, which lasted almost an hour. But quickly, the sun was out again, and with its heat began to boil the moisture from the desert floor, producing a fog-like mist that drifted lazily over the landscape. But several puddles of water remained in our driveway, which, for Brother, who had never seen such a thing, presented something that warranted investigation. As expected, he withdrew his paw after a slight touch of the water. Then, to our surprise, Trooper waded through a four-inch-deep puddle, perhaps to show the little cat there was nothing to fear.

  Indeed, it was a strange move for the big cat. At our first home, Trooper never even entered the fish pond, resisting the temptation while watching the fish swim about. As with most cats, a touch of the water with his paw was enough, though he did smack the water to encourage the fish to entertain him.

  Bobcats are known to be excellent swimmers when raised in an area where small bodies of water flow. While they do not engage in recreational swimming as many breeds of dogs enjoy, they do swim to cross from one side of a body to another for whatever reason. Of course, desert bobcats very rarely have the opportunity to test their swimming ability. Creek and river beds remain dry most of the year, except when enough rain produces flash floods, and a glance at fast-moving water, carrying debris, is e
nough to discourage any attempt to enter.

  Brother moved back and forth with nervous energy at the puddle’s edge, trying to get the nerve to follow Trooper, but he soon gave up, resorting to simply testing the water with a paw.

  That evening I received a phone call from Ruth Packer, the women with the African guinea hens. Jim had recently related their problem with coyotes. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, I stated, “I’m sorry to learn about the loss of your birds.”

  “Thank you. We still have about thirty, although they are difficult to count. They travel a bit.”

  “Yes, Jim told me.”

  “Well, we got revenge on those coyotes. My husband managed to shoot one with his rifle yesterday, just about dusk. There are still three in the pack, but they are staying clear of us for a while.”

  “I’m so glad your husband shot one,” I said.

  “Have my birds been to visit your place? I hope they don’t cause trouble with all the noise they make.”

  “No. They haven’t been over here yet. And I’m sure they’ll be of no problem for us. Again, thank your husband. Those coyotes have really created a reign of terror around here for years.”

  “Your beautiful cat has been patrolling our ranch from time to time. We thought he was wild at first, but then Jim told us he is your pet. We were surprised he didn’t kill one of our birds, but he has never bothered them. He just sits and watches.”

  “I’m sure happy he hasn’t harmed your birds,” I said. “But please let me know at once if he causes any alarm.”

  “He’s been studying the coyotes from our tree. Do you think he plans to attack them?”

  “I don’t think he’ll attack the coyotes,” I replied, “unless they get him cornered, which, of course, I hope that never happens.”

  “Well,” said Ruth, “other than calling to introduce myself, I really wanted to tell you about Fat Face. No doubt he’ll be visiting you.”

  “Who?”

  “Fat Face! He’s a great big tom cat, almost the size of your cat. He steals our cat’s food we put out on the porch and growls and hisses if we try to get near him. My husband calls him Fat Face because his head is so very large, as is his face, which is all scarred from fights long ago, I guess. My husband says he looks like a cat from hell!”

  “Very strange. Where did he come from, other than hell?” I chuckled with the thought.

  “No one knows. He’s just a rōnin.”

  “A what?”

  “ōnin. You know, a Japanese warrior who wanders around. Fat Face fights with other cats near here and steals their food too. I thought I should warn you about Fat Face. Jim says you have a young cat. I hope Fat Face doesn’t hurt him!”

  I thanked Ruth for her warning and agreed our families should “get acquainted someday soon.”

  “Chi!” I called to my wife, who was in another room.

  “What is it?”

  “Tell me about rōnin!”

  “Ramen noodles?”

  “No! Rōnin, not ramen!”

  “Don’t shout!” she said, entering the room. “Are you asking about Japanese rōnin?”

  “Yes. What does it mean if someone says a cat is a rōnin? Means he wanders about, right?”

  “Kind of so,” she replied, “Rōnin means ‘wave man’. They move about like waves on ocean.”

  “Why do they move about? Looking for food?”

  “Maybe,” she replied, “not always. A real rōnin was once a samurai, a warrior who followed the code of bushido and had a master to serve and protect.”

  “The way of the warrior code,” I interjected.

  “Correct. If samurai’s master is killed or dies, samurai has no job and moves about doing odd jobs, unless some new master hires him.”

  “And if he doesn’t find a job, then what?”

  “He may kill himself by ritual seppuku to save honor, of course!”

  “Ugh! Not good to be unemployed. I doubt that a cat will commit seppuku.”

  “Cat? What are you talking about?”

  I explained my conversation with Ruth and her use of the word rōnin. Now I was curious to see this Fat Face feline. Could he be so horrible?

  My most immediate problem was our sleeping arrangement. Since the beginning of our relationship, Trooper had found comfort by curling up under my right arm at night and falling asleep. Usually after I fell asleep, he got up and ventured outside. The time of his return was unpredictable, but I could count on him to be at my side, or on my chest, to wake me in the morning.

  Chiaki called him “my fuzzy alarm clock.” We could count on his punctuality. If I awoke at 6 a.m. two days in a row, Trooper would be there a few minutes before 6 on the third morning. If I decided to sleep late and awoke at 9 a.m., the second morning Trooper would be there a few minutes before 9.

  In later years, I had a theory as to reasons the cat joined me to fall asleep and then left after he was certain I was, indeed, asleep and not pretending. In a way, it reminds me of a human mother putting her child asleep and then checking on him from time to time.

  So, for years, this sleeping arrangement worked for my cat, my wife, and I. Now, with Little Brother, the situation became difficult. Within a few weeks Little Brother was strong enough to leap into bed with us. Of course, as a good “copy cat,” as well as being extremely affectionate, he wanted to join Trooper and snuggle under my right arm. And that is where cat friendship, Brother or no Brother, ended. I belonged to Trooper and he was not about to share me.

  To prevent Brother from joining us, Trooper would give a low growl. Brother backed off, crying or whimpering as he lay at my feet. He continued to cry until he fell asleep. After a few days of frustration (and sadness for Brother), the situation was solved with a compromise.

  After a number of tries, Brother discovered he could snuggle under my left arm with no objection from Trooper. So there I was, both arms around cats who fell asleep before I did. I considered myself, though somewhat uncomfortable, to be very fortunate to have the love of two fuzzy animals.

  But soon I found a solution to this new situation. I pretended to snore, faking sleep, and within three or four minutes, Trooper jumped to the floor, followed by Brother, and they were off to a night’s adventure.

  Shortly after the sleeping arrangement problem was settled, Chi and I were having breakfast in the kitchen when a cat scream startled us. I knew by the pitch and volume of the sound that it did not come from Trooper.

  “Is that Little Brother yelling?” Chi asked.

  “I don’t think so.”

  Then a loud series of yowling and growling came from a very angry cat threatening something. That was quickly followed by a number of soft sounding meows.

  “We had better see what’s going on in the backyard,” I said as I opened the kitchen door.

  The yowling continued as I stepped onto the stoop in the bright morning sun.

  There before me, perhaps twenty feet away, stood the ugliest large cat I had ever seen.

  His long skinny tail hung as if it had been broken in two places and his gray fur was so thin that old battle scars were clearly visible on his body and neck. Half of one ear was missing, the wound having healed long ago, and his massive head, also pocked with scars, held a wide, flat face. His threatening appearance was accentuated by deep yowls and growls the likes of which I had never heard. In fact, they sounded almost as loud as Trooper’s.

  Fat Face had arrived! Because of the cat’s odd and mangled appearance, there could be no doubting his identity.

  What had the cat so angry was the fact that his advance was being blocked by our first line of defense, which surprisingly was neither Herman nor Trooper, but Little Brother.

  The tiny gold cat stood his ground ten feet away from his giant opponent. The fur on Brother’s ringed tail had bristled and his ears lay flat, back against his small head. He was prepared for battle by instinct only, as he had no previous experience in fighting.

  For every horrible sound issued
by Fat Face, Brother replied with a pitiful meow. When Fat Face elevated the volume of his growls, Brother answered with two faint meows. And then, to my amazement, Brother advanced his challenge by moving three feet closer to his enemy.

  “Do something,” Chi urged as she joined me on the stoop. “That big animal is going to make cat burger out of Little Brother!”

  “I’m not sure what . . .” I started to say when a brown blur of fur rushed in on the scene with terrific speed. Trooper had come to the rescue. In an instant he positioned himself at Brother’s right side and, without making a sound, scooped up the little cat and sent him tumbling in our direction. He then confronted Fat Face with a prolonged, guttural growl.

  But Brother refused to be forced out of the action and rushed back to Trooper’s side. This time Trooper growled sharply at him. Brother responded with a series of meows only to be tossed out of the way by a swing of Trooper’s front leg and large paw, which appeared to actually scoop the little cat from the ground. It was as if Trooper told him, “Stay out of this. You’re too young.”

  Brother’s pride was crushed. With big sad eyes he scrambled up the steps, meowing at me, and then pressed his body against my leg. I leaned down and stroked his back, consoling him with praise.

  “You’re such a brave kitty,” I told him. “You saved us from that mean old cat.”

  Brother began to purr and sat down next to me to watch the pending duel.

  Trooper did not scream in response to all the racket created by Fat Face. Instead, he responded with growls and snarls, which, knowing my cat, sounded somewhat restrained.

  Fat Face was, indeed, almost the size of Trooper, and judging from his scars, he never backed away from a fight.

  Suddenly Fat Face sprang forward, aiming for Trooper’s neck. Trooper moved sideways, grabbing the attacker and slamming him to the ground. He held Fat Face down and prepared to deliver a deadly bite.