Trooper

by Forrest Bryant Johnson

  After a few days of moving cat food around and worrying about the bird’s safety, I decided to do some research and see what I could learn about our feathered visitor. I now knew that peacocks could fly, but how far? And what food should he be eating? I instructed Teri to call the Brookfield Zoo, near Chicago, and get the aviary department on the line so I could get some answers. I knew that the zoo not only had a wonderful variety of exotic animals on exhibit but employed a very knowledgeable, friendly staff.

  She soon had a zoo representative from the aviary section on the line and I explained our dilemma. “Is it OK for the bird to eat canned cat food?” was my first question.

  “Well, Mr. Johnson,” she replied with a slight laugh, “Cat food has some ingredients which may, over time, harm your bird.” My bird! I wanted to tell her that the peacock wasn’t really my bird but held back to keep the conversation flowing.

  “Just think of him as a big chicken,” she said with authority.

  How strange, I thought. “No. That bird is anything but a chicken. He has no fear of a mean tom cat or our pet bobcat, who is just as large as the bird.”

  She replied with another laugh, “I didn’t mean that kind of chicken. I mean to say that he is similar to a farm chicken, the cluck-cluck kind, at least generically he is.”

  “Oh,” I answered shyly. “Then, what should we give him to eat?”

  “Peacocks are omnivorous. They will eat most anything—seeds, bugs, flowers, and even small reptiles. But ultimately, they need protein-rich food. No doubt he’ll find some of what he needs in your yard. He’ll take care of any bug problem you may have. His former owner may have given him cat food so he may have been attracted by the sound of the can opening. I suggest you offer him some quality poultry grain, not cat food.”

  I thanked the zookeeper and told Teri to toss out some bird seed we held in a barrel in the garage; that could keep the peacock well fed for the time being. Later that day we were visited by Jim Butler, the true eyes and eyes of the neighborhood, who at first stated that he had no knowledge of a peacock ever flying into our neighborhood. Then he added, “I know that they can make a lot of racket with that cry of theirs. I’ve heard them before when our ship pulled into a harbor in India.”

  Jim appeared to be in deep thought for a few moments. Then, with a nod of his head, he added, “Maybe the bird came from Wayne Newton’s ranch.”

  “Wayne Newton? The entertainer?” I puzzled.

  “Just a thought,” Jim admitted. “Newton cares for a bunch of birds and horses at his ranch. At least, that is what I saw on the TV news.”

  “But,” I noted, “Newton’s ranch is at least twenty miles from here. I doubt if the bird can fly that far.”

  Jim agreed and started for the door to leave. There he paused, turned to me, and said, “Come here, you have got to see this! Looks like we have a standoff between bird and bobcat.”

  Teri and I joined him at the door. There on the driveway, about twenty feet from us, Trooper was in a crouched position, his short tail twitching. He was ready for combat. Another fifteen feet in front of the cat, the big bird stood with all his tail feathers erect. They appeared like a huge fan of brilliant colors, blue and green, with each feather overlapping the next by only an inch. They all sported the famous large eye spots. For some reason, Trooper had confronted the bird and learned a male peacock’s first defense. Actually more of a bluff: those tall feathers reaching a height of seven feet, complete with the eyes, were intimidating. It all gave the appearance of a giant, colorful hydra with a hundred eyes, all focused on the cat.

  This must have been a shock for Trooper. But he didn’t remain shaken for long. With ears flat back against his head, he began to slowly circle the bird, perhaps looking for the best angle of attack. As Trooper moved, the bird also turned and began to shake his feathers, which produced a loud rustling sound. That was enough. Trooper paused and looked over at me as if to ask, what should I do now?

  “Come over here, Troop,” I said in a firm voice, while slapping my hand on my right thigh. This was a way I often called the cat to come to me, and it had occasional positive results. “Come on, Troop. Let’s go inside the office.”

  Teri and Jim stepped aside as the cat entered and leaped upon our desk.

  “Standoff is over,” said Jim with a laugh. “I’m going home.”

  I went to my desk and gave Trooper a hug and stroked his back to reward him for obeying my command. A few minutes later, Teri told me that both Little Brother and Fat Face were napping in separate places in the meeting room. Trooper had fallen asleep on my desk. With all the cats slumbering and everything under control in the office, I decided it was time to do a little gardening. I had never been interested in starting a garden of any type, but my love of fresh tomatoes won out over my disinterest. The day before I had purchased a box of twelve little tomato plants and was excited to get them into the ground. I carried the box of plants from a shelf in the garage to the back of the house.

  I decided to plant the tomatoes against the house where they would receive good sunlight in the morning, but would be protected from the hot afternoon sun by shade. While digging the little holes in the soft, warm earth, I looked up to see that big bird standing about fifteen feet away. He had cocked his head in order to study me and remained in that position until my project was complete. I started for the house to wash my hands, satisfied that I had completed a perfect planting job. I knew I had a long wait for my favorite vegetable to grow but could, in my imagination, already taste those juicy tomatoes.

  Chiaki went out to inspect my work, then I heard her call me. “Where are your plants? Maybe you come out here and see something.”

  I was at her side. “What is it?” I questioned.

  “Look!” She pointed to the peacock, who stood only a few feet away, still looking at us. One of my tomato plants was dangling from his beak. The bird had apparently waited for me to go inside, then attacked my garden, pulling up each little plant and eating them one by one. At first I was angry, but the more I thought about it, the entire event seemed humorous. The Brookfield Zoo expert had noted that peacocks are omnivorous. I now knew that its diet could include tomato plants. A day later we saw the bird making a meal out of bugs he pecked from the front of Chiaki’s car. I never tried gardening again.

  A few nights after the bird ate my tomato plants, Chi and I returned home from a fast food dinner and witnessed a disturbing scene. It was about an hour after sunset and darkness had conquered the desert. Our car’s headlights captured the peacock frantically running in circles about the front yard. I turned off the ignition and noticed Herman standing at his guesthouse door.

  “What is that bird doing, Herman?”

  “He is in panic,” came the answer. “He played around the yard too long and didn’t fly up to the wall before the sun went down. He can’t see in the dark and knows he is dead meat if he stays on the ground all night. So now he is freaking out.”

  “That is so sad,” Chiaki said. “What can we do to help him?”

  I thought for a moment and then came with up with a plan. I instructed Herman to get the big spotlight we kept in the garage and turned to Chiaki. “Get the flashlight from the glove compartment.”

  I backed the car up and turned the headlights to bright as I drove forward a little. The wall became illuminated completely.

  “Herman, Chi!” I shouted. “Point your lights at the top of the wall while I keep the headlight pointed there.”

  The plan luckily worked. The bird, upon hearing our voices and seeing all the light on the wall, rushed towards it, flapped his wings, and flew to the top.

  “Well, he’s safe for the night,” I said with a sigh of relief.

  Chiaki took my hand and squeezed it. “You’re such a smart zookeeper,” she said with a giggle.

  “Starting tomorrow,” I responded seriously, “we’re going to find a nice home for our big bird. Then I’ll put a real effort towards finding one for Fat Face. I think T
rooper will be happy to have his ranch to himself again.”

  I had become worried that the peacock could, indeed, be in danger and that Trooper’s tolerance of the bird might be reaching an end, the conclusion of which would not be pleasant for the bird.

  “And Little Brother?” Chiaki seemed worried and her question had come with some reluctance.

  “Oh, Little Brother is no problem. The two cats are real pals,” I assured her.

  By noon the next day, Teri was successful in locating the phone number of a bird sanctuary run by the Nevada state government. It was situated on over two thousand acres, only five miles north of town. Two men in a van from the sanctuary arrived that same afternoon with plans to take our big bird away.

  “Do you think you can catch him?” I shot the question to the smaller man.

  “You bet,” the man replied with confidence. “We do this almost every week for folks who want to give us their bird . . . usually a peacock.”

  “Don’t harm him,” I replied rather sternly, not yet convinced that the men were professionals at catching birds.

  “Don’t worry, sir.”

  The bird stood in the middle of the driveway inspecting us as we talked. The man approached the peacock from the front, attracting his full attention while his partner moved slowly behind the bird. Then he slipped a soft cloth bag over the bird’s head, scooped up the bird, and carried him gently to the rear entrance of the van. The action was swift and the peacock neither struggled nor made a sound.

  “Don’t worry, mister,” the first man assured me, “less than an hour and your bird will be running about with new friends, others of his kind. We have eight peacocks and they have lots of room to play. Lots of trees to roost in and all kind of good food. They don’t fly away. They have everything they need at the sanctuary. It’s like a retirement home for birds. And all under the protection of the state of Nevada. Can’t beat that!”

  I thanked the men and in another moment, our big bird was gone.

  “I hate to see him go,” Teri said as I entered the office. “He was so beautiful, but I guess it is for his own good.”

  “Yeah, he was sure beautiful and very interesting,” I noted. “But I did worry about how long Trooper would put up with him. Now we can get busy and find Fat Face a good home.”

  “Promise, Dad,” Teri insisted, “that there won’t be a sanctuary for him. Let’s find him a home where someone will love him. Despite his ugliness, he is a very sweet cat.”

  “Yes,” I agreed with a laugh. “When I think of Fat Face I’m reminded of something my old boss in Chicago once said . . . you can’t judge cats by the quality of their fur.”

  “He was speaking about people as well, right?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he was, but it’s true here too.”

  Not wanting to waste any time, I phoned Doctor Marg and spoke to her directly. She laughed when I described Fat Face, and said she had an idea. She promised to get back to me soon.

  I walked to the office, joined by Chi. Teri met us at the door.

  “Look at that,” she said, pointing towards her desk.

  Fat Face lay on the floor, resting peacefully, with Herman standing nearby.

  “That is devil cat!” Herman sternly said. “Big, ugly cat! Who does he belong to?”

  “I think he belongs to no one,” I answered.

  “What are you doing out here?” Chi said to the cat. “Trooper going to be mad.”

  Fat Face sprang to his feet, trotted into the meeting room, hopped onto a chair, and curled up into a ball.

  “He’s actually pretty well behaved,” I said to Chiaki. “See how he responded to your question.”

  “Poor thing,” said Teri. “I petted him when he first came in here. He makes a funny grumbling sound. What do you think that means, Dad?”

  “Don’t know. Maybe his purring mechanism is broken. But he sure looks happy right now.”

  “He just needs love and food,” Chi interjected.

  At that moment, Doctor Marg returned my call, letting me know she already had a home for Fat Face. An elderly lady living in Pahrump, Nevada, was seeking a “big cat companion.” Her own cat had passed away a few days before of old age, and she was feeling very lonely. She would drive to the doctor’s clinic to claim the pet, providing he had all his shots, and we could deliver him to the clinic tomorrow. We agreed to all this, and I would pay for Fat Face’s vaccinations.

  Early the next morning, Herman and I approached Fat Face soon after he finished a can of food, and to our relief, the feline let us lift and place him in the car. I was pleased to learn that he, unlike Trooper, appeared to actually enjoy the trip, offering no objection when we carried him into an examination room and introduced him to Doctor Marg.

  “I’m surprised Trooper didn’t tear this cat apart!” Doctor Marg exclaimed after I related the unusual and unexpected behavior of my buddy midpoint during our visit.

  “Maybe Trooper had pity on the cat,” I replied. “I was mostly worried about Little Brother.”

  “I doubt if this old cat would have seriously harmed Brother. When kittens have grown to Brother’s size, older cats usually don’t kill or seriously harm them.”

  I thought about Fat Face as we drove home. In a way, he reminded me of Schultz, the tough-guy neighbor from our old house, whose outward appearance of being tough perhaps also covered up a softer side. And maybe that was all Schultz needed, love, even the love of a cat, to change him into a pleasant individual.

  A few days later, I received a phone call from Doctor Marg, who gave a very pleasing report. Fat Face had become an indoor cat since living with the lady in Pahrump. He was eating well, gaining weight, and especially enjoyed being rocked to sleep in his owner’s lap as she sat in her grandmotherly rocking chair. I smiled with contentment at hearing that news.

  Everything in our life seemed peaceful as we settled down that night. Fat Face had a new home, and our cats had been busy chasing one another about the house until, like children, both fell to the ground exhausted. Our new desert scenic tour business was prosperous, and our health, when age was taken into account, was good.

  With both cats asleep, I was ready to drift off into dreamland as well.

  But just as I was drifting off, the cry of a cat in distress pierced the silence. Immediately the long and haunting yowl of a coyote followed.

  Both cats jumped up and went to the edge of the bed. Brother appeared frightened, although I don’t think he had seen a coyote. But, that memory was enough. He returned to my side and remained very still.

  Trooper held an alert position, sitting with ears forward and nose twitching.

  Another yapping and howl, this one farther away, seemed to answer the first call.

  “What’s going on?” Chi asked, her voice trembling.

  “Coyotes! At least two.”

  “Oh no! I thought I heard a cat screaming.”

  “You did, but not anymore. I’m afraid to guess what happened out there. The coyotes are coming closer to the house now.”

  “Don’t let our cats go out.”

  “Don’t worry,” I assured her. “Brother is right next to me.” And looking for the older one, I shouted, “Come here, Trooper!”

  The big cat turned his head towards me, but held his position for another few minutes. Finally, to my relief, he lay next to my right leg and fell back asleep. There were no more coyote calls until near dawn. The danger had passed for now, and all was well.

  But the next day nevertheless started with excitement. Teri arrived with her three girls and they began at once to play with Little Brother, who enjoyed the attention. He purred loudly and rubbed his head against the children’s’ legs as a sign of affection. Trooper, on the other hand, had always been cautious when children were near, perhaps because he knew their movements were fast and unpredictable. As my grandchildren, all under the age of ten at the time, chased and played with cuddly Brother, Trooper quietly vanished and retreated to a more peaceful spot somewhere
outside to take a nap.

  Eventually, Teri and I decided that the noise level from three giggly children had reached an intolerable point, so we encouraged them to go outside to play.

  By then, even Brother seemed to have had enough and fell asleep on our desk.

  About thirty minutes later, my eldest granddaughter rushed into the office in a panic, tears streaming down her face.

  “Grandpa! Grandpa! Something horrible!” she cried.

  Teri jumped from her desk. “Where are your sisters?” she screamed.

  The child was sobbing uncontrollably, unable to answer.

  I rushed out the door. Herman was walking towards me, his arms around the two younger girls.

  I released a deep breath. “Are they okay?”

  “Of course,” replied Herman. “They’re upset. But they are okay.”

  “What has them in a panic, coyotes?”

  My first fear was that the children had encountered a coyote, or even worse, been attacked by an animal.

  “I watch them play,” Herman proudly assured me. “I follow then down near the gulley. They found a dead cat.”

  “A what? What cat?”

  “Don’t know. I will show you.”

  I spent a few minutes with Teri, consoling the children and calming them down with a drink and a snack. Then I joined Herman to investigate the scene. We found the remains of what had once been a beautiful, longhaired calico cat. His belly had been ripped open, but there was no indication that the killer had attempted to eat him.

  “Coyote did that,” Herman announced sternly, shaking his head.

  “Yes. We heard a cat scream last night. I guess this was the one. Then the coyote howling . . .”