Hi, my name is Bobby

Meet the bobcat, a downright handsome creature who knows how to take care of himself and how to avoid bad company. It is October and, once upon a time, a significant element of October for me was hunting. But, "once upon a time was very long ago." (I have a variety of song lyrics drifting through my mind this evening.) Whatever .... during recent weeks my thoughts frequently have returned to "the days of the hunt" .... so, I decided to write a brief story about my one and only encounter in the wild with a bobcat –- three of them, to be precise. To accompany my tale, I located a photograph by an unnamed photographer so those who are unfamiliar with the bobcat might have a glimpse of one. I suppose, for the sake of accuracy, I should mention the event of which I write took place not in October, but sometime in late December/early January. As for the music, one piece is Bad Company/Queen performing "Bad Company," and should be self-explanatory –- or not. I could have used another rendition with more pleasing audio (Brian May's guitar solo is awful), but chose a concert from the Ukraine to make my own statement of support. The second is from "Finding Neverland," composed by Jan A.P. Kaczmarek. I have been to Neverland, more than a few times, but my stay usually lasts only for a few hours -- although, on occasion, even for a few months. I hope someday to discover a way to stay there even longer.

The Hunter's Tale

One wondrous winter day (he writes factiously), I decided to go far into the deep, dark forest (all right, enough of that) to an area where I had seen bobcat tracks while deer hunting a few weeks earlier. I never had been a trophy hunter per se, but had gotten it into my head that I would like to have a mounted bobcat in "my gun room." The year before, I had a rug made from a black bear I had shot. I liked seeing this denizen of the woodlands in my room, mingling with books and rifles and decanters filled with assorted liquors and a few paintings; I had begun to think of gathering a few more "trophies." 

Oh, yes. There also was a stand holding a dozen pipes and a number of tobaccos present to choose from, as well as a magazine rack filled with the latest issues of shooting and hunting periodicals. I was, you see, on my way to becoming a member of the "consummate hunter club."

The day was cold.

Very cold. 

Actually, damn cold.

And, a combination of a foot of old snow beneath a few inches of fresh powder covered the ground with an unbroken whiter shade of pale. (Sorry, I could not resist.)

Wind-driven, raggedy clouds soared across the sky as they and the sun battled for supremacy. The same wind blew the new-fallen snow swirling in and out, up and down, among the clustered pine and birch trees. It was an epitome of winter woodland elegance; I was fully absorbed within the timeless nature of Nature.

Moving through the dense forest, I approached a narrow strip of logged-out area where I had seen the tracks -- slowly, cautiously, silently. I had an innate talent for doing this -- for stalking –- and, beyond this inherent "gift," I had honed the ability to near-invisibility through practice, practice, practice. (I could tell a story or two in this regard that I doubt you would believe.)

Thirty or forty yards into the clearing were two bobcats. They were young, only a few months old, and like youngsters of any sort everywhere, they were playing -- leaping and bounding and rolling in snow, each trying to outperform the other in a battle of prowess and strength. I watched them for a while.

It seemed they were too young to be out on their own, so I scanned the woodland opposite me across the clearing and I quickly spotted their mother just beyond the distant tree line. Her gaze shifted between watching them and watching me. She eventually walked out into the clearing -- casually, nonchalantly -- close to where her kittens were engaged in their antics. Once there, she mostly watched me.

Seeing what I was seeing and feeling what I was feeling, I am absolutely sure in my mind that I never once thought of shooting her, but I lifted my rifle and looked at her for a few moments centered in the crosshairs of the scope mounted on it. The six-power magnification of the scope brought her image very close to me.

Whether or not she was offering herself up to me as a prize to save her kittens, I do not know. But, that was what seemed to be happening and what I believe was happening. It was then that I did something I began to do increasingly when I hunted: I fired my rifle into the air rather than at the quarry. In the blink of an eye, the three cats had scurried out of sight into the trees across from me. I think the mother and I both had proven and taught something to each other, and, maybe, the kittens had learned something.

Here ends The Hunter's Tale ....

(After-thought: It was a few years later before I quit hunting altogether, but the idea of "trophy hunting" disappeared forever after that day. And now, the only wildlife I want in "my gun room" are those illustrated in paintings or photographs -- shown alive and strong and free.)