Fragments From Floyd

A month after the sighting of the Very Large Very Black Bear bounding across our pasture, Ann still totes the .22 Mossberg and/or an 8-ounce miniature fire extinguisher of mace called Bear Stopper or somesuch. And I, on a regular basis, scoff at her precautions as we set out on our daily safari down the steppes of Goose Creek, making our usual looping walk in the evening at dusk.

We see deer regularly; Tsuga sees them by accident, when he brings his nose up off the ground, whereupon, if we had the right kind of eyes, we'd see those little animal footprint trails all over the place--like we used to see in the Sunday Family Circle funny papers. He gets a tasteless, dry crumbly piece of pressed grain hulls every once in a while, and is perfectly happy to stick right with us, more or less, for the twenty minute trip through the twining spider webs and rangy growth of early fall that just now show the barest hints of change. We had turned at the end of the valley and were making our way back through the open pasture where we could get a good view of the pink and mauve of sunset.

"What IS THAT!?" Ann asked, walking ahead of me. The dog had lagged behind in pursuit of a mole.

Across the pasture at right angles to our path, something was running in an odd way through the grass, a month tall now since haying. Color: tawny brown. Gait: very smooth, almost gliding; not dog-like. Build: compact, on shortish legs, maybe 30 pounds. Features: difficult to tell, except Ann noted one thing, I noted another: it didn't have much of a tail. And it had pointed ears.

It was a bobcat. A Very Large Very Fast Bobcat. And when we crossed its path and scent, the dog went berserk, wheeling in his tracks, backtracking, circling, then full speed toward the woods. I had that oh-crap sensation very like when he charged after the bear. We didn't bring the rifle or the leash. Ann called frantically, I ran home for the necessaries.

But this tale ends rather tamely, because the promise of yet another crumble of doggie treat brought the dog out of the woods just as it was getting dark, and by the time I got to the creek, here he came running. Smart dog. I don't think he would have had as easy a time with a 30-pound bobcat as he does with his daily mole.

And dang, if this doesn't just reinforce wifey's latest I-wanna: a Ruger .44 magnum short-barrel rifle. An army of one, here in the wild kingdom.