What’s on my mind? Last week, the local paper reported two cougars openly stalking prey in our village-that-calls-itself-a-town. When one killed a miniature pony in its pen, residents feared for their children and small pets.
Also last week, the paper ran a story that a woman down the island had crouched on her unlit porch beside what she thought was the neighbor’s dog: “How did you get back here? You’d better go home now … I’m not going to let you in. Then it turned its head and I said: ‘Oh, hell, you’re not a dog.’ ”
* * *
This week, on a street near our house, Himself and I came upon a wispy clump of fuzz, some tiny bones flecked with blood, and the detached leg of a rabbit. Its head, internal organs, and other three legs were gone.
The symmetry of the backbone seemed oddly undisturbed, as though the rabbit had peeled off its fur coat to expose the efficiently organized bones that until recently had served its small body well.
I remembered something I’d read after the death of the pony: “A cougar goes about its feeding with almost surgical precision.” And here, in the exacting proof of that statement, lay the rabbit’s remains in perfect, tidy arrangement.
A cougar with cubs once stalked my daughter, who was then an environmental conservation officer. The experience was so unnerving that not only did she quit her job, but she moved to the other side of the country.
I once knew a woman stalked by a cougar while on horseback. Her nervous horse saved her by pooping - a delicacy the cougar couldn’t resist - after which the big cat lost interest.
Himself and I once saw a cougar on a trail where families walked with toddlers and unleashed dogs. Dashing from one family to the next, we were roundly ignored as we tried to warn the young families of impending danger ahead.
* * *
One day ago, on a wilderness trail far from our house, Himself and I were engaged in conversation about - wouldn’t you know it? - cougars, when I heard a loud, deep-throated growl in the underbrush, perhaps 100 ft. away.
Frozen in terror, I asked: “Did you hear that?”
“What?” He had not.
“A cougar! ” Himself looked skeptical.
We saw nothing - typical of cougars - but the growl’s intensity was unmistakable. We started retracing our steps to leave the trail.
A lone jogger pumped past. “I have to warn her!” I said.
Despite our previous, failed experience in trying to warn others, the jogger stopped and listened. “You saw it?” she asked. “I didn’t see it,” I said. “I heard it. You’re running ... You’re alone … It’ll come after you.”
She shrugged and continued running. Two or three minutes later, we saw her again, now running past us. “Changed my mind!” she yelled.
A man zipped past us, heading for the trail’s end. Briefly stopping, he asked: “You the woman who seen the cougar?” The jogger must have told him.
“I didn’t see it. I heard …”
“I’m gettin’ outta here while the gettin’s good.” Which he did, tout-de-suite.
We met a threesome on the trail - a young man and woman and an elderly, skinny woman. As the couple charged off in the direction of the growl, the skinny woman hobbled behind, unable to keep up.
“Stop!” I called. “I heard a cougar …”
“We know! A guy running out of the woods told us! He said it attacked you!”
“It didn’t attack me! I didn’t even see it, but I heard …”
No attack? They lost interest. But they still wanted to see the cougar. The skinny woman trembled, afraid of what lay ahead.
If I couldn’t appeal to their reason, I’d appeal to her fear.
“Cougars always attack the weakest in the group!” I shouted to the couple’s retreating backs.
Like a sacrificial lamb suddenly rescued, the skinny woman mew-mewled: “The newspaper said it killed a poh-nee.” Their bravado erased by guilt, the young couple sidled back, asking: “Really? The paper said that?”
“Ripped the pony to shreds,” I lied. “Nothing left but a line of bones along its back.”
I thought of the rabbit’s orderly backbone; my friend with the pooping horse; my daughter’s justified fear of the stalking cougar; our futile warnings to families with toddlers and free-ranging dogs.
“What did the cougar sound like?” I gave the threesome my deepest and best growl - so impressive that they decided not to meet the cougar, after all.
“Do you think I should call the paper?” I later asked Himself.
“But you didn’t see anything,” he said.
True enough. I’d heard growling. Nothing more. I thought what the woman crouched on the porch had said after she talked to the dog-slash-cougar: “Oh, hell, you’re not a dog.”
I imagined myself crouched in the underbrush, hearing that loud, deep growl. I imagined the animal drawing closer, and seeing its (huh?) collar and flapping tail. I imagined myself saying: “Oh, hell, you’re not a cougar.”
© Nicole Parton, 2020
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