Waiting for Godot

[Sue Littleton]

Waiting for Godot

The ranchers moved into the cactus-stabbed Texas hills,
coveting the land along the winding length
of the Pecos River
as it eased past towering gray bluffs.
They set the bores of their windmills deep
in their search for water for their animals.
They called him a "bobcat"
because his tail was short and tufted,
just long enough to balance his leap
on a running jackrabbit.
It doesn’t matter who was there first;
the reality is simple.
The two species can’t peacefully share the same territory,
the rufus lynx and the sheep and goat raiser.

Late afternoon,
preparing for the bobcat’s nocturnal hunt,
the professional trapper
smears the jagged iron
with urine from the bladder
of a slaughtered tom,
baits it with chunks of ripe goat meat.
The big bobcat, ranging his marked territory
under a black Texas sky ticked with stars
and the crescent scar of a spring moon
scented the challenge of another male,
along with the added temptation
of abandoned meat.
The jaws of the trap grabbed him
as surely as he had ever seized a bawling lamb,
but here there was no quick death
to assuage hunger.

We almost missed seeing him,
so perfectly did he blend into the rocky ground.
We had no way of knowing how long
he’d been there.
State trappers have a lot of area to cover,
and a trapped animal can live days
without food
or water.
The big cat sat unmoving on his powerful haunches,
observing us from cold yellow eyes.
Any move toward him
was greeted with a hissing snarl,
tufted ears flattened against his head.
We were aware, of course, that the trapper would come
to harvest his beautifully spotted skin –
eventually.
When we returned the next day and the next
to continue our climb-hike
the bobcat was still there.
And again the next day.
We talked among ourselves,
feeling pity for the hungry and thirsty animal.
There was something admirable
in his stoical patience.
When we found he was still there that evening,
we went wordlessly to the truck
and got our guns.

He died hard,
screamed, leaped against the first bullet,
and screamed again as we shot.
The desert hills echoed his defiant cries,
emphasizing our shocked silence.

We drove the dusty caleche miles back to town
without our usual laughing banter,
unable to forget that wild beauty
now lying lifeless in a heap of blood-spattered fur,
one scarred leg
still tight in the jaws of the trap.

[mnaz]

wow, tough read
nothing fake in the desert hills
my heart goes out. thanks, sue
poor cat . . .

[Sue Littleton]

The original story, while true, was not mine. However, when I heard it I asked permission of my friend, a lawyer, to weave a poem around HIS story of that bobcat. The fact that I am part owner of a West Texas ranch allowed me to learn a great deal about hoiw bobcats are hunted by talking to the State's professional hunter, who was living in the the old headquarters ranch house with the permission of the other heirs. I also got a skin of one of the slaughtered cats and had it tanned to bring back to Buenos Aires , but found I could not bear to have it around and gave it to my Argentine son as a part of his Texas heritage.

Although I recognize that rattlesnakes are not man's best friend, it bothers me to hear of them being hunted down as a form of sport and hundreds being whacked, shot, stamped to death, etc., in a day's good fun. Whereever man goes, he brings death to the previous denizens of the area --I find myself secretly pleased that the mountain lions are slowly moving back into West Texas from Mexico, but they will not last long, I fear, because even if the ranch is used only for summer recreation (the Pecos River runs through it), hunting bobcats and cougars, javelinas and wild turkeys will be a draw. Deer as well, but deer are another story.

The cougars, by the way, help cull the deer-- around Austin, Texas, the deer have become so numerous and so hungry they invade lawns and yards in the outskirts of the city and are dangerous during rut. A hungry cougar would be a big help in keeping things in balance, but alas! no more cougars.