A friend of mine posted a great cat picture in a place I hang out. It is gorgeous - the cat and the photo. It has been fun watching him with his spiffy new camera learning and shooting and shooting and learning. His photos have now been featured on his local news and in the local papers. We’re pretty proud of him where I hang out.

Follow up:

I love the big cats. How could you not? They are so beautiful and… um… catlike. When I was a kid, there were lots of them in the woods that surrounded my Granny’s lake house. We spent our summers there. We would find and carefully dig around a paw print and take it back to the house determined to plaster-cast it. We gathered tons. I think we actually cast maybe 2 or so. At night you could hear them loping past my back bedroom window. The pine needles and leaves and underbrush making those soft sounds that big, bold Kings of the Woods cats make jogging in the dark. On moonlit nights or with a flashlight you could peer out that window that was inches from miles of woods and see spooky cat eyes in the dark. Cheshire-esqe yellow eyes floating there like in a cartoon when all the lights go out and all you see are the eyes blinking. It is amazing to me how long they will stare at the light without blinking. Then, of a sudden, BLINK, gone.

One moonless night when I was probably 7 or 8, barefoot, in cutoffs with 80 cents in my pocket, I was to meet my friends at the clubhouse. That was the restaurant attached to the country club on the other side of the lake. Inside the proshop was the machine that held the only candy bar for 20 miles in any direction and I would have money left over.
To get there I had to walk about a mile or so from the south along the west shore and east past the north beach around the other side and up the hill.

At the northwest corner, just before you made the turn, the pine trees grew so tall on both sides that it made a tunnel so dark that closing your eyes made it brighter. That part of NY had so little ambient light in those days that the sky was full of stars. There were millions and millions of them on a clear night. From inside the tunnel it was so dark you couldn’t see your hand in front of your face and that made it a sort of natural telescope. It was awesome. It seemed you could see galaxies and more stars than I have ever seen in a night sky since. Comets and shooting stars you made wishes on, and once a meteorite landed nearby. It was on the news. You could navigate the road in the dark by tipping your head back and looking up. Staying to the middle of the stripe of stars, it was spooky but doable and I had, of course, done it all my life. First holding my sister’s hand, then by myself, then holding my little brother’s hand, we walked in the dark, heads back, mouths open, navigating the road on instruments only.

This night I walked as usual and it was a beautiful night. Warm and humid, clear up above and all the stars were out. I walked looking up long before I reached the tunnel. When I entered the dark it took a blink or two to adjust. I walked to just where the corner turns and stopped. It was one of those moments. In the sky I could see the stripe of milky way crossing the gap in the trees. Down the road ahead, a little light where the tunnel ended. Behind me only dark. The stars so bright now it ruined any night vision you gained. Each time you looked down it was back into the dark. Dark so dark it practically made a sound. Quiet and loud, the night sounds penetrated my consciousness. Bull frogs and crickets, the lake lapping the lily pads, a breeze through the pines, soft as polite applause. I stood there a moment and then from behind me I hear the low, deep rumble of a cougar growl, a menacing purr in the woods.

Of course, I did the dumbest thing you can possibly do in that situation. I set the land speed record around the corner, past the beach and up the hill to the club. Stopping only then, wheezing, to look back. I was alone. I peed a little. White as a sheet, my friends could tell something was wrong and I told them the story. Only then did it really hit me how close a call that could have been. I like to think that we enjoyed the moment together and I just misunderstood the sound he made. I don’t think it wanted to eat me, just share a comment on the beauty before us. Sharing the moment and I, too little to understand. Maybe I’m nuts. Maybe.

To this day if I hear that sound, even if it is just my granddaughter giggling through a sound effect library CD looking for sounds for our latest video, my pulse quickens and I break into a bit of a sweat, and that sound creeps up my spine. Just talking about it my palms are sweaty. Visceral it is, the fear so deep in my middle. A lion doesn’t do it. A tiger doesn’t do it. A leopard doesn’t do it. Just the cougar. Some black, some lion-colored; some call them cougars, some call them mountain lions; all agree they are beautiful. I imagine there aren’t nearly as many cougars loping through those woods these days. The cool old wooden houses have been replaced with pink condo-looking things, according to the satellite images on the net.

An evocative photo, my friend. I can hear it. It ain’t a thousand words, just the one. The low rumbling growl of a mountain lion. The one that didn’t eat me. I can’t help but wonder what it was that he said. Delightful.