Through Cougar's Eyes: Life Lessons from One Man's Best Friend - Hardcover

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RESCUING IS NEVER PLANNED

COUGAR’S STORY BEGINS without me … .

It was frosty late September on a northern Wisconsin farm midway between Eau Claire and Wausau. Brisk weather isn’t so bad when you’re cozy and warm. But an eighteen-by-thirty-foot chain-link cage with only a small, makeshift wooden enclosure to help block upcoming winter winds was the home provided for a pair of cougars. Certainly not cozy, but most would say that’s not important. In a smaller cage there was a solitary black bear who wailed as corn rippled in the distance and cows ruminated, breath streaming from warm, moist nostrils, which dissipated into the evening stillness. At least no one was starving.

These animals were caged for one reason, breeding. Their cubs would supplement the meager farm income of Dean, Joyce, and their fourteen-year-old son.

Of the two cougars, Nigel was a handsomely regal cat, tawny in color just like a deer, with golden eyes. His mustache, his ears, and the tip of his tail were coal black; his muzzle, chin, and chest were bright as snow. The contrasting mustache and muzzle are distinguishing characteristics of cougars, mountain lions, pumas, and panthers. Nigel was seven years old and weighed more than 300 pounds. He was mammoth by mountain lion standards, though 25 percent of his weight was the fat of inactivity. He’d weigh a trim 250 stalking and capturing prey, but here all he had to do was devour the road-killed deer or slaughtered cows heaved into his cage. Even if he was hungry, which was seldom, Nigel would wait for his mate, Sabrina, to finish eating; then he’d polish off what was left, which was enough to keep his paunch swinging just inches from the ground.

Sabrina, who was five years old, weighed a much trimmer 125 pounds, which was still large for a female. She had smooth, graceful lines and soft eyes. Cougar females look identical to the males except for being smaller, but this autumn evening Sabrina was bulging. Ninety-three days ago she and Nigel had mated, and now it was time to bear her young.

On Dean and Joyce’s farm, both humans and cats just existed. Granted, Nigel and Sabrina were well fed. Their owners weren’t hungry either, but extravagances like a recreational vehicle, a boat, or a motorcycle (except for a rusty, inoperable hand-me-down leaning silently against the barn wall) were all but nonexistent, except in dreams. And dreams ran rampant, because Sabrina was about to deliver three to four furry bundles of tawny fur with dark brown spots, ringed tails, and azure eyes.

It was early evening on September 29, 1990, when Sabrina knew it was time. Nigel recognized that something was up, for Sabrina was uncharacteristically standoffish and didn’t tolerate his being close, which in the cage was everywhere.

Though Nigel was more than twice Sabrina’s size, he honored her wish for solitude. He tried to melt into the corner, lay down, watched, and waited. It wasn’t long before Sabrina sought the privacy of the enclosure. Shortly thereafter, minute cheeping noises emerged from inside. Nigel was curious; after all, the scent was his. But when he approached, Sabrina lashed out with a vengeance.

Dean and Joyce heard the commotion and quickly bolted from the farmhouse. This was it: payday! Dean knew what to do. He grabbed a rope, tied it into a noose, hastened over to the cage door, unlatched it, and stepped through. After closing the chain-link door behind him, he walked slowly over to Nigel, who didn’t mind being led around on a rope. Dean slipped the loop over Nigel’s head, tightened the noose, and led him from the cage to an enclosure so small that Nigel had difficulty turning around.

Over the next several days, Nigel watched from his casketlike retreat as Sabrina and her kittens were on display. She was uncomfortable. In her fishbowl existence she nervously groomed her family, as neighbors came by to gawk. But she wasn’t the only one tending to others.

Dean was calling potential clients, people interested in buying mountain lion cubs for three hundred and fifty bucks each. Dean wished Sabrina had more offspring, but three was better than none. At least after paying their most critical bills, he could get that fishing rod, or buy Joyce a bracelet, or their son that .22 rifle. Thankfully, Nigel and Sabrina caused little expense.

Deer hit on the road or slaughtered cows sufficed as food. And there were no veterinary bills. After all, there were no doctors in the wild. The boy did much of the feeding and cage cleaning after school. All Dean had to do, other than the unending farmwork, was sell the animals.

Dean had heard about a pet dealer from Indianapolis who dealt in exotic animals. That summer, after discovering that Sabrina was pregnant, Dean had called him. The dealer was particularly excited about the timing of a “Christmas cub.” And there was a private individual in North Carolina who was interested in another. That was two. Dean knew it was common, for newborn cubs to die, but he lined up a third potential buyer just in case all three survived. It was unwise to count chickens before they hatched or mountain lions before they were shipped. And sometimes even shipping didn’t mean he got his money.

Twelve days later it was time for Joyce to be a surrogate mother, time these two little guys and one gal were beginning to open their eyes. So Dean heaved a recently killed deer into the corner of Sabrina’s cage. He knew she would be hungry. She glanced at the carcass, stared as if waiting for it to move, then got up, stretched, yawned, and strolled over to it.

Joyce cautiously entered the cage. Without once taking her eyes off Sabrina, she eased her way to the opening of the enclosure. Three squirming kittens lay inside. She quickly snatched all three. They screeched in defiance. Sabrina paused, then continued eating. Joyce quickly let herself out of the cage, feeling much better on the other side of the door. She knew that if these cubs survived, something would forever haunt them—a persistent longing for something soft and warm to suckle, especially when menaced. Then they would mound up whatever was available, and pretend to nurse in order to feel comfortable again.

Joyce felt a twinge of guilt but knew these kittens were for humans. The more their mom taught them, the more catlike they would become. So Joyce fought her feelings, thinking instead about the money. For the next six weeks she would cradle and bottle-feed the cubs cow’s milk—would be their mother until they were sold.

Dean had always marked cattle by cutting a triangle from each animal’s ear. Thinking there was little difference between cattle and cats, Dean walked over to the kitchen drawer, grabbed a pair of large scissors, stepped up to the cubs’ makeshift corrugated cardboard home, and proceeded to notch the left ear of each kitten. They squirmed, then screamed. Outside, Sabrina looked up and froze.

This process of tending to their investment continued for a month and a half until the pet merchant from Indianapolis called. Both Dean and Joyce knew it was too soon to transport the cubs. They needed to be weaned, and that would take at least two more weeks. It was even against federal regulations to ship cubs less than eight weeks old. But Dean and Joyce weren’t licensed. They couldn’t lose a license they didn’t have. Besides, who would know? These cubs were their property and the pet merchant had money … and their unpaid bills were as stifling as the scent of manure, so Dean checked on the next flight to Indianapolis.

Joyce walked out to the shed, dusted off a...