City Kitty

I got word from my neighbor there’s a bobcat haunting my woodshed. Curious, I chucked a few deer skulls in there and deployed one of my game cameras to see if I could catch him when he came calling again. And what do you know…

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/d3dd86_991c618d68a2464eb5f84c0cd9d43365/720p/mp4/file.mp4

After reviewing several stills and videos—and reading a couple websites on how to sex a bobcat (not as intimate as it sounds, and yet… a little pervy)—I’m thinking we’ve got a tom on our hands. And you know what? I couldn’t be happier.

Voles

I am in an all-out war with voles. If you’re unfamiliar with these little bastards, they are like a mouse but a bit bigger and their tails have fur on them.

They are the scourge of backyards in my neighborhood. Those who have lawns will recognize a vole’s handiwork by the dead grass in looping tracks all over their yards when the snow melts away.

I have no lawn, so the voles feast on my shrubs and ground cover. Behold, here are pictures of two of my junipers in the spring.

Those things cost about $60 a piece. I was mad. I launched a campaign of terror: about a dozen traps and several deposits of poison. But they get wise to the traps surprisingly quick, and the over-the-counter rodent poisons are merely mild blood thinners. So now I’m dealing with a legion of intelligent vermin who are immune to clots.

There is a swift and deadly poison for rodents that is extremely effective, but they will only sell it to people who live on farms and ranches. You need to prove it too. I tried to get my fingers on it several times, but the folks at the UFA store (United Farmers of Alberta) were not having it. I had no trouble getting my hands on booze as a minor, but this stuff has me thwarted.

The voles have become so brazen that they will scamper gaily along my fence while we host friends for a fire in the backyard. This will happen once or twice, and guests will laugh as I stew. Then it happens a third and fourth time and I crash out, screaming and hurling firewood and axes, and folks wonder if maybe they should leave.

I’ve been trying to think of good ways to get rid of them. One natural solution that occurred to me is snakes. A large hibernaculum of garter snakes under the woodshed would fix ’em but good. My man Many-Vans has some property where he says we could source a five-gallon pail writhing with serpents on any sunny afternoon. Garter snakes are indigenous to the area, so it seems like an excellent way to level out the vole population, but my wife has a near crippling fear of snakes, and I believe this would be considered grounds for divorce.

Kill-traps, poison, and snakes might sound extreme to some readers. I’m aware that there are folk remedies for near every ailment and infestation that humanity has ever dealt with. I’m sure there’s a website curated by some hemp-wearing hippie with sound, centuries old advice: Trouble with voles in your garden? Just sprinkle leaves of jasmine and spray vinegar around the roots of your plants. This is a natural and organic solution that will let both the plants and wildlife thrive. I’m always suspicious of these benign dictums. As I said, I am at war. I do not recognize the voles’ right to exist, and I will pursue a scorched-earth policy over misguided half measures.

Cats

There is nothing like a cat.

I have a deep admiration for these killers. They engender a respect and fondness from me that I can’t quite account for. It’s often made me wonder if I’d be a cat person if I didn’t have such a violent allergy to them. I’ve been to four different allergists of varying approaches, e.g., traditional medical, chiropractic, naturopathic, immunological, etc. All four were stunned by the degree of my reaction and confessed their helplessness to mitigate it. Their collective wisdom: “You can’t be around cats. Ever.”

Though I can never be in their presence, I find these devils fascinating. I stayed a week at my buddy Mike’s place in Michigan a couple summers ago. He’s on about 100 acres around a private lake, and he has several outdoor cats, one of whom has an utterly insatiable bloodlust. He’s black, tip to tail, and they call him Smoky, but I dubbed him Toruk “Last Shadow,” and observed him with professional admiration for the entire week. I may fancy myself a hunter, but Toruk… Toruk is always on the hunt.

It was rare to catch him in action, but the evidence was all around. Every day, as we chatted with our hosts Mike and Sue about when we’d have lunch, where we’d be headed for the afternoon, and all the lazy arrangements of vacation days, Sue would also list a few places for Mike to go on corpse collection: a bird on the deck, a squirrel on the lawn, two mice in the garage (possibly three, hard to tell when there are several gruesome heaps of parts), and half of a snake on the driveway. Mike would dutifully collect all the remains, shaking his head, “There’s always something dead around here.” Like the arsonist who is compelled to observe his handiwork, Toruk would attentively monitor the collection and disposal.

He would suddenly materialize at every opportunity for murder. One morning, we found a painted turtle trapped in a window well. I showed the kids, since we don’t have those in Calgary. Toruk lingered nearby. “Sorry, Toruk” I said. “We’re putting this one back in the lake.”

One day, we had supper outside, and there was a brilliant green frog darting along the veranda. We caught it and played with it for a bit, getting a great picture of it on Abby’s shirt.

Toruk was perched on a chair, watching carefully. We set the frog loose and lost track of him. I can’t imagine Toruk did.

A born killer. I wanted one.

I have no doubt that voles, mice, squirrels, and small children, would be wholly absent from my yard if I could just have a Toruk patrolling the grounds, but it’s complicated. I live in a suburb in Calgary, not an acreage in Michigan.

Yeah, I could probably put on a hazmat suit and pick up a free cat somewhere, set it loose in my backyard, and toss a tin of Fancy Feast out there every day. But while Michigan gets a light caress from Old Man Winter, Alberta gets an iron grip. Even my black heart would feel a pang at the thought of my own little Toruk out there shivering out there in February.

What’s more, what one person calls an “outdoor pet” could be called “feral” by the self-appointed wardens of my neighborhood. It wouldn’t take a day before I’d be set upon by the Community Council of Karens, citing bylaws and airing out their concerns to the neighborhood Facebook group.

City Kitty

The bobcat is the perfect solution. After all, you gotta think it takes quite a few voles to fuel a 50-pound cat. And it’s not like I summoned him or collected him like the aforementioned Bucket O’ Serpents. He’s not my pet except in my own warped imagination, wherein I have, indeed, adopted and named him.

He’s a strictly outdoor pet, free range, and not very friendly to strangers, but I love him, nonetheless.

Kitty showed up like a gift from above one fine day. Bec met me at the door when I came home from work to tell me there’d been a bobcat in our woodshed. Bart, our neighbor, came by to let her know that he’d seen it in there a few minutes before.

I was at once elated and grief stricken. I loved the idea of a wildcat in my backyard, but I was disappointed to have missed it. I knew that there were bobcats in the area because I’d noted a set of tracks in the backyard after a frost one morning. I always look around my yard for tracks after snows and frosts. It’s a hunting instinct that I seem unable to turn off even when I’m not in the woods.

I also helpfully point out interesting critters to family, friends, and even strangers whenever I see them in the city, crying out: “Deer!” “Coyote!” “Merlin Falcon!” “Hungarian Partridge!” “Muskrat!” If no one looks or acknowledges, I call and point more emphatically. I cannot overstate how unpopular this practice is with my family and other bystanders, but it’s a compulsion no more volitional than a facial tick.

And it was a source of deep and abiding embarrassment to me that I’d not had the chance to yell out “Bobcat!,” pointing wildly at a city kitty. Hell, the neighborhood Council of Karens had been observing them for years. Now and then, they phoned the school to insist the kids have an indoor recess because a bobcat or coyote had been spotted in the area, a precaution both ludicrous and pointless yet carried through without exception.

Now, I get home minutes too late to see the cat in my own backyard. I knew that visits would be rare and furtive, and I’d missed my shot. And that’s why I pulled a camera from the woods, and I put the skulls in there in hopes of adding a tempting scent to the mix.

Ollie

Not everyone is tickled-pink to have a voracious predator in the immediate area. My neighbor, Bart, got a dog a few years back. He’s a wee little varmint named Ollie who loves to bark. My best guess is that he’s one of those combos they're drawing up these days, like... a Maltese / Yorkie / Shih Tzu, or something. But I'm sure of the terrier part. Ollie’s bark carries a note of challenge, and he exhibits the outsized tenacity of that line.

In the typical hock by jowl city plan for suburbs, I share a property line with six different people, and Bart is one. Much like my relationship with the voles, Ollie does not recognize my right to exist. If I step out on my back deck, Ollie proclaims my trespass to the whole world with his angry yipping. In fact, Ollie takes exception to anyone’s presence in any backyard in his domain, and, as I said, six shared fencelines. That’s a lot of neighbors going out to the BBQ, watering plants, or cracking a second-floor window to incite Ollie’s wrath. So, dang near every time he goes out for a whiz, Ollie’s proclaiming his zeal to defend his territory in a racket that I’m sure can be heard by any predator within a mile.

I’m thinking that Ollie has not deeply contemplated the Dark Forest Hypothesis that is often sited by people discussing the possible existence of other intelligent life in the universe. The dilemma is this: if you find yourself in a dark forest, and you are not sure if you’re alone, is it better to call out or remain silent? 

Humanity has sent communications into the abyss of space in an effort to communicate with any intelligence that might be out there. However, in the Dark Forest Hypothesis, if a hunter in a dark forest detects another hunter, the only prudent course of action is to eliminate that other hunter since one doesn’t know their intent.

Little Ollie sends his call out into the dark on a nightly basis, but how seriously has he pondered the choice before him? Has he considered who and what might hear that call? Does he realize the gravity of his situation? Bart is keenly aware of Kitty’s regular visits, so he’s vigilant. But I imagine there are times he wishes his little friend could bring himself to pee on the sly.

Wild at Heart

Chalk it up to morbid curiosity, I looked into how often bobcats eat domestic pets, and I was surprised by the result. Kitty is looking real healthy: lustrous coat, heavy limbed, well muscled. So I figured that Bart’s fears were 100% justified, and Kitty must be benefitting from some trickle-down nutrition. The pets in this neighborhood eat better than one third of the world’s population, what with the subscriptions to The Farmer’s Dog and other boutique pet foods that are essentially human grade.

Of course, there’s also the regular trips to the vet keeping these furry chums healthy and parasite free. By making a meal of family pets on the regular, I’m sure these city kitties could have a long and healthy life beyond the imagination of their wild ancestors. And with 60% of Canadian households having pets… what a bounty.

But there have been studies on the stomach contents and scat of city bobcats, and it looks like pets only make up about 2% of their diet. The studies span North America, and bobcats seem to prefer wild prey, like the massive hares that roam the streets in packs here in Hidden Valley. These guys can be quite the pest themselves, and I’ve lost greenery to them too. Though, unlike voles, I think I’ve got them beat.

Two Amusing Rabbit Trails About Hares

First things first: the entire rabbit versus hare thing is insane. Jackrabbits are not rabbits at all; they are hares. Belgian Hares are not hares; they are rabbits. And though we think of them as similar, the genetic difference between hares and rabbits is just as vast as the difference between cats and dogs. They can’t even interbreed because of a different number of chromosomes. Despite knowing that, I often call jackrabbits rabbits even though I know they aren’t because everybody else does too. If that’s confusing in the following anecdotes, don’t hate the player; hate the game.

My beef with bunnies began and ended very swiftly. When I had a lawn in my front and backyard with no trees or bushes, I observed the neighborhood gang of rabbits with mild interest and amusement. But in the summer of 2019, I had my yard professionally landscaped.

I have strong opinions about grass, and I despised having a lawn. My allergies give me fits when I mow, but I also dislike lawns on principle. We mow them and dispose of clippings, and that seems inefficient. I always liked the idea of getting ground cover and trees that are indigenous to the area, thus needing less watering and tending in general.

With the Great Landscaping Project of 2019, I attained my dream of a yard oriented around a large firepit with a lot of stone, shrubs, trees, and zero grass.

The overhaul cost me a pretty penny, and the greenery was a significant portion of that cost. I listened carefully to my landscapers about how and when to water and prune each tree and shrub. I made notes. I printed off a sheet; it’s still pinned by the door in the walkout basement. I was serious about getting the fresh saplings off to a good start. And though I had yet to learn of the scourge of voles headed my way, I was savvy to the hares.

There are mesh cages around newly planted shrubs all over Hidden Valley. It’s well known that the hares will eat the new shoots till the fresh shrubs are dead sticks. And though our new fence in the backyard was formidable, I was not satisfied it was rabbit proof.

“Look,” I said to my head landscaper as he prepared to leave my backyard for the last time (it’d been a month-long project), “I’m just concerned about the rabbits getting back here and eating all these sweet young trees and shrubs.”

“You’re totally fenced in.”

“Right. And it’s horse-high, bull-strong, but it ain’t exactly pig-tight, as they say, is it?”

“What?”

“The swale. It’s like an interstate for rabbits.” I pointed to the concrete trough that runs along my back fence. It’s about 18” wide and 12” deep, and this drainage system connects every yard in the area. It leaves triangular gaps between the bottom of everyone’s fence and the swale’s lowest point.

“I don’t think they’re going to come through there. Pretty small.”

“Dude, they can fit through a hole the size of a softball. I guarantee you they can shoot that gap without slowing down.”

“But would they?”

“I can’t profess to know the minds of hares, but, look here. This tree’s been chewed already.” I pointed to the young Amur Maple that Bec had said she’d like to have. The only non-indigenous plant and the one piece of flora that she’d requested in the whole yard, making it the one I was most concerned with protecting. It was missing two strips of bark at the bottom of the tree. The bare patches weren’t very big, but together they made nearly half the circumference of the trunk, and it was likely a fatal wound. “They love that young bark. This tree’s pretty much girdled. I’m thinking it’s going to die.”

“You think that’s chewing?”

“Yeah.”

“Looks, more like… maybe one of the guys hit it with a spade.”

“‘K, which would mean you guys still replace it. Yeah?”

“Of course.”

“But I still think we need to do something about the swale.”

“If you want, I can try to maybe… put some mesh there? But I’m telling you, the rabbits can’t get in here.”

“Dad,” Levi said. He’d been standing quietly beside me through the whole exchange, and now he tugged on my pant leg.

“Yeah, buddy?”

“There’s a rabbit here right now.” He pointed at one of the raised flower beds, which were still vacant of any greenery.

There, sitting squarely in the middle of a black patch of dirt, was a jackrabbit. He was a mature one. Bigger than a house cat. They fold their ears back along their body and crouch perfectly still. Your eye skips over them, the mind automatically assessing it as a stone or something, and you don’t see a tan-colored rabbit the size of a crockpot 15 feet away with no cover to conceal it.

My landscaper just sighed, and said, “Seriously?” This was directed at the rabbit.

“So…” I said, “there’s that.”

“Yeah, I’ll… I’ll cut some grating and we’ll put it between the swale and the fence.”

I have not had a rabbit back there since. I know this for a fact. I check for tracks.

Second Rabbit Trail: On Size

If you don’t live in a neighborhood with hares, you might think I’m exaggerating the size, but they are truly enormous. Indeed, their size is so unnatural that I once told an utterly preposterous lie as an explanation for their enormity, and I think I may have pulled it off.

I was buying some books at a local thrift store, and the cash out was near a window. While I fished out my credit card, two of those freakish jackalopes gamboled past on the strip of lawn bordering the store, one pausing to nibble the grass right in front of us.

“Gosh, those rabbits are big,” the cashier said.

“I know,” I said. “Naturally, they should only be about half that size.”

“Probably lots of good grass around here, eh?”

“Certainly, there’s the rich feed, clover and dandelion in the parks, shrubs in the neighborhoods, and so on. But they’ve also been crossbreeding with the whitetail deer in Nose Hill Park.”

She smiled, and said, “Yeah, right.”

I looked up, credit card halfway to the swiper, pausing in mid air. “I’m dead serious,” I said.

“What?” she said. “With… with deer?”

“That’s right.”

“But… that’s, like, impossible.”

“From what I read, the biologists at Environment Canada thought so too, but… DNA don’t lie.”

“Their just… not the same animal though.”

“Definitely a couple branches removed on the ol’ taxonomy tree. But… just look at that monster,” I said, inclining my head toward the rabbit innocently munching the quack grass. “How else can you account for the sheer size of them?”

“I just… deer?”

“Right? Nature is…” I stared into the middle distance “…well, it’s full of mystery and wonder, isn’t it?” I swiped my card. “Anyway, thanks. Have a great day,” I said, and left with my books.

I saw in my peripherals that she kept staring at the rabbit. I like to hope that little tidbit made it into neighborhood lore.

Back to Predators

Anywho, while they’re plentiful (and plenty big) those hares are cagey and fast, much more difficult to ambush than your average Bichon Frise. And it seems to me that city bobcats are walking past a richly laden buffet. But they are highly principled predators, preferring the thrill of the hunt to an easy kill.

Of course, I had to tug on this thread, and I started looking up articles and studies on other city predators. Surprisingly enough, coyotes exhibit this wild preference as well with only 20% of their diet coming from domestic pets. To be clear, coyotes are still a very real menace to dear old Sir Ruffs A Lot. We know there’s at least a half dozen coyotes working the Hidden Valley circuit (again, the Cabal of Karens on Facebook are nothing if not vigilant), and that’s six real fast metabolisms requiring sustenance. Even with only 20% of their diet coming from pets, that’s a heavy weekly tax on the fur babies.

Little Ollie actually got nabbed by a coyote while Bart was walking him a couple months ago. Ollie was lagging behind, and Bart turned around to see a coyote had him by the scruff. Bart yanked on the leash and chased it off, but it was a near thing for our vocal little friend.

That boldness is why I was shocked to see the number down at 20%. I thought coyotes would be much higher than that. But don’t worry, we still have our top competitor to consider.

Where do urban cougars figure into this equation? Turns out their diet is 50-60% domestic pets. Now, that’s the kind of numbers I was anticipating. They say a cougar in the wild eats about a deer per week. So, with a little back of the napkin math, your average deer’s around 120 pounds, and about half of that is being made up by family pets every week… you’re looking at about one cockapoo per day to meet that nutritional quota.

We never see cougars—though when we do, it’s terrifying (see Cougar Calling by Adam Schnell)—but they are more numerous than you’d think, and they have no qualms about living within the city limits, and they’ve got North America covered. If you live east of the 100^th meridian, you may have cougars. If you live west of it, you do have cougars.

My favorite example of this is the infamous P-22. The name given to a cougar that was collared and tracked to study urban behavior of mountain lions. This brute was living in Griffith Park in LA; that's the iconic "Hollywood" sign in the background. That park is surrounded in every direction by miles and miles of city suburbs.

Note on this pic: the taxonomic name for a cougar is puma concolor. P-22 is shorthand for “Puma number 22.” So just how many pumas are working the burbs?

Yes, when you look at the satellite image, you can see how one spur of wilderness and green spaces connects to this park. But if you think for a second about how we build cities, you’ll note that it’s usually along rivers and drainage systems that link to the countryside beyond the city borders, making thoroughfares for wildlife into the center of urban areas. So you might have double digits of pumas in your town too.

I can’t imagine how many doggies this guy had in his day. There must have been hundreds of pictures of beloved pets taped to streetlights with the words “Have you seen me?” typed beneath to which P-22 could say: Yes, indeed I have.

My Kitty

As for my Kitty, I’m hoping he sticks around. I’m going to keep furnishing the woodshed with deer skulls both fresh and old. Not only do I like leaving toys out for Kitty, but I’m also running out of good spaces for them. While Bec is very supportive of my bow hunting, she’s not what you’d call an animal skull enthusiast.

For awhile it seemed like Kitty had abandoned this part of his range, I didn’t see him for months. It had me worried, and I was eagerly checking the game camera every week, leaping to the window when I heard the magpies set up an alarm. The video above marked his return, and it was a great relief.

Why am I fixated (bordering on obsessed) with this cat? It may be a predator thing. I bow hunt. I love the thrill of the stalk, the hiss of the arrow, and the sizzle of the meat I personally harvested from the woods. And Kitty? Well, Kitty is a pure predator, every cell from tail to tooth made up of the meat of other animals. That’s all Kitty does all day long: find critters, kill them, and eat them. He’s a marvel.