NASCAR, WILDCATS AND KINFOLK
Don Lively

Down at our family gathering place, The Pond, there hangs on one of the pavilions, the shiny pelt of a bobcat, or lynx, depending on what part of the country you live in. It is perfectly preserved and adorns the building closest to the fishing hole. What follows is a somewhat factual account of how that fur came to be there.

One Sunday afternoon, after the race was over, we left cousin Steve's shop, also known as NASCAR central, and made our way to The Pond. The group consisted of me, brothers Urb and Willie, and cousins Uncle Mike and Steve. Before I proceed you need to understand that the group has three distinct personalities. On one end are Willie, Uncle Mike and Steve, none of whom are comfortable sitting around doing nothing. They enjoy working even on their off time, a disorder that Urb on the other hand does not suffer from. He can make a sleeping bloodhound look like a tornado. I am somewhere in the middle. I don't mind not working, but I like to be busy, playing.

As soon as we got there the three worker bees began some project while Urb took a chair near the fire ring. I walked to the edge of the woods intending to take a short hike. I glanced up and saw a large bobcat sitting in the crook of a sweet gum tree. I got excited and yelled for Urb to come see it. He didn't move and yelled that he could see it fine from his vantage point. I picked up an old cane pole that was lying nearby and began teasing the animal with it. Urb, watching from his perch, yelled at me to leave it alone, but I was having an adventure I'd never experienced before. How often do you see a wildcat up close? Once too often as it turned out. Without warning the cat sprang from the limb directly onto my head and attached itself! I hadn't planned for this eventuality. The force knocked me to the ground and I began to try to pry the beast off of my scalp all the while yelling for my kinsmen to come assist me. Even though I had my hands full I could vaguely make out the conversation among them. I heard Willie yell, "What is he doing now?" and heard Urb reply, "He's messing around with some cat he found." He added, "I told him to leave it alone." He never left his seat. I managed to uncover one eye and could see them all staring at me in disgust. I'd interrupted the threesomes labor and Urb's recreation all because I was curious about wildlife. After what seemed like hours, Urb set down his refreshment, stubbed out his Kent and ambled over to where I was engaged in mortal struggle with the creature. Willie and the cousins also arrived, and as they always do, began to discuss the best way to handle the current situation. One wanted to shoot the cat, something I strenuously objected to. Another wanted to smack it with the wood maul, another option that did not excite me due to the close proximity of the cat to my cranium. Finally, Willie took charge. He told Urb to grab a boat paddle and get ready. He grabbed the lynx by its back legs and with a mighty heave ripped it off of me. He slung the animal toward Urb who was prepared. Urb swung the paddle at the cat and made a direct hit. A line drive into a nearby palm tree. The cat fell to the ground out cold. Steve walked over to the limp feline, toed it with his boot and pronounced it dead. Uncle Mike came over to where I was laying in the dirt. He took a minute to check me over and, seeing that, though I was bloody and torn, I was not seriously injured, he said in his most sympathetic voice, "If you're finished goofing off we'll get back to work now." Within minutes, while I lay there recovering, I could hear them fussing about nails, or screws, something important like that. They like arguing more than they like working. Urb had reclaimed his post. I was left there with the carcass and immediately decided that I would make a trophy of my assailant and that's exactly what I did. That's how the skin became a part of the décor at The Pond.

Okay, I did state that this is a "somewhat factual" account of what happened. You can decide how much is true. But some things are indisputable, such as, I've only been back in the South for a little over a year and these boys already have me watching NASCAR, skinning road kill and telling tall tales.

It's good to be home.

Don Lively is a retired police officer and freelance writer. He spends his time between Shell Bluff and Charleston. Send comments or questions to Livelycolo@aol.com.