MOUNTAIN LION LADY: Chapter 5 (first half)

Print from hind paw of male lion

A-stalking We Will Go!

The project for my master's thesis involved capturing, marking and measuring wild mountain lions. The procedure sounds quite simple on paper: find a fresh lion track, turn three or four hounds loose on it, follow the hounds' baying (Chuck, the third houndsman I worked with, stressed quite strongly that I never speak of a hound barking!), locate the treed cat, immobilize it with a dart gun, mark it, take blood samples and measurements, and skedaddle. In practice it was never that straightforward. 

After the laborious groundwork (find out from game wardens, ranchers, etc. where the highest density of mountain lions are in the state and pick a reasonable-sized project area within that range, choose parameters to measure that might change with age (looking towards my Ph.D. project), gather equipment, select an experienced person with hounds trained to hunt mountain lions, carry out public relations with locals in the project area, find or set up a base from which to operate, and so on), we arrived in the sleepy little mountain town of Victor that was once the scene of boom-or-bust mining and would later become the scene of destination gambling. A salty character named Ray was chosen to be the houndsman.

Ray always had a good yarn to tell, often from his army days during the war when he was a cook. One of my favorite stories was about a ne'er-do-well who often landed in Ray's kitchen for KP duty. One day practically the whole company came down with the trots making a visit from the health inspectors necessary. Ray was indignant and exonerated because nothing could be found. By the time the inspectors had written up their report everyone had recovered, so the cause was marked "unknown". The unfortunate ne'er-do-well who had hovered anxiously in the background during the inspection approached Ray timidly.

"Promise ya won't bust me if I tell yer something?" he asked.

Ray eyed him suspiciously but agreed not to.

"I was a-stirrin' the stew when I 'membered I hadn't washed mah hands so I did it real quick, a-tryin' to keep stirrin' but the soap fell in an' I couldn't get 'er out so's I just stirred 'er up real good."

We had a nice field camp established in what was sort of the front yard of an old miner's cabin. We had two small trailers set up, one for me and one for Ray (and my advisor when he visited). We had all the comforts of home, sort of. We had gas heat, soft beds and electricity but no running water. For electricity we had extension cords running to the porch light on the cabin. For water we had five gallon cans that we could fill from the cabin.

Summer view from outhouse door

View through outhouse gaps

For toileting facilities we had an outhouse nearby with a view. It was perched about 20 yards from the trailers on a little hill. The schoolhouse was situated on a neighboring hill and the town's main street stretched out in front from the bottom of our hill. Since it was winter the boards didn't fit snugly so it was well ventilated plus we had a view of the schoolyard and the main street. For bathing facilities we had to have the cooperation of the cabin's resident, a young mining engineer named John. If Ray or I wanted to schedule a shower we would make arrangements with John to stoke up his wood-burning stove in the morning so the big tank of water attached to it would be warm by evening. After supper (John often joined us) Ray or I would trot over to his cabin, soap and towel in hand. We were fortunate that John was a good-humored chap. He had twinkling eyes and an impressive chin bush.

One evening when John wasn't home I went into his cabin to use his shower. I startled a huge tabby cat who careened around the room, knocking things every which way until he escaped out the front door. Later I asked John about his skittish cat.

"What cat?" was his puzzled reply.

We first arrived in the icy month of December. The wind whipped the snow from the ridges as soon as it fell and piled it deep in the valleys. Bears have the right idea in that country - they hibernate from late fall until early spring. That was part of the reason we were venturing forth at that inhospitable time of the year. Most lion hounds would rather follow a bear than a lion. I guess bears are a lot smellier than lions. The best time of year to catch lions is when bears are out of the way. In spite of our timing we ended up treeing a few bears and believe me, bears are not sober citizens when they are treed! The have tempers that would try a saint! Another reason lions are usually hunted in the winter is tracks. It's easier to spot a track in the snow than on dry ground.

The plan was to spend a week scouting the territory then begin looking for lions in earnest after Christmas. A lot of snow had fallen the first couple of weeks in December, more than twice the usual amount. It was difficult to move around on the back roads even with our four-wheeled drive so we resolved to bring snowmobiles back with us after Christmas.

Our trailers had been set up when the weather was still mild in the fall and were winterized and ready for us when we got there. I arrived with my graduate adviser Ken the day before Ray. Ken excelled in remembering people's names, diplomacy and giving his students space to learn for themselves. Ken and I were rank beginners in the lion-tracking business so Ray took us out to show us the ropes. We started by walking down the road, scanning the sides for lion sign.

"I found one! This looks like a lion track," Ken shouted gleefully from his side of the road.

"We-ahl," said Ray with a twinkle in his eye as he straightened up after examining the track, "I b'lieve that was a mighty small lion. It looks to me like a mouse hop."

We had arranged for a helicopter to fly Ray over the study area after we got back from the Christmas break. He talked the rancher who owned the land where our trailers were parked, Ed, into coming along to point out various features of the terrain. I would have given my eye teeth to go along but there was no room.

Ray slyly volunteered to make breakfast the morning before his grand adventure. We were served scrambled eggs with what looked like little chunks of cheese. It tasted just fine. After breakfast Ray chuckled and explained he had wanted to use up the eggs left over from before Christmas. I thought he was kidding. He wasn't. The eggs had frozen and the thawed hardened yolks were what we had thought were cheese chunks. He was tickled to have put one over on us and been economical at the same time. We suffered no ill effects but I vowed to be less trusting of what he served us after this. Unfortunately I wasn't to get much of a chance.

The helicopter arrived at the helipad in good time and we took Ray and a very wan Ed out to meet it. Ray claimed to be a bomber pilot after his time as an army cook and was looking forward to the day with relish. Ed didn't really trust anything that left the ground except chickens. He had only consented to the trip because his buddies had been razzing him.

While Ray and Ed were flying Ken and I scouted around a bit then Ken suggested I practice using the tree climbers. A tree climber is a wicked-looking, sharpened steel bar with straps to hold it onto the leg and a short bar for stability under the foot. Equipped with one climber on each leg, a heavy belt around the waist with an attachment that goes around the tree, a person is ready to climb a tree, Ken says. I strapped the works on, walked bow-legged to the tree to keep from planting the sharpened points in the ground, joined the tree trunk to myself with the extra strap, and slowly ascended. It was kind of fun and gave me a feeling of accomplishment! The only problem was the weight. I was going to be packing around a fair amount of equipment and the climbers were heavy!

We met the returning helicopter and were told the flight was uneventful. Ed had a little extra swagger in his step when he stepped down. He had no desire to repeat the performance but I'm sure he let his buddies know that he had actually done it while they had only talked about it.

The troubles that were to plague us the rest of the season started the next day.

PET WORDS

Summer is almost here and lots of baby animals are being born. Would you like to adopt a pet? The word "adopt" comes from two Latin words meaning "to choose" and "pet" comes from the French word petit which means small and is used as a term of endearment. But which pet? Perhaps a puppy. The dog days of summer are in August when the Dog Star, Sirius, is in ascendancy. Some unusual names for dogs from history and fiction include Bulova the Watchdog, Bridgette Bar-dog, and Virginia Woof. Another Virginia, Virginia Graham, once said "Say something idiotic and nobody but a dog politely wags his tail."

A cat or kitten is another choice for adoption. Saki in Tobermory stated, "Cats, those wonderful creatures which have assimilated themselves so marvelously with our civilization while retaining all their highly developed feral instincts." Some cats have retained more feral instincts than others. Many people complain about the number of birds cats kill each year but few complain about the rats and mice similarly exterminated. Unless the mouse or rat is a pet.

"Rats!" is an exclamation of disgust due to the animal's reputation and we say someone looks ratty if they are unkempt. The white rats I've known have been very fastidious although with a strong natural odor. This odor tells a cat when a rat is near and thus to smell a rat means to suspect foul play.

Hunt and Peck

Speaking of fowls, my mother kept two chickens as pets to keep the bugs and caterpillars down in her garden. They were so spoiled they waited at the back door for her to come out to weed or pick vegetables before they would venture into the garden. One might say they were chicken, a term that has been applied to people as early as 1633 to denote a coward. A chick on the other hand is an attractive young woman and a woman no longer young might be referred to as no spring chicken, both phrases dating from the early 1800's. Aesop's Fables gave us the cautionary "Don't count your chickens before they hatch!"

Several types of pets hatch from eggs. Parakeets and canaries are very popular, particularly with people who live in apartments or are allergic to fur. In a graceful haiku poem Masaoka Shiki stated: "When my canary flew away
                                                  That was the end of spring in my house."

The canary was introduced into Europe in the late 16th century from (where else?) the Canary Islands. It is much loved for its sweet song. In the late 19th century a canary was slang for a female singer and later came to denote an informer. Another term for an informer is "stool pigeon" which probably comes in a roundabout way from the French "estale pigeon", a pigeon used to lure a hawk. It first just meant a decoy but later came to be applied to a man who hung around on a stool in a bar picking up gossip as an informer. "Pigeon" in the early 20th century meant a young woman (remember in the Walt Disney movie Tramp called Lady "Pigeon"?). Now it means a dupe.

Snakes also hatch from eggs and some people are quite attached to them. Most slang terms that come from snake references are negative. "Snake oil" refers to the supposed ability of a snake to deceive and became popular around 1925 in the U.S. It refers to a patent medicine of dubious efficacy. A snake in the grass is a deceitful person. Virgil mentioned danger in the form of a snake in the grass in Eclogues ("Latet anguis in herba.") A parallel phrase in the 16th century was a pad in the straw. "Pad" is an old English word for "toad" (the term padlock came into being because it was a lock shaped like a toad) and a toad is poisonous if you try to eat it. A colorful Southern idiom to describe a person of low morals is "lower than a snake's belly in a wagon rut!". "Snake eyes" on the other hand means throwing two one pips when rolling dice which usually isn't a bad thing.

Pets help put all of our thoughts and ideas in perspective. Stephen Hawking conveys his view about humanity in the following story:
     A few years ago, the city council of Monza, Italy, barred pet owners from           keeping goldfish in curved bowls...saying it is cruel to keep a fish in a bowl         with curved sides because, gazing out, the fish would have a distorted view       of reality. But how do we know we have the true, undistorted picture of             reality?

Pets help keep us sane even if our view of the world is possibly skewed!

MOUNTAIN LION LADY: Chapter 4 (second half)

The fireplace later indirectly caused another problem. I loved the fact that the apartment had a fireplace. A log fire can make everything seem so cozy! My problem was wood: pre-cut logs were expensive and I had no way to cut my own. One afternoon as I was driving home from grocery shopping I saw a nice pile of boards in a vacant lot topped by a lopsided "free" sign. Boards are not as inviting as logs but they burn just as well so I happily loaded up the trunk and headed for home, congratulating myself on my find. I piled the wood in the back of my rather spacious closet, saving just enough out for a cheery fire that evening.

About a week later I caught myself scratching some terribly itchy little red bumps around my ankles. I didn't think much of it at the time. I was quite accustomed to mosquito bites and didn't stop to think it might be too chilly for mosquitoes.

The bumps didn't go away - they multiplied! An occasional one was appearing elsewhere on my body. To my horror I suddenly realized what the problem was. Bedbugs! In my opinion they are even worse than cockroaches because they are lurk around nearby and crawl on you while you sleep! Cockroaches at least have the decency to stay hidden.

It didn't take long for me to figure out they must have arrived as free boarders on the free boards! I had a whopping big bonfire that night and fiendishly hoped many of them sizzled. I knew they had probably spread elsewhere in the apartment so the next day I called my landlord and tried to sound indignant when I told him the apartment had bedbugs.

"Bedbugs? I think you mean cockroaches. We sometimes have problems with cockroaches."

"I'm pretty sure they're bedbugs."

I held my breath expecting him to ask where they came from, knowing I would have to tell him, but he didn't. The idea that there might be bedbugs in his converted Victorian house was just too foreign to him. In a couple of days a fumigator arrived and solved the bedbug and non-existent cockroach problem.

Several years later bedbugs again became a problem. Gray, Julie and I were airstrip hopping around Baja California in a plane that belonged to her flying club. This was before the highway extended all the way south on the peninsula. Julie had a very detailed pilot's guidebook to Baja ("... thirty feet down the airstrip is a prairie dog hole on the left side ..."). The book informed us that if we buzzed the little village of Bahia Tortuga the local taxi would come out to the airstrip. We tried it and it worked! We had camped on the beaches in many places but there was no beach for miles around this village. We asked the taxi driver to take us to the town's only motel.

"Sorry," he informed us. "Is full with soccer team."

A team from Mexico proper had come over to play the local team, taking all the available rooms in the motel. It was too late to fly on to someplace else since none of the airstrips were paved or had lights and night was fast approaching. We, or rather Gray (the only Spanish I knew was "Buenos dias!"; Julie knew a little more as a New Mexican doctor and could ask "Tiene doloro aqui?" ("Does it hurt here?"), but neither of us spoke as much as Gray) asked the driver if there were any other accommodations in town.

"Si!" he readily answered. "A lady in town takes in visitors."

We bumped over the road that was more potholes than cobbles. We were met at the house by a tiny little dumpling of a woman with fiery orange hair and no teeth. Gray in halting Spanish explained our situation to her.

"Si, si I have room" she said loudly in Spanish thinking perhaps that if she spoke loudly enough maybe even Julie and I would understand her.

Her house consisted of five small cinder block buildings around three sides of a dusty courtyard. She directed us to one of the middle buildings when we asked her where we would stay. If it was too terrible we figured we could camp out next to the plane and leave at dawn. The room turned out to be a drab tin-roofed structure with one window, one naked light bulb hanging down, and quite a number of beds. The floor looked like it was probably dirt. She assured us that the sheets would be fresh so we agreed upon a price after a bit of haggling.

Still smiling broadly the woman summoned her granddaughter, a cute, plump little girl of about ten. She was instructed to take us to one of the town's two cafes for supper while the room was prepared. We didn't seem to have a choice in the matter. The restaurant was owned by the grandmother's sister.

After a tasty meal of locally-caught fish we wandered back. The little girl met us on the road. She had changed her clothes in honor of the occasion and was now wearing a fresh, brightly-colored dress. Smiling and chattering in Spanish too fast for Gray to follow she took us to our room. To our surprise the floor was not dirt but concrete! We noticed a pitcher of water and basin on the dresser but saw no sign of sanitary facilities. Using his best textbook Spanish Gray inquired about them. His question was met with a puzzled stare. The little girl fetched her grandmother and Gray repeated the question. It was met with a broad, uncomprehending smile. Finally Gray tried some of the childish slang he had picked up on the coast of Spain: "Where's the potty?"

The little girl cast her eyes down and giggled behind her quickly-raised hand. Granny guffawed outright. At least they understood! The little girl gathered up a broom and rooted around in one of the buildings. She returned triumphantly with a new roll of toilet paper and beckoned us to follow.

We were led down a rocky little path past the church to a spot overlooking the sea. There perched on top of a 15-foot bank stood an outhouse. She held up her hand for us to stop about ten feet away and went in to the tiny structure. Newspapers, pages from magazines and the inevitable dirt came flying out. She handed Gray the toilet paper and proudly held the door open for us to see. At least there were enough cracks in the walls to keep a brisk sea breeze blowing through but the place was aromatic to say the least. We graciously (I hope) but hurriedly thanked her and she made sure we understood we had to bring the precious roll of toilet paper back with us.  After she left we one by one made use of the facilities. There weren't going to be any midnight visits if we could help it!

Our room looked very clean and the sheets on our beds were brand new but we were afraid the conditions were ideal for bedbugs. During my ordeal with bedbugs in Berkeley I had read extensively about the little beasts. One article had suggested that they wouldn't come out in the daylight so we decided to leave the lone light on all night just in case. We slept a bit fitfully until about 
11 pm when the room plunged into darkness! We waited a bit to see if it was a mistake. It wasn't. We later found out the town's generators were always shut off at 11 pm. We uneasily went back to sleep.

We had learned when travelling to keep a flashlight handy so when Julie yelled "I've got one! I've got one!" several hours later Gray and I fumbled for our flashlights. She held up her tightly-clenched fingers for inspection but all that was there was a little piece of lint. We returned to our uneasy sleep.

The next morning we checked our ankles. Nothing! I had found out some of the bites didn't become itchy until they were scratched so I rubbed my arms and legs. Still nothing! We headed off to the cafe for breakfast, bleary-eyed but jubilant. 

I had hoped that would be my last experience with bedbugs but alas it hasn't been. But I did have a 15-year break.

After my first quarter at Berkeley I was faced with several major decisions. Did I want to aim for a Ph.D. in neurophysiology at Berkeley and end up working in a lab or should I follow my heart back to Colorado and wildlife biology. Neurophysiology certainly seemed more prestigious. But there was one additional bonus for my heart in Colorado: Gray. He was studying engineering there and had asked me to marry him. Wildlife and wedding bells won out so at the end of three quarters I packed my belongings and Harley and I headed back.

After arranging to be admitted into graduate school as an unfunded wildlife student in the fall Harley and I drove down to Albuquerque where Julie lived and was completing her internship in medicine. Dependable Julie again agreed to cat-sit for me while I flew back to Illinois where my 96-year-old grandmother lived with my aunt and uncle. She was not able to travel but was a very important part of my life so we had decided to take the wedding to her. There were lots of wedding plans to be made.

Julie agreed to keep Harley for the month before the wedding then planned to bring her to Colorado in a private plane, leave her with friends, pick up our father and stepmother and fly them to the wedding in Illinois. Carrying cages were not as ubiquitous as they are now so I constructed my own for Harley using cardboard and screening. It looked quite substantial with two layers of cardboard and the screen between them with a few cut-out holes.

Julie reported to me the rest of the story. Harley rode in the carrier quite calmly to the airport but her serenity evaporated when they entered the busy flight service office. In a minute flat she was out of the box and ricocheting around the room. It was a bit like trying to grab a porcupine but Julie managed to catch her and put the harness on. Then she walked over to the air freight shipping lines and bought a real carrying cage that was guaranteed to withstand the escape attempts of cats like Harley. Once in the air Harley became accustomed to the noise and seemed to settle down. She satisfied herself with stretching her paw through the bars every once in a while to give Julie a tap on the shoulder, reminding her of her presence. As if Julie could forget! For a long time after Julie was known at the flight service center as the woman with the cat.

Without much further ado Harley landed in Colorado a second time. None of us suspected that in a few short years she would become a cat with cougar experience!

MOUNTAIN LION LADY: Chapter 4 (first half)

Problems with Neutrality

Mut had been very special so I didn't want my next cat (for me there will always be a "next cat") to in any way replace his memory. I answered an ad in the paper and adopted an adventuresome little pastel calico kitten. Neither she nor I knew what adventures would fill her five years of life.

Harlequin seemed an appropriate name for my little patchwork kitten. I was still living with Amy and Daphne so I had to introduce her to the household carefully. Amy loved her right away but Daphne had to watch her carefully for a while before she was able to ignore her.

I had been accepted into graduate school at U.C. Berkeley for the fall semester. Harley was six months old and it was time for her to be spayed. I had decided to wait to do that until we had gotten to California, but then something happened that tipped the balance in an other, fateful direction.

Amy's boss, an M.D., said he wanted to show a group of pharmacology graduate students how to spay a cat and needed a volunteer. He said he had spayed a dozen dogs and at least that many cats. Time was short and the operation would be done a day before I was planning to drive to California. I checked with my vet to see if that would be dangerous. He said the incision was so small that travelling would present no problem to a healthy cat a day or two after spaying. It was sheer stupidity on my part, but I agreed to let her be spayed by an M.D. I let Amy take her to the Medical Center.

That evening a horror awaited me when I went to pick Harley up. A veterinarian when spaying a cat carefully shaves the animal's abdomen then scrubs it with an iodine soap to cleanse it and kill any lurking bacteria. A tiny 3/4 inch incision is made through which the uterus and ovaries are drawn. First the abdominal muscles and then the skin are carefully sewn up.

That was not what the doctor had done with Harley. Her abdomen had not been shaved and an extensive six inch incision had been made down the middle. After rummaging around and probably removing something the "doctor" had callously stapled her shut like a package leaving hair and dirt from non-sterile instruments inside her.

I ranted and raved at him, but he cold-heartedly shoved her into my hands and left. I went home weeping for my abused baby cat.

The next day Gray, Harley and I left for California. It was extremely hot so we kept a bucket of ice on the floor next to the still-groggy cat. We sponged her off when she was panting but were unable to do much more to help her. We made it to Reno by mid-afternoon the second day and decided to stop. Harley staggered out of the car and it was obvious she was not going to make it to California in that condition. With each step huge drops of pus oozed out of the stapled incision. We called the first vet we found in the phone book and rushed her to his office.

"I can't believe this! I can't believe anyone would do such a thing to a living animal much less someone's beloved pet!" he declared in disgust. "I'll have to open her up right away. She may not survive the anesthesia in her condition but I'll have to try!"

That dear, heroic vet who would never see Harley or me again but who cared about the well-being of his fellow creatures stayed into the night to try to save Harley.

The next morning we arrived at his office full of trepidation. I was afraid to hope. It was too possible that my stupid choice had killed my kitten. Not so, the vet cheerfully informed me!

"I removed a great deal of hair, washed out her abdominal cavity with antibiotic solution and shaved the edges so more hair won't get into the wound," he explained.

Unfortunately the infection within her little body was so rampant that most of the six inches had to be left open to drain. As a consequence I had to several times a day tuck her gut back up through the hole. But she was alive. She had survived in spite of the odds. I wanted to hug the vet and hug Harley, neither of which was practical, so I enthusiastically pumped the vet's hand before gently taking Harley out to the car. I vowed to never again put a pet's life into the care of anyone but a competent veterinarian!

Harley slowly healed after settling down in California but the final indignity from the whole sorry mess was yet to come. Almost three months later Harley came into heat. I told myself I was imagining things. Harley was just being exceptionally friendly out of loneliness. In part that was true - she was achingly lonely for a tom, any old tom. She rubbed her way around the room uttering mournful mrroes from deep in her throat.

I didn't know what to do. Cats are induced ovulators which means a queen won't ovulate until her vaginal tract has been stimulated. If a female isn't mated she will keep coming into heat with fair regularity. Harley had been cheated into having the desire but not all of the equipment.

After a wall-climbing month of indecision I called a local vet and explained the situation to him. I asked for his advice.

"Are you sure the ovaries were removed?" he asked dubiously.

"They were supposed to be but I don't trust a man who staples hair inside the incision" I responded.

The vet suggested I call the incompetent butcher and ask if he could have left any tiny bit of ovary. Even a tiny bit could have been able to produce enough hormones to bring Harley into what he called psychic heat.

It seems the fellow's abilities, first surgical and now linguistic, were fading fast. He declined to talk to me so I had to go through Amy. Poor kid, she was very defensive about the whole thing. She had inadvertently guided me into this whole mess.

"Of course he removed the ovaries Mary Jean!"

"Oh. So Harley's just imagining her desires. Or do you think I'm the one imagining her desires?" I sputtered.

"You got her into that. My boss didn't guarantee he'd do it like a vet."

I pieced together enough from our conversation to get the picture. Harley had been an anatomical model. Her insides had been exposed to the probing of the students and probably a bit of ovary had been carelessly poked off and not removed when the bulk of her ovaries had. I guess Harley was lucky it had been a part of an ovary instead of a piece of the intestine. That would have probably resulted in a rather gruesome death. I hung up in disgust.

The California vet was willing to operate but warned me the piece of ovary might be so tiny that it couldn't be found in the mass of tissue. He suggested birth control pills instead. Harley became the first cat to be put on birth control pills to control not her fertility (that had been taken care of when her uterus had been removed) but to eliminate her desire. Birth control pills neutered her where the bungling operation of an irresponsible M.D. could not. I gave her 1/4 of a human birth control pill each week. Occasionally I would forget and before long local toms would leave smelly calling cards at the door and sing mournfully throughout the night.

On one such occasion Harley slipped outside. I chased her all around the neighborhood but she eluded me. Later I saw her under a bush being mounted by a big, scruffy tom. I rushed outside just as he was about to consummate the act. At his anticipated moment of glory he was thwarted by a Denver M.D. and me. Harley dashed into the open door.

I decided it might be better to at least try to find the bit of ovary so surgery was scheduled. The vet had to make a larger incision than for a usual spay since he had to be able to look around, but he took all the usual precautions of shaving her abdomen and disinfecting everything. I was in the waiting room when he came out after the surgery.

"Did you find anything?" I asked anxiously.

"Well her uterus was gone, but I found two intact ovaries. Some spay!" I think it's worth mentioning that in humans the ovaries are sometimes not removed when the uterus is, the thought being the hormones from the ovaries help the woman age more naturally. This is not the situation in cats! I bet the M.D. had never performed a spay before because any animal owner would have noticed the result of intact ovaries!

Yet again Harley had to heal but this time she didn't come into heat again. She reverted to the curious little cat I knew. One evening when I got back from classes I found smudgy little cat tracks coming from the fireplace. Harley was peacefully sleeping on her sheepskin. I decided she must have just walked into the empty fireplace to check it out. Perhaps she had heard birds calling down the chimney and walked over to investigate. I thought no more about it.

A few days later Harley was nowhere to be found when I came home. I dashed out to the kitchen to see if I could have left a window open but it was tightly shut. Puzzled, I went back to the living room. A faint rustle, a sprinkling of soot, and bam! A little black cat descended precipitously from the chimney! Somehow Harley had found purchase in the chimney and gone exploring. It's possible she had even paid my upstairs neighbors a visit and left ghostly little cat tracks behind.

I snatched her up before she could make a mess of the whole living room and marched with her at arms' length directly into the bathroom. Several towels later she was an indignant dishwater gray. I went right out and bought a fireplace screen. Harley in blackface was not funny!