Family History Part 10: The Bobcat In The Trap Poem by Cowboy Ron Williams

My mind flashes back from time to time to a very memorable Sunday drive after church. My parents spontaneously decided to travel 50 miles to the winter range to check the accessibility of water to the scattered cattle.

We were driving our 1958 pick-up, still ‘gussied-up' in our
church clothes, to a destination more fit for worn jeans and
partially green, well-used cowboy boots.

On a lonely dirt side-road, we came upon a wild bobcat caught in a steel-jawed trap. It made our collective stomachs turn as we felt its pain, anguish, and especially fear, manifested in its eyes.

As we slowly approached, it became increasingly frightened and would fiercely and violently lash out. It snarled viciously at our every move. The loud growl was incredibly unnerving and filled with purposeful and piercing intimidation.

This desperate animal did not trust us. It probably sensed that we were the cause of its agony, with intentions of inflicting more. Yet, our only and genuine intent, was diametrically the opposite.

We simply wanted it to live, to become free, and to fulfill the
measure of its creation.

So, think for just a moment. How DOES one free an angry
bobcat? Some would suggest, very carefully. Unfortunately, in those days, simply yelling a question into the air didn't result in some know-it-all, named Siri, to answer any and every ridiculous question. My father was as fiercely determined to free it from the trap, as the bobcat was to scratch his eyeballs out! The cat's freedom was ironically only possible by a human—very much like the guy who set the trap—but this time, the one that came was all dressed up in his 'Sunday-go-to-meetin'-white-shirt-and-polished-shoes.'

The two sides were finally ready to clash and then suddenly,
the stage was set for a very dangerous, yet highly entertaining, operation. So, please, do not attempt this at home!

To release the jaws of this trap requires a person to press down firmly on the metal trap adjacent to the animal's trapped paw— without unwittingly nourishing the mad cat with a chunk of leg flesh.

Dad's first attempt was unsuccessful, as was evidenced by
a large gash on the front of his new black shoes. He finally
surmised that this spontaneous cat fight necessitated a
breather, a timeout, or maybe even a rest-hymn, which respite might allow the tension and agitation to subside.

Therefore, we pulled back a few paces until the riled bobcat
wore down and the hostility calmed. My father continued
repeating, 'We just need to be calm. We just need to be patient.'

Long story short, and after a considerable timeout, he was
somehow able to nudge the bobcat back far enough with a
branch to press down on the trap with his foot and release the animal back into the wild.

We were all intensely watching from the back of the old GMC as the released cat ran quickly into the safety of the surrounding ledges.

Dad wore those black dress shoes around for many years, with one of them sporting a gashing claw mark. It was always polished but never gave up the visible scratch-reminder from that spontaneous Sunday afternoon drive.

I still have those old shoes of Dad's. They are a treasured reminder of Dad's kindness and courage.