A Hint of Mountain Lion

The intensity of the stars on a clear evening in Bonny Doon always astonishes me. The other night I walked to the top of the drive to finish a drink and look at the waxing moon shed its light over the field across the street, the tangled silhouette of untended apple trees illuminated against an azure sky. In the meadow to my right, deer hid in the shadows of branches, and shuffled deeper into the woods when they heard my steps. Since a fence was put up across the street four years ago to keep them out of the vineyard, the deer have frequented my property. At the top of the drive I leaned against one of the cement pillars that mark the entrance to my home, and when I looked up to find the moon I heard a low, guttural growl, an angry purr from the field across the road. I felt a fear that heightened my senses. The mountain lion that hunts in this area, that killed a four-pronged buck beneath the plumb tree in my orchard last year, was upset that my steps had put the deer on edge. Everything was quiet. I could no longer hear the deer, though I did not feel alone in the meadow. I climbed to the top of the cement pillar, looked for the huge green cones of cat eyes that reflect light like a mirror, and shouted out my own animal call. From behind me, across the stream on the far side of the canyon, the coyotes began their cries, hoping that the lion’s growl had meant a kill and scraps for them. Then there was silence again. I didn’t jump down until I heard the deer come back into the field, carefully plodding among dry leaves, alert in the arid evening, wary of the hunt.

The next night I woke with the sense something was outside my window. I could see nothing, though I felt sure I was not alone, that something was moving in the night. That morning, walking to work, I noticed the ornamental fruit tree at the top of the driveway had been scratched. The bark was shredded, and limp brown strips lay curled at the base of the trunk, white claw lines etched into the wood, revealing the flesh beneath grey outer bark that had been peeled away. Perhaps the cougar was only sharpening its claws, but I can’t help but feel it was at least in part leaving a message for me.