Bobcat on a Hot Tin Roof

“The chickens are dead.” I can tell Jenn is trying not to cry. “A bobcat got into the coop.”

That coop is secured with more fencing and wires than a South American prison. I’m not sure even I could get inside.

Jenn rents the house next to my dog arena. The chickens’ gentle clucking provides soothing background noise for the dog lessons.

 Or rather, provided. Poor chickens.

She’d come home from teaching Pilates to feed the chickens. No need for that now.

“He won’t leave,” she cries. “I opened the gate, but he just sits there.”

“Food coma,” I say. They were big chickens. “I’ll get him out.”

I rush to the property. The gate is open and the bobcat ricochets around the coop like a cartoon character. In her zeal to make the coop predator proof, Jenn installed wire fencing about halfway up the gate. The bobcat bounces off it when he charges.

I wrestle with the fencing blocking the gate, but when Jenn builds something, she builds it good. A festival of bad words ensues.

My Uncle Dink claimed he once wrestled a bobcat for hours after it killed his chickens. I have no intention of following in his footsteps.

We learn later the bobcat tumbled into the coop as he sat on top. A windstorm loosened one of the ties holding the roof and he fell into bobcat heaven. It was Chicken Armageddon.

Son of a biscuit! He’s trapped inside and a class is due in an hour. I panic—maybe if I don’t say anything, the students won’t notice a bobcat bouncing around the coop.

Only a few feathers mark the remains of the one he’s eaten. The other three are neatly buried side-by-side, tail feathers poking up. He’d planned on coming back to snack, but now he’s trapped.

The bobcat watches my every move. “Just jump over the fence,” I say. “Just jump.” I hop. “Over the fence.” Maybe he doesn’t speak English. He doesn’t see that he can jump over the wire blocking the gate.

He darts into the metal shed where the chickens slept. I’m definitely not going in there.

I turn and realize the sliding door on the shed is unlocked. If I can coax it open, the bobcat can escape.

I sidle along the shed, reaching to grab the handle. I’m like a someone edging along a ledge 20 stories high. It is stuck. I jiggle. I shout very bad words, and it moves an inch or so. Not enough for the bobcat to squeeze through.

“Please don’t poke your head out. Please don’t poke your head out,” I mutter as I jiggle the door some more. If the bobcat comes out while I’m standing here, I might end up like the chickens.

The door screeches and opens just enough. If the bobcat pokes his head out now, I will soil myself. I run to the car, locking the door.

I don’t wait to watch his exit. My car spews clouds of dirt as I race away.

It must be 5 o’clock somewhere.