Two more vultures have arrived. They cluster at one of the dead raccoons on the road. A hawk perches up high and a flatbed truck bearing some massive piece of machinery eases into view from around the hill. The vultures do a flapping hop away from the dead raccoon as the truck accelerates to catch the Wide Load escort vehicle, several minutes gone by.
The Stone Gate stands silent, with only Smashmouth present and resting in a patch of shade out of the heat. I note his presence and walk by.
The vultures move back to the raccoon, only one feeding while the other two envy. I arrive at the Tunnels, and find it deserted as well. Rhino bolts out of the dried bamboo toward me, rubs against my leg and then rolls in the dust. We tarry a moment, Rhino and I, then walk along the ridge toward the bowl. The Guardian cats have abandoned their standpipe on my right. It stands whitewashed and alone by One Spot's old bower.
I head down the side of the ridge, brushing past yellowed bamboo and descend into the Bowl.
I see a black cat perched on on a jumble of branches from a fallen tree. on the edge of the Bamboo Forest. Past it, through the green branches of a palo verde, I see a large brown shape moving quickly from left to right. The cat is watching it, and I assume at first it is the dog from yesterday. Only for a moment though, because I can see a patch of its lower body through the gaps, and it has cat feet and clearly streaked fur. One of the brown tabbies, I realize, not one I recognize. I have not paid them enough attention, having only named Ringtail so far.
Rhino and I walked up onto Mesquite Ridge. I saw no other cats. The food stations were full, but the food barely touched. I walked the ridge, with Rhino stopping at the center station to eat. But other than Rhino, every station was deserted. No cats lurking just down the hill, no cats in the trees. I've grown used to seeing the east feeding station near the Paloe Verde forest empty, but all of the Fluffies, even Apex, were gone from the central station as well. Mr Grumpy Pants and Ziggy were not in their trees. And on the west, not a cat under the conifer. Not Slash, not Seven Spot, not Axel.
At least I could see Axel. Axel was the black cat on the jumble of branches, other than Rhino, the only cat in sight.
Now, Axel and I aren't friends; he likes me to keep my distance and watches me closely whenever I am near. I don't think he dislikes me, he is just wary. But right now he is paying no attention to me, his gaze directed toward the dense thicket at the end of the Bamboo Forest, where the tabby had gone.
I head in the same direction, walking up to the little clearing Shadow and his friends like to sleep in. It was empty, and I moved around the outside edge of the little thicket, moving slowly so I wouldn't startle the tabby.
I ease around a thick clump of bamboo, and there it is.
Ten feet away, its tawny coat sprinkled with black dots, moving slowly away from me.
I froze, and the bobcat slipped out of sight into the thicket. I tried to see where it went, but I’d lost it in the dense bamboo. I headed back toward Axel, peering into the thicket, trying to see the bobcat. Failing to see it, I went back to the main feeding area on Mesquite Ridge, which had the best view of the thicket, and restlessly waited to see if it would come into view.
Axel and I watch the thicket. We wait in the silence, the air hot and still. I alternate between watching, and prowling around the thicket, trying to see the bobcat. I glimpse it twice through the bamboo. It seems unafraid of me, but still keeps out of my view. I spy other cats. Toni the Tiger ambles in from the hunting grounds, but then goes rapidly to ground right under Axel. Ringtail and a friend cling motionless to branches above the bobcat thicket.
Ringtail and friend in the tree above the bobcat.
I hear a distant howl, a rushing from the northeast. I see treetops writhe, and a devil wind rushes across the bowl and rakes the ridge. Everything is moving now, the dry bamboo thrashing in the wind, trees creaking and groaning. Grit whips into my face, and I cradle my camera against the wind. The Santa Ana blows in hot from the Mojave, and shows no sign of slacking.
A half hour goes by. The wind strips tumbleweeds from the surrounding hills, and sends them leaping and bouncing down onto the flats, where they wedge up against trees, or into crevasses.
Suddenly there is a hard pounding of feet behind me. Rhino comes bolting down along the ridge, eyes wide, terrified. She thunders past me and down the curving ridge. She goes to ground, looking back. She waits for a few long moments, then runs, her belly low, into a bushy shrub on the outside of the ridge, and vanishes.
Another feral cat, Magpie, comes along the bowl from the other direction, sees me and goes motionless. She stares at me a long moment. She is thirty feet away, and we know each other, but this time she suddenly spooks. She darts to her left, jumping over fallen trees, and plunges right into the bobcat’s thicket. I start to run to the other side of the thicket to see if she comes out and I hear a crashing of breaking wood, and thumping on the ground. I think immediately of Axel on the fallen tree, but as I run around the corner I can see that he is fine. The top of one of the trees of Mesquite Ridge lays shattered in a swirl of dust beyond him.
I see no sign of Magpie. Not on the ridge, not in the thicket.
I wait with Axel, and the other motionless cats tucked here and there under bushes, or holding tight in the trees in the wind.
The wind is hot, unrelenting. Dust and leaves swirl by. I see no sign of the bobcat. Axel still stares at the thicket, only occasionally moving his head.
At last Axel shifts, and turns around on his perch, looking away from the thicket, relaxing. He takes his time, slowly making his way down from the fallen tree. He looks over his shoulder once at the bobcat thicket, then comes over and lies down near me.
