Quite a few old timers have commented about the historical notes I posted on the website that described the difficult winters in north Pend Oreille county seventy years ago, and I am gratified so many others share my belief about our responsibility to pass on this vital history to the young folks.
Most remember vividly the wolf packs between Metaline and Metaline Falls and almost everyone remembers the vicious wolverines north of town, and well they might. Wolverines would eat your face and then go for your liver, and wolves would just plain eat you, leaving your bones scattered all over the road. Memories of bobcats are a little less traumatic, perhaps because bobcats weren't quite so deadly. A fully-grown bobcat only weighs 40 or 50 pounds and they are afraid of grownups or big kids. They mostly attacked children, but little kids were taught to scream bloody murder and that gave parents a chance to rescue them. Sometimes, the bobcat chewed off the kid's ear before being driven off, but even though not too many lost their lives, growing up without an ear was still pretty embarrassing.
Cosmetic surgery was pretty primitive back then and it wasn't pleasant wearing a wooden ear, especially when the wood carver made it pointy like Mr. Spock from Star Trek, and then there was the problem of constantly buying new ears as the kid grew older -- wearing a size six ear when you're ten years old can be terribly embarrassing, too. Later they developed plastic, clip-on ears that looked a lot more realistic and this also allowed kids to have different ears for winter and summer: white for winter, and brown for summer. Rich kids even had a red ear to match sunburn situations.
The main problem with bobcats, however, was the decimation of the cat and small dog population. Many have confessed their saddest memory of winter in Metaline Falls was the time they searched for Fido or Fluffball and found nothing but bloody scraps of fur on the driveway.
Everyone remembers how every November the town marshal tacked up handbills on every light pole and blank wall in town -- posters that screamed out in lurid capital letters:
DON'T FEED THE BOBCATS!
KEEP YOUR PETS SAFELY INSIDE THIS WINTER
People have pleaded with me to tell the story behind these posters -- how they came to be. I'll do my best because our grandkids deserve to know the full, rich history.
The posters started going up in the late thirties. I was too young to remember the beginnings, but my father related the tale and so here it is without any exaggeration or embellishment.
According to dad, the preceding winter had been particularly brutal so that by spring, there were hardly any cats and dogs left in town. All had fallen victim to the hungry bobcats. The matter had been hotly debated all summer and the citizens were aroused. They demanded action by the town council, and so at the regular council meeting in early October, there was a motion on the floor to enact an ordinance making it a misdemeanor for anyone to allow his pet outside the house during the winter months. The idea being to deny this food resource to the bobcats so they would depart the municipal happy hunting grounds, thus preserving the beloved pet population of the town.
Fresh in everyon's mind was the "cougar dog fiasco" in March. The Business Men's Association had reacted to the humorous article in the Spokesmen Review about the "small town bobcat infestation," by contracting with the legendary cougar tracker, Bud Moon, to bring in his cougar dogs and clean out the bobcats.
Bud brought in seven slavering hounds, mostly big Black and Tans and Blueticks, and started his first sweep in the thick woods below the Lambly house, down by the bridge where the hospital was built twenty years later. They immediately jumped a bobcat and started the chase, furiously and frantically baroo-a-rooing at the hot scent.
The cat escaped the brush and ran across the street into the woods above the Newman place. Bud fell down as he leaped the snowdrift at the edge of the road and lost his grip on the leashes so the hounds were now free from human restraint. They ran right in front of Joe Favor's concentrate truck grinding slowly up the hill, AND right in front of a car coming down the hill. The driver slammed on his brakes and the car skated on the icy road smack into another car that was passing the Favor truck. All three became entangled and all three drivers blamed each other at the top of their lungs. The hounds paid no attention, nor did Bud stop to visit as he floundered onward after his beloved hounds.
Two of the crazed dogs became distracted by a terrified house cat, which jumped the fence into the chicken yard behind the third house. The dogs couldn't jump as well as the cat, but they weighed a lot more and they smashed through the flimsy wire fence. The cat escaped over the other side so the dogs killed several hens as compensation and chased the rest down the street, scaring the hell out of several startled senior citizens out for a stroll.
Two more bobcats were flushed, so the chase now involved three cats followed by five frantic hounds and one cursing man about to suffer a coronary. They emerged into the alley above the stairs and ran across Washington hill where a car spun out of control all the way to the bottom where it crashed into a lumber truck, blocking the highway out of town. The terrified cats then doubled back past the train station and ran right down Main Street, hotly followed by the howling pack of dogs. Horns were honked, cars ran up on the sidewalk, bags of groceries gburst as terrified women screamed and slipped on the ice, men shouted wildly, and finally, someone tripped the fire alarm which brought out the volunteers, all bellowing contradictory orders as they futilely tried to start the frozen fire truck.
The bobcats continued all the way down the street to the riverbank across from the Rolf house and then headed south. A dozen amateur setters and retrievers had now joined the pack of "professional" dogs and at least three more bobcats flushed with screeching squalls. Crowds of people followed the chase on the street above, all shouting encouragement and at least two were firing shotguns, mostly just for the hell of it. The cement plant siren was wailing and the fire truck covered with clinging volunteers raced up this street and down the next, looking for a house on fire. By now, Bud had drawn his pistol and was determined to shoot his own hounds, but he was so agitated that people worried he might shoot himself. Finally, the whole pack disappeared down the railroad tracks headed toward the Schierding ranch. Thank God no Spokane reporters were in town at the time.
Clearly, courgar hounds were not the answer, but it was also clear that "something" must be done.
Early in the discussion, the earnest couple that owned the pet store objected strongly to any attempts at controlling the bobcats, claiming their business would be adversely impacted. Apparently, the trade in puppies and kitties had thrived after the snow melted in the spring and they saw no good reason why the town administration should take steps to curtail "nature's natural mortality rate." The angry shouting and crude insults that met these comments were sufficiently rude that the puppy merchants stomped angrily out of the meeting.
The council decided an ordinance must be adopted that provided penalties for people who fed the winter bobcats by allowing their pets outside during the winter months.
The first question was how to enforce the edict, and the council decided the proposed ordinance would require every pet owner to purchase a collar and tag. Then, unescorted cats or dogs could be captured by the town marshal and returned to the owner along with a summons to appear before the magistrate for assessment of the appropriate fine. Any such animal rounded up without a collar and tag would be locked up in the jail for twenty-four hours and then shot by the marshal if it was unclaimed. According to my father, the pet owners were nervous about the shooting part, but seemed to agree the idea seemed reasonable and they shouted for approval of the ordinance.
At this point the marshal threw a wet blanket over the discussion. "Let me get this straight -- besides breaking up saloon fights and rescuing drunks from freezing in snow banks, you now want me to patrol the streets looking for unescorted cats and dogs?"
"I see the marshal's point," said one councilman, "We'll need to authorize the purchase of a sturdy net. In fact, I have a salmon net with a ten-foot handle that I haven't used in years. Paid nearly fifty bucks for it, but I'd be willing to sell it to the city for only twenty."
Then, according to dad, the marshal glared hatefully at the councilman, saying, "You aren't even CLOSE to understanding my position," whereupon he unbuckled his holster belt and put his service revolver on the table along with his bacge. "Drunks are one thing, but squalling cats and yapping dogs are WAY outside my job description."
Apparently, this firm announcement cast gloom over the proceedings. Everyone in the room, especially the councilmen, remembered how difficult it had been finding a marshal who believed it was perfectly reasonable for a person coming out of the Legion Club too drunk to walk should drive himself home. It might be a bother finding another marshal with such a sensible viewpoint. Maybe this matter should be tabled for further reflection.
At this point, the leader of the citizens who opposed the ordinance saw his opening and jumped up with an energetic plea for no action at all. (Naturally, my father identified this worthy gentleman, but I think it best to keep his name confidential.) This group vigorously opposed ALL cats and dogs. "Who among us has not cursed the moon-struck, yapping dog or yowling, love-starved, midnight cat? Did we not, one and all, bless the bobcats that removed this scourge from our fair township last winter? How many sober and sedate citizens finally slept the whole night through after uncounted years of raucous interruption? And did we not walk the streets without the humiliation ofr stepping into the execrable droppings from these miserable little beasts? Come to your senses, fellow citizens! Bobcats should be encouraged to take up winter residence, thus rendering out town a far more pleasant place to live."
An uproar followed with the chairman banging his gavel so vigorously he eventually broke the handle. One liver-faced and quite overwrought pet lover sarcastically asked, "Yeah, well bobcats only eat small dogs. What do you suggest -- that we shoot the big dogs?"
"That's not a problem," the anti-barker sweetly replied. "Big barking dogs are also car chasers, so the population of big dogs is self-regulating. Those barking fools can't judge speed worth a damn, and sooner or later a truck squishes them into the asphalt."
This time the hullabaloo ended up with horrendous hissing and shouting, followed by chest pushing until several fights broke out. One overweight matron, clutching what dad called a shifty little Shih Tzu to her astoundingly ample bosom, swung a purse big enough to be denied carry-on privileges on today's airliners, and decked the leader of the anti-pet forces. The eloguent, but dazed leader ended up on hands and knees, where he correctly identified the fat lady's leg and promptly bit her on the ankle, actually drawing a couple of drops of blood and causing her to shrilly scream for first aid and protection from the BRUTE. The mayor pounded with his broken gavel handle but the tic-tic-tic was unheard in all the commotion. He finally had the good sense to order the marshal into action, who coolly stared at him, asking, "And I won't have to chase cats?"
Hearing a resounding NO, the marshal whacked a couple of the more enthusiastic combatants about the head and shoulders with his nightstick and order was restored.
According to dad, most were pretty subdued and not a few actually ashamed of themselves for becoming so overheated over such a trivial subject, and it is in such climates that grand compromises are born. It was quickly decided to no one's complete satisfaction, that the so-called "bobcat control" ordinance would be voluntary. The city would post notices encouraging people not to feed the bobcats, but there would be no penalty for failure to comply. It would be the sole responsibility of each citizen to protect his own cherished pet. (The marshal insisted on this specific provision.)
Thus, the town marshal posted bobcat warnings all over town during the first week of November. I have no idea how long this continued, but it was still common practice in 1954, when I went away to college. I suppose the gradually warming climate meant the bobcats were no longer driven out of the high country so the reason for the warnings disappeared.
So, there you have the complete and unabridged story about the celebrated bobcat fever that gripped our small town. Perhaps, some long-time resident can tell us what year the town fathers stopped putting up the bobcat posters.
