Cat Fantasy Short-Story Contest Winner:
"Dogcatcher Dreams" by Gary Every

Copyright ©1998 by Gary Every

The pilot was a handsome Charles Lindbergh type of lad named Marty Jensen. Marty had consummated his love of aviation by marrying his lovely wife in mid- air. The newlyweds and the preacher all performed some wing walking for the marriage ceremony.

It was the blushing bride who had some misgivings about this flying lion thing. She had some valid concerns about the pilots safety and during her pregnancy she had been cursed with nightmares about a rampaging African ion running amuck through the cockpit.

Leo's cage was built directly behind the cockpit and to assure the safety of both the pilot and the feline, the cage was surrounded by plate glass. Before they took off Marty Jensen kissed his wife good-bye for good luck. He would need it. Leo roared for the photographers. The propeller driven aircraft taxied along the runway before suddenly launching itself into the air. At least one reporter noted that a surprised smile crossed the lion's face as he became airborne.

For Buster Bailey the life of a dogcatcher in the rural ranch town of Globe, Arizona was without many highlights but he would never forget where he was when he first heard the news that the airplane carrying Leo the lion had crashed in the Arizona mountains. He was up in a tree fetching Mrs. Thompson's cat Figaro, when that annoying little boy, Junior Johnny Fry Jr., came running up the sidewalk shouting the news. Buster got so excited he fell out of the tree. Old time Globe residents say that the skeleton of Mrs. Thompson's cat stayed up in that tree for years and years.

As the propeller driven aircraft crossed the sky above the Arizona desert the hot air inspired Leo the lion to lay down and take a nap. A giant feline paw reached up and retractable claws extended, scratching a fuzzy ear. The Lindbergh type lad piloting the controls was annoyed. Once Leo fell asleep he snored rather loudly.

In fact Leo slept right up until the plane crashed into the mountain. Like the little train that thought it could the propellers kept turning, pushing the aircraft towards the distant Atlantic Ocean. Only the little plane couldn't, because the Rocky Mountains stood in the way. The primitive airplane was far too weighted down to handle the steep terrain that lay ahead. Leo weighed 400 pounds, the plate glass surrounding the cage weighed another 400 pounds, and then there was the weight of the iron bars and cage itself.

Somewhere over Hell's Canyon, along the Mogollon Rim the propeller engines began to sputter almost as loud as Leo's snoring. Fearing the consequences of an uncontrolled crash, Marty Jensen intentionally stalled the airplane on top of a giant oak tree.

Nat Skeeter stood atop his table in the Payson saloon to address the cowboys assembled there.

The bartender sensed trouble but it had been a long, slow, boring summer and he made no move to stop it. Perhaps, he mused, something exciting was finally about to happen in this sleepy little cow town.

"Finders - Keepers I say," Nat told his audience from atop the table.

When Nat Skeeter talked - people listened. He was one of those crusty old timers who had been a cowboy since he was a young man; a little after the Civil War and a little before the railroads had reached distant frontier outposts like the town of Payson. Even at seventy years old Nat was still a crack shot, cheated at poker, and could still tire out a soiled dove or two. The cowboys on the Payson saloon listened attentively.

"There is a genuine African lion running free in Hell's Canyon," Nat painted the picture, "And I say that it belongs to whoever captures it and then it can be sold to the highest bidder. Are you with me boys? We'll be rich by midnight."

The crowd cheered.

"Wait a minute," said a voice from the back of the room.

It was Doc Campbell, sheriff of Payson, Arizona.

"Can I have a word with you?" Sheriff Doc asked Nat Skeeter.

As soon as he heard the news about the stray African lion roaming the Arizona canyons, only a hundred miles or so outside of Globe, Buster Bailey grew so excited that he began to tremble. The lion was in obvious flagrant violation of the leash laws and without a collar or tags. The thought made Buster so giddy with dizziness that he fell from the tree.

He cracked his skull pretty good. As Buster Bailey began to lose consciousness he began to dream, the voice of his dead mother filling his head.

The airplane radio broke in the crash and a wing had fallen off but otherwise the plane had survived the crash without a whole lot of damage. The three of them; the airplane, pilot, and lion, were all stuck atop a giant oak tree, far above the earth.

Cats always land on their feet and Leo had escaped the crash unharmed. Marty Jensen was mostly fine except for a gash above his right eye, a cut that was bleeding profusely. Leo scented the blood and licked his lips. Luckily the cage had remained fast.

The radio was dead, dead, dead. Marty Jensen took the sandwiches his wife had dutifully packed for an airborne lunch and fed them to Leo. He shimmied down the tree, went to the stream, and returned with a canteen of water for the lion. Then, the pilot climbed down the tree trunk one last time and began the long journey to seek help without even being certain of where he was.

"Now sheriff!" Nat Skeeter exclaimed, talking fast and using his hands the way he did when he was excited. "If'n that lion is running free through the Arizona hills then its a wild animal. The federal government might poke their nose in cougar business but as far as I know the laws apply only to mountain lions and not African lions.

"Now, now, Nat" the sheriff reassured him, "I'm not saying that you don't have a right to catch that lion. I am just worried about my responsibilities for the safety of the community. I'm not concerned about you Nat, but there are an awful lot of greenhorns

and tenderfoots here in the bar tonight and Hell's Canyon is some rugged country. I've got some good geology maps of the region, why don't you come over and borrow them. It will save me some search and rescue time later on."

"Alright," Nat said, "That makes sense."

The sheriff walked over to have a word with the bartender. When sheriff Doc Campbell pulled out his wallet the bartender sighed; sensing another bribe. Instead the sheriff gave the bartender money, handing over a hundred dollar bill.

Sheriff Doc whispered into the bartenders ear, "Keep buying the boys shots until the money runs out.

Marty Jensen hiked all day without reaching civilization. Around noon he saw some cows but not the ranch they belonged too. That night he slept in a tree. Leo slept atop a tree as well, still inside the airplane; still inside the cage.

As Buster Bailey began to dream the voice of this mother filled his head. She was speaking Apache and Buster only understood the curse words. Papa Bailey had been one of the first prairie schooner pioneers rolling through Montana when a Sioux told him that Apache women were the most beautiful in the whole world. Papa Bailey got mighty lonely on the prairie and soon moved to Arizona where he married Buster's mama. In the dream she was speaking Apache.

A crowd gathered, trying to revive the fallen dogcatcher. Figaro the cat continued to meow up in the tree.

While he dreaming, at least in the dream, Buster could understand Apache. Mama was telling him the old stories, the ones she had told him as a little boy. The colorful tales were about painted warriors hunting the giant beasts of receding Ice Age. Screaming spear toting warriors who attacked in organized clans, hunting mammoths and mastodons, avalanches of flesh on the hoof to feed and clothe the tribe.

Buster remembered coming home from school and trying to explain to his mother the Bering Strait theory of Native American migration into the Americas. His mother was furious, using all the Apache cuss words Buster and a couple more that she saved only for special occasions.

"Its the white mans religious dogma masquerading as science," she screamed, "If Indians ran the universities the schools would teach a different tale."

She knew better. The Apache knew better.

"We are not new to the land!" she shouted.

The Apache had stories of hunting the giant beasts of the Pleistocene along places like Carrizo Creek and White River. His mother insisted that the next day Buster march into school, raise his hand, and correct his teacher about the Bering Strait theory. Buster did not.

For the first time he was ashamed of being Apache His mother was furious and swore she would never tell him another old story or teach him how to speak Apache. She died a short time later.

The voice of Buster's mother disappeared from his dream and Buster imagined himself a spear toting warrior; a Clovis man, hunting the camel, horse, giant sloth and giant beaver. In his dream Buster hid in the tall grass, stalking a Pleistocene antelope, an unusual creature with four horns upon its head and a fifth one rhinoceros style on the tip of his nose. His arrow struck the jugular vein, the antelope tumbling over with blood pumping ever more softly from the wound.

Bow and quiver of arrows slung across his shoulder in a deer hide pouch, bag of sacred pollen around his neck, and a trophy bag upon his back, Buster Bailey approached the ruins at Kinishba. Except in the dream the brown house ruins at Kinishba had come alive with hunters, elders, farmers, maidens, and laughing children. The Globe, Arizona municipal dogcatcher approached the Kinishba altar with his trophy bag laden; jaguar pelts, dire wolf paws, saber toothed cat skulls, and short faced bear hides. Buster Bailey knelt before the high priest at Kinishba; the shaman wearing a necklace of deer and antelope jaws.

Kneeling, Buster requested for the chief's daughter hand in marriage.

This only made the priest chuckle at Buster's audacity.

Buster reached into his bag; there was still one more trophy to place upon the altar.

The Kinishba altar was behind the ruins, in an open air ramada; an open air ramada so that the people might upon their mythological beings beneath an open sky. The stone altar table top was painted with the figure of a crown dancer; wearing a sun mask, lightning wands in each hand, and Buster Bailey reached into his trophy bag. and plopped the big bloody head of a prehistoric lion. The American Pleistocene lion was a full third bigger than the present African lion. The giant head plopped on the altar with a splattering of blood, tangled bushy man, and fangs revealed in an eternal smile.

The priest smiled.

Buster Bailey had won himself a bride.

It was Junior Johnny Fry Jr. who revived the dreaming dogcatcher. Buster Bailey was startled back into the real world with a splash from a bucket of ice water. As Buster spluttered, trying to catch his breath, the little brat giggled, bucket in his hand.

Leo liked being airborne. He had enjoyed the plane ride a great deal. The crash had been a little rough but did not mind too much. Mostly he liked the plane crash because it annoyed the pilot. Leo did not think much of the pilot. First time he had ever met Marty Jensen, Leo farted just to annoy him, a loud stinky lion fart.

Leo did like Mrs. Jensen; she smelled tasty.

The pilot had been long gone and Leo didn't miss him, even as nightfall approached. In the last moments of sunset a stellar jay had flown into the cage through a crack in the glass.

Leo enjoyed his little bird friend a great deal; burping as he cleaned the bloody blue feathers from his mane. During the night Leo liked being atop the tree, just sitting in his cage, almost high enough to touch the stars.

Leo fell into a peaceful slumber only to be awakened around midnight as the tree trunk was being shaken back and forth by a violent wind. Thick branches snapped in half and gradually the airplane tumbled from the tree top, the fuselage breaking in half as it landed on the ground. The crack in the cage opened wider and Leo the lion was free.

Robert Bobby was a truck driving lumberjack, his 18 wheeler careening wildly along the steep and winding roads of Arizona's Mogollon Rim. Robert Bobby sang loudly as he drove, pretending not to be afraid. His hands and feet worked furiously as the logging truck violated several of the laws of physics. The truck driving lumberjack had the names of his wives tattooed on his fingers... "Charlene, Arlene, Darlene, Aileen, Eileen, Bobbi Jo, Bobbi Sue..." That is what happens to a man has nine ex-wives but only four sets of in-laws. He liked mountain girls best; bigger lungs the truck driving lumberjack claimed. Robert Bobby sped along the dangerous highways at an astonishing speed.

Sheriff Doc Campbell welcomed Nat Skeeter into his home for the first time. They strolled into the den where the lawman kept all of his maps. The sheriff offered the cowboy a snifter of fine brandy while the cowboy stared at the hunting trophies filling the room.

"Did you shoot all these sheriff?" Nat Skeeter asked in wonder.

There were polar and grizzly bear rugs, mounted heads of ibex, javelina, gazelle, caribou, antelope, and deer. Pelts of lions, jaguars, and coyotes hung from the wall.

"No," the sheriff answered, "my fathers was the one who taught me a love of the outdoors. Care for anymore cognac Nat?"

Cowboys never refuse free liquor.

The sheriff was being very helpful. "Here are the maps of Hell's Canyon that I wanted to show you.

Nat studied the maps carefully; plotting and scheming. If I were a lion I would go here or there," he pointed to spots on the map. "You know sheriff," Nat said, when I was hunting on horseback in the mountains once I interrupted two mountain lions in the act of copulation." He chuckled, "Of course being a true cattleman I shot the female first."

"Now Nat," the sheriff told him, "This ain't no scrawny puma or cougar like you are used but a full grown african ion; the king of the beasts. Daddy shot both a mountain lion and an african lion. You can see the difference in their heads right over there."

"That is a magnificent beast," Nat whistled, admiring the african lion head mounted on the wall."I don't mean to be telling you your business," the sheriff said, "But maybe you should have another cognac and ponder the danger involved with hunting a full grown african lion - the king of the beasts."

In the morning Leo awakened beside the stream, slaking his thirst in the cool fresh mountain stream. So far freedom tasted pretty good. He had gotten to fly and now he was free, his own cat.

As a celebrity movie mascot, Leo had been put out to stud frequently and hanging in the crisp forest air was the unmistakable aroma of a she lion in heat. Leo roared; an impressive roar, the echoes rolling down the canyon. The female yowled back. Life was good.

Once the midnight winds increased in velocity Marty Jensen was unable to continue sleeping in a tree. The ground was too hard and Marty feared the bears and the other beasts of the nighttime forest. The pilot walked through the night, too afraid to sleep, wearily trudging one tired foot in front of the other, striding through the dark and stormy night, stumbling over stones, splashing through streams.

Marty Jensen trekked out of Hell's Canyon all through the dark of night. Sunrise came and he walked some more but before noon he could spy Lake Roosevelt on the horizon and headed for the marina.

The ice water startled Globe dogcatcher into consciousness. Buster Bailey sat up wet, sputtering, and stuttering. The vivid images of his dream still filled his head. Ignoring the gathering crowd, Buster Bailey stood up and walked away without a word but with a rapid purpose.

Forgotten Figaro continued to meow up in the tree.

The Lake Roosevelt had yet to be connected to the 20th century by telephone but there was a telegraph machine.

"So you're the one who took a lion up in an aeroplane, huh mister?" the telegraph operator said excitedly, "I'll send the message for free."

The telegraph messenger was excited about his brush with celebrity. Once the message for help had been sent Marty was lost without a purpose. The pilot stood on the dam, looking out over the watery surface of the lake. The telegraph operator followed, seeking an autograph, nearly bowling over the man with the fishing pole.

"Of course we had heard there was wild lions loose up in the hills but you know how it is way up here in the mountains, nobody see newspaper more than once a month." The telegraph operator said loudly, nervously adjusting his spectacles, "News spreads pretty fast. I heard it was a pride of flying lions that had escaped too. Great big winged, flying lions who had escaped. Smart too on account of being circus animals."

"Flying lions!!!" the telegraph operator said excitedly, holding out his arms, with wings this big."

Marty Jensen laughed, "Leo is a big, fat, lazy house cat and he stinks real bad. In fact he smells like..."

The loud roar of a primitive automobile interrupted the conversation. The truck careened uphill, laden with timber and logs.

Robert Bobby was fishing off the Lake Roosevelt Dam when some geeky looking dude nearly bowled him over, talking excitedly about flying lions roaming loose In Hell's Canyon. The loud talking fool was certain to frighten away all the fish. So Robert Bobby loaded up his gear and started up the truck.

Robert Bobby drove like mad, steering wheel whipping back and forth like a ships mast during a typhoon. A man had to drive fast if he wanted to find time to stop and enjoy the little things in life. The lumberjack had to make stops in Globe and Payson. He couldn't wait to hold his pretty girls in his arms and tell them tales of flying lions running loose in the canyons of Arizona. There would be no chance for storytelling if he did not make better time. Robert Bobby, truck driving lumberjack, drove faster, obeying only those laws of physics which he personally understood.

In the morning Nat Skeeter was far too hung over to even begin contemplating going lion hunting.

Buster Bailey marched along the Globe city sidewalks, making a beeline for the drug store. Inside the store Buster bought fistfuls of women's cosmetics; eye shadow, mascara, lipstick, choosing the brightest, most garish colors he could find. Buster did not own a drum but he did have a big black kettle which would work just fine. Buster Bailey painted himself bright colors and built a bonfire in his front yard. He banged the black kettle like a drum and began to chant; using the only bits of Apache language that he knew - the curse words.

Anybody who came along the sidewalk and asked, Buster would tell them he was purifying his soul for a lion hunt.

The female mountain lion was sleek, slender, and powerful. The feline pussycat yowled at the male lion with the beautiful head of hair. Leo shook his mane and roared.

The loud growl frightened a butterfly from the grass, fluttering upwards, bopping the african lion in the nose. Leo blew his cool and pounced at the offending insect. Leo missed clumsily. He pounced again and again while the butterfly flew away. The she lion realized quickly that this lion would never be able to bring home venison to a den, mate, and cubs. As Leo snarled and swiped a paw at the insulting butterfly, the female mountain lion snuck silently away.

Buster drummed all night and then loaded all the nets he could muster into the dogcatcher wagon. On the road out of town Buster was met by the local judge, a pair of over priced lawyers, and a very nervous advertising executive.

"Buster," the judge said gently, "Can I have a word with you."

The advertising executive fidgeted, nervous as he could be, even though lion rescue crews were already on the way to Hell's Canyon. The lawyers crossed their arms and tried to look stern and formidable. The judge looked reluctant.

Buster Bailey looked bizarre to say the least, bizarre even for a guy in a loincloth. It could have been the bright body paints arranged in stripes and circles across his person. It could have been the Globe municipal dogcatcher cap still perched atop his head and the way it clashed with the loincloth but mostly it was his eyes, shining so strong and bright that they seemed ready to burst out of his skull.

"Now Buster, these MGM movie boys have filed an injunction against you," the judge explained. "You're the city of Globe dogcatcher and I am that your jurisdiction does not extend nearly a hundred miles out of town to Hell's Canyon. I am afraid that I have to stop you."

As Buster groaned and turned back into town the lawyers smiled and kissed their own affidavits.

Gnats! Thousand and thousands of gnats who had all found Leo when he stumbled chasing the butterfly. That fat, stinky cat represented the biggest feast those hungry little bugs had ever seen. The infernal buzzing in his ears drove Leo crazy and the tiny little bugs were not impressed at all by the lions fangs, claws, or magnificent roar. Leo sought sanctuary from the little bugs by creeping back into his cage.

Mrs. Jensen was relieved to find her husband safe and sound. That night the newlyweds celebrated the pilots return to civilization by making a baby. The little girl they conceived that night grew up to be quite a she devil and scamp but that is another story for another time.

When the judge halted the lion hunt Buster Bailey somehow broke and was never the same after that day. He moved out of his house and began to live in a tent down by the stream. He lost his job but Buster continued to catch all the stray cats and dogs, roasting them over his camp fire. Buster grew fat.

Leo was rescued the very next day, led out of Hell's Canyon on a leash. The lion in the airplane crash, lost somewhere in the rugged mountains of Arizona had made newspaper headlines all across the nation. The MGM movie executives were so pleased with all the free publicity that they decided to begin each MGM movie with a clip of Leo roaring loudly.

The citizens of Globe would have complained about all the missing pets but Buster did not make it through his first winter mountain snowstorm. His tiny pup tent did not offer much protection from a Mogollon Rim winter. Buster was found dead in his sleep; lion hunting spear in his hand.

The night Buster died the wind shook the tree in Mrs. Thompson's front yard and the skeleton of forgotten Figaro fell from the tree; the fierce feline finally captured in a dogcatchers dream.