Literally. I may come to town occasionally, but I'm not sure I'm old enough to be classified as a cougar yet.
(By the way, I realize there has been quite a lag in storytelling. I'll try to spend more time here in future.)
Anyway, this is the story about an adult female cougar who liked to frequent a certain Denver suburb a little more often than was generally appreciated by the residents. One of my first experiences with this cat (a female, who shall remain unidentified) was when I hiked into that town to visit one of her GPS points. Her collar battery was getting low, which meant that sometimes her kills wouldn't appear as kills in the database, since they were only represented by a few GPS points instead of many (since her collar would have failed to successfully get as many satellite fixes). In addition, I must point out that smaller kills - like porcupines, raccoons, and the like - generally produce smaller clusters, or even single GPS points, since it doesn't take the lion long to eat the animal.
Because of these facts, I really had no idea what to expect as I approached this GPS cluster that had been randomly selected for me to visit that month. The cluster was located in the middle of this suburban town, along a recreational trail that wound through a heavily-populated neighborhood. Imagine two suburban streets lined by two-story houses, their backyards separated by this lovely bike trail: the fences of one row of houses made up one side of the trail, and on the other, a small creek ran, its banks teeming with willows, aspens, reeds, and tall grasses, then the rear fences of the other row of houses. Near where a bridge connected these two streets, spanning the bike trail and the vegetated riparian strip, lay the GPS cluster.
I parked my official truck on one of the streets and walked to the bridge, hopping down off the edge into the reeds and grasses on the other side of the creek from the bike trail. Technically, I was on public land, but I was keenly aware of the proximity of the properties located feet from me - aware of curious eyes that could be watching me from second-story windows. I didn't have long to hike through the brushy undergrowth before I arrived at the GPS cluster, and quickly identified clumps of thick orange fur clinging here and there. Amidst the carnage, I found the skull of a domestic cat.
Killing domestic cats wasn't a new thing for this cougar; she seemed to have a taste for them. I like cats just fine, and I'm sure that having your beloved pet get devoured by a wild animal is sad, but then again, it shouldn't come as a surprise when you live in cougar country and let your cat roam out of doors at night. As I examined the cat skull, I noticed that one of its upper canine teeth was broken off halfway. I figured it was a result of its being worked over by the teeth of its much larger cousin.
Occasionally, we like to collect some of the remains of kills to help train new technicians on identifying species, so I pulled out a plastic bag and inserted the skull and some orange fur. I filled out the data sheet for the site, gathered my few belongings and the plastic bag, and headed back to the bridge. As I turned the corner to get to my truck, I noticed a sign on a streetlamp that I hadn't noticed on the way in:
LOST CAT. [NAME REMOVED] MALE. ORANGE. MISSING HALF OF UPPER CANINE TOOTH.
Deciding not to call the number on the flyer and inform the owner that his or her cat was no more (after all, it had been 3-4 weeks since the cougar had actually done the deed - I'm sure the owner(s) no longer hoped to see that cat again), I did the next best thing: I pulled down the flyer, put it in the bag with the fur and skull, and presented it to my boss.
I'll admit we had a few laughs over it, but it became a humorous anecdote for my boss and his supervisor to add to the educational talks they gave about cougars: if you have a cat, and you live near the Front Range, don't let it out at night.
That's the first story. When the cat came back to town, it made the news.
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