As if things could not get worse, 43 years after TurkeyMan's heinous heist, the Washington Post strikes again: Ollie the Bobcat Escapes From National Zoo (Jan 30, 2017).
Naturally, still on the run from the FBI, I took the story with a grain of salt (or Indian Butch did; I confess nothing). The timing, of course, is suspicious, likely a ruse to flush us out of the woods. Speaking of which, the Post reports that the bobcat enclosure is near the woods of Rock Creek Park, where the possibly purloined feline, or in this case feline felon, may have fled to.
Of course, having been privy to and acquainted with the unparalleled machination of the TurkeyMan cognitive bird-mind, I have to say we may be idiots, but we are not fools. Only fugitives such as D.B. Cooper have been at large longer than us, and he (1971) beats us only by two years. Frankly, I would say absconding in the night with a bag of money is easier than with a big pissed-off Tom. Cooper's sunglasses would have lasted five seconds.
Our notoriety is like fine-fermented wine, likely turned to vinegar in multiple FBI cerebral-spinal minds.
Getting back to Rock Creek where the cat could have fled, I am familiar with Rock Creek. It flows through the National Zoo; and although it is not deep, and maybe 10-20 feet wide, it provides a natural moat, which must be forded, if for example, one engages in a lunatic assault in the night. Such a symbolic storming of the Bastille, to kidnap a turkey, or other unsuspecting animal beast of the enemy state, I have to say, is not that easy. Under the weight of a twenty-pound tom, one can sprain a knee (especially one that has already been tweaked)--because Rock Creek is aptly-named, and full of slippery avocado-size rocks. Thus, an angry bird, sensing weakness (even in one's death grip while hobbling on a dead run), can turn on you in an instant, unless you can hand him off--to Butch, for example. Although Indian Butch vehemently denies any participation, who am I, being merely a part-time Indian, to say? Such reconnaissance takes exquisite planning, and almost indigenous, if not shamanic skill and cunning in the night, with only stars to guide the way. Getting close enough to touch the enemy without causing injury--known as counting coup--is how a brave achieves prestige.
The likely option is that the cat has been sold by the Trump government for its pelt, which is quite valuable; or is tethered by the turkey cage, as terrorist bait, licking its paws, and thus awaiting the return of TurkeyMan. Such Pink Panther shenanigans and delusions are insulting to any self-respecting terrorist. Any fool can see that Rock Creek flows a few miles south and empties into the Potomac River, practically next to the Watergate Complex. Does that ring any bells? Or the Bobcat's name, Ollie?--obviously for Oliver North--who lied to Congress during the Iran-Contra scandal.
No, a wolf may always return to its kill, but not one baited by a compromised bobcat. I assure you, TurkeyMan has fled into the night.
"What did you say?
I sat upright. "Sh*t--It was that FBI voice. The one I was talking to in my sleep again."
I looked around. Was it a dream? Yes, it had to be. My throwback flip-phone showed it was the year 2017. The flophouse walls of Ketchikan's Knickerbocker Hotel, along with Butch's snoring form, faded into Alaskan oblivion. I was in Spokane, Washington.The sweat trickled down my brow.
But the long-ago memories of Alaska returned. Butch and I had flown to town from the logging camp. He, of course, had recognized a name on a Nixon photo in the library that linked the Turkey photo to a famous White House photographer: Charles Del Vecchio.
"Yeah, ok, big deal," I had said to Butch. "A coincidence. What has Watergate got to do with TurkeyMan?"
"I see a storm," said Butch. "A big black cloud."
I knew Butch had a sympathetic affinity for birds; maybe even turkeys. I had seen turkey-feather war bonnets sold on Amazon dot com, but mostly I would say he was just sensitive. The zookeeper-turkey photo had almost made him cry. His eyes were welling up now. Maybe the cloud he was talking about was a flight of turkeys; some kind of Indian myth: maybe Quetzalcoatl, the Aztec God of Wind and Learning; a plumed serpent mix of bird and rattlesnake.