In1973, TurkeyMan kidnapped the National Zoo's only caged turkey in the name of the American Indian, a classic tactic of asymmetrical warfare that diverted the Feds' attention long enough for an airdrop to resupply the Wounded Knee Siege. To all who seek freedom, including Dakota Access Pipeline resistors, TurkeyMan's story is a beacon to fearless feathered warriors everywhere.

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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.

Anyway, over the years I had become fairly educated about birds; who would not? Bird field books passed the time. Bird whistles were much preferable to FBI whispers swirling in my mind. I even learned to whistle Van Morrison's Brown Eyed Girl.

Everything was pretty cool, until that night in the tavern when Butch, the ever-inquisitive sleuth, picked out another picture in the paper, dropped his beer, and freaked out.

"Calm down!" I said. "The bartender is going to 86 us!"

"Del Vecchio!" he roared. "That turkey is everywhere!"

"Yeah, I see him," I said. "Same photographer. Different picture. So what?" But I was shaking a little. It was a picture of Attorney General Mitchell, who went to jail in 1975 for helping plan the Watergate Break-In. Mitchell definitely looked like a big gobbler, a menacing turkey, with a wide wattle. Again, it seemed like corn bread coincidence, with Del Vecchio's name also on the Turkey photo, but..."

"We can never go home."

"Don't get Tom Wolfe on me. man," I said. "Or Fenimore Cooper, either." But he was right. I had a bad feeling--I will find you, hell, Hawkeye--We never returned to camp. Our nemesis Del Vecchio seemed bigger and bigger. Who the hell was he? I was feeling Butch's vibes, and like any terrorist thief, also feeling a little paranoid. The streets of Ketchikan began to narrow.

That was years ago. But it never seems to quit. Ludicrously enough, right here in Spokane, Sunny the Panda steps into the scene. I see an article dated Jan 25, 2017: A red panda named Sunny has escaped from the Virginia Zoo in Norfolk, Virginia. The search is under way as we speak.

Search? For what? I have no idea in hell what a red panda is. I went to school in Norfolk. But that means nothing. Red Pandas don't look like anything to mess with. Something out of Alice and Wonderland. Does that panda look sunny? More like a Cheshire cat on drugs. Jabberwocky, anybody?

I think I am losing it. Animals are rushing into my headlights. I don't even have a car. A license can be traced. So can phones. I should not have gotten ahold of Butch again. He is like a bad penny. Yes, a bad Indian penny. At least, I am only half bad.

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Authors Bio:

Conceived on west coast, born on east coast, returned to northwest spawning grounds. Never far from water.