Read Online Untamed: The Wildest Woman in America and the Fight for Cumberland Island by Will Harlan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Will Harlan
Ads: Link
her.
“Not if I take her with me tonight,” she replied.
Carol began bottle-feeding the frail, feeble cub, whom she named Bast. Her fur was fluffy oatmeal, with flecks of honey and a dollop of stunted cottonball tail. After a few days, her mane thickened and her checkerboard spots deepened in color. Slowly, Bast gained weight and strength. She grew into her oversized paws. Carol built a forty-by-forty-foot pen in her backyard with elevated ramps, jumps, and ledges, surrounded by an eight-foot chain-link fence. She walked Bast twice a day on a leash through the pathless forest behind her house. At home, Carol crouched low, hands beneath her chin, and played pouncing games with her feline friend. They slept together on a single mattress on the floor.
Eventually, however, Bast outgrew even her backyard jungle. Carol convinced a friend to let her release Bast on his forested property south of Atlanta. Carol said her goodbyes, snuggled her one last time in her arms, and then set her free. Bast excitedly dashed about for a few minutes, but when she heard Carol’s jeep engine, she chased her down the gravel driveway.
Carol couldn’t sleep that night, worried that Bast was not yet acclimated to the wild. She returned the next day with food and water bowls. Bast was waiting for her at the end of the gravel driveway. She tackled Carol as soon as she stepped out of the truck and licked her face.
For several weeks, Carol drove down to feed Bast. It was a two-and-a-half-hour round-trip each day. Bast waited for her every evening. Then one night, she arrived to an empty field and a food bowl still filled.
“Bast! Here, girl!” she called. No response came from the darkening woods.
In the dusky halflight, she searched the edges of the field for tracks or scat but found none. Could she have been shot by hunters? Did a bear or cougar get her? She called again for Bast but heard only the echo of her own voice.
The sky was sprinkled with stars when she finally returned to her jeep. She started the engine and flipped on her headlights. At the forest’s edge, a pair of glowing yellow eyes appeared. Bast watched her drive slowly down the gravel road, but this time she did not follow.
Carol ate her first bobcat a few months later. She spotted its carcass along a rural mountain road on a cool autumn evening, the sinking sun bathing the bare trees in tangerine twilight. Carol parked her jeep in the grass and climbed down, her boots crunching the cold gravel.
“I hope it went quickly,” she said, kneeling beside the cat. As she removed the pelt around the haunches, she moistened the skin with canteen water to make the slices easier. All the while, she talked to the bobcat soothingly and reassuringly, nurse to patient, mother to child.
The cat’s stunted tailbone was still in its skin, so she tugged at it with her teeth. After a half hour, she had the bobcat disassembled, laid out on the ground in cleanly dissected parts. Next, she sliced into the intestines. Warm steam hissed from the stomach, and a bilious black fluid spilled out. Carol sorted through the offal with her bare hands to find the crushed bones of a rabbit and leathery pieces of deer skin.
“You’ve been living high on the hog, big fella,” she said.
Then she sliced away dense red meat from its shanks and placed them in a plastic bread bag. Carol ate the bobcat that evening for supper. As always, she thanked the animal before eating it. Sizzling in fat over the fire, the bobcat meat was rich, gamy, and delicious.
“We don’t have a good reason not to eat cat or dog. The Indians knew that,” Carol wrote in her journal. “We euthanize tens of thousands of cats and dogs each year and then dump their carcasses. We’re so wasteful and ungrateful.”
Carol had first discovered food stigmas at age six. Wading barefoot in a shallow creek, she saw a fish swimming upriver. She grabbed it with her bare hands and brought it to her father, who was fishing on the
“Not if I take her with me tonight,” she replied.
Carol began bottle-feeding the frail, feeble cub, whom she named Bast. Her fur was fluffy oatmeal, with flecks of honey and a dollop of stunted cottonball tail. After a few days, her mane thickened and her checkerboard spots deepened in color. Slowly, Bast gained weight and strength. She grew into her oversized paws. Carol built a forty-by-forty-foot pen in her backyard with elevated ramps, jumps, and ledges, surrounded by an eight-foot chain-link fence. She walked Bast twice a day on a leash through the pathless forest behind her house. At home, Carol crouched low, hands beneath her chin, and played pouncing games with her feline friend. They slept together on a single mattress on the floor.
Eventually, however, Bast outgrew even her backyard jungle. Carol convinced a friend to let her release Bast on his forested property south of Atlanta. Carol said her goodbyes, snuggled her one last time in her arms, and then set her free. Bast excitedly dashed about for a few minutes, but when she heard Carol’s jeep engine, she chased her down the gravel driveway.
Carol couldn’t sleep that night, worried that Bast was not yet acclimated to the wild. She returned the next day with food and water bowls. Bast was waiting for her at the end of the gravel driveway. She tackled Carol as soon as she stepped out of the truck and licked her face.
For several weeks, Carol drove down to feed Bast. It was a two-and-a-half-hour round-trip each day. Bast waited for her every evening. Then one night, she arrived to an empty field and a food bowl still filled.
“Bast! Here, girl!” she called. No response came from the darkening woods.
In the dusky halflight, she searched the edges of the field for tracks or scat but found none. Could she have been shot by hunters? Did a bear or cougar get her? She called again for Bast but heard only the echo of her own voice.
The sky was sprinkled with stars when she finally returned to her jeep. She started the engine and flipped on her headlights. At the forest’s edge, a pair of glowing yellow eyes appeared. Bast watched her drive slowly down the gravel road, but this time she did not follow.
Carol ate her first bobcat a few months later. She spotted its carcass along a rural mountain road on a cool autumn evening, the sinking sun bathing the bare trees in tangerine twilight. Carol parked her jeep in the grass and climbed down, her boots crunching the cold gravel.
“I hope it went quickly,” she said, kneeling beside the cat. As she removed the pelt around the haunches, she moistened the skin with canteen water to make the slices easier. All the while, she talked to the bobcat soothingly and reassuringly, nurse to patient, mother to child.
The cat’s stunted tailbone was still in its skin, so she tugged at it with her teeth. After a half hour, she had the bobcat disassembled, laid out on the ground in cleanly dissected parts. Next, she sliced into the intestines. Warm steam hissed from the stomach, and a bilious black fluid spilled out. Carol sorted through the offal with her bare hands to find the crushed bones of a rabbit and leathery pieces of deer skin.
“You’ve been living high on the hog, big fella,” she said.
Then she sliced away dense red meat from its shanks and placed them in a plastic bread bag. Carol ate the bobcat that evening for supper. As always, she thanked the animal before eating it. Sizzling in fat over the fire, the bobcat meat was rich, gamy, and delicious.
“We don’t have a good reason not to eat cat or dog. The Indians knew that,” Carol wrote in her journal. “We euthanize tens of thousands of cats and dogs each year and then dump their carcasses. We’re so wasteful and ungrateful.”
Carol had first discovered food stigmas at age six. Wading barefoot in a shallow creek, she saw a fish swimming upriver. She grabbed it with her bare hands and brought it to her father, who was fishing on the
Similar Books
