Swatworth the Magnificent was in a pickle. He had just been enjoying a nice bobcat outing with Jean, myself and some friends, complete with periodic delicious treats from Jean’s food pouch. All was well with the world until a diesel truck roared up the driveway and scared the kitty fur out of him. He bolted out into our sagebrush field and disappeared.

"Uh-oh! Looks like he’s gone for good," worried the people sharing our walk.

But they didn’t know Jean—or Swatworth.

Swatworth could play a good game of fierce independence (a very good game, mind you). Jean called. No response. He called again. Silence. Picking up a pet carrier, he started walking in the general direction where the panicked bobcat had flown, feeling for his presence, getting warmer and warmer. Sure enough, he saw the twitching tail of a flattened cat hiding beneath some sagebrush ahead and to the right. Deliberately paying no attention to him, Jean walked right on past.

That was just too much; Jean was ignoring him! (Plus, there went the safety of Jean along with his carrier in this large unknown field, from his point of view in the middle of nowhere.) Without turning Jean felt himself being followed. He walked on a bit, put down the carrier, threw in a piece of meat and kept on walking.

Swatworth entered the carrier, ate the meat, came back out, and continued to follow Jean, who walked in a big circle back to the carrier. Jean put in another piece of meat, but this time he stayed. Swatworth casually entered, enticed by the meat. Jean gently closed the door, and that was that. Nothing was said about panicking. Swatworth was carried back to the safety of his enclosure, his honor intact. The incident was never referred to again.

Swatworth takes on a mountain lion

Pound for pound, it has been said that bobcats are the toughest cats in existence in strength and fierceness. Their ego knows no bounds. With Swatworth that was certainly true. He lived next to Shoshone, a large and splendid cougar. It was amicable enough, but one day Shoshone was peacefully eating a piece of chicken just as Swatworth was returning from an outing. Instead of returning to his enclosure, there was a lightning flash of fur as he leapt onto the mesh fence on the side of Shoshone's enclosure with enraged, earsplitting yowls, all his fur standing on end. That powerful one-hundred-and-fifty-pound mountain lion was taken aback, not knowing what to make of this screaming apparition one-fifth his size. He backed away from his own food in his own enclosure, essentially ceding his meal. We had to peel Swatworth off the fence where he clung, all four paws spread out, in true Garfield fashion.

Yet Swatworth was intensely affectionate and sweet with those he was familiar with, calling us with a soft woo-woo-woo and butting foreheads gently in greeting, rubbing against us like a house cat. He was raised with Rodney, a dog that could do no wrong in his estimation. He adored him and allowed Rodney to lick him clean from head to toe. He would lie on his back, legs splayed, eyes closed in utter bliss as Rodney groomed him, thirty pounds of bobcat tamed. He was quite vehement in his hates and loves and especially in the assertion of his self-perceived rights.

However any friendliness went by the wayside when there was food involved. Swatworth earned his name as we tried to bottle feed him as a kitten. My hands were covered with scratches as he grabbed for the bottle because I was not able to get the nipple into his mouth quickly enough for his taste. With some animals we would have said they were frantic for food. In Swatworth’s case, enraged would be a better description. Someone once wrote to us, asking for advice on handling a bobcat they were rehabilitating. They had a wonderful relationship with it except at feeding time, when it suddenly turned from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. The only possible response: “Well, sounds like you have a bobcat.”

The saga of Swatworth and the cows

Swatworth was a gorgeous animal and many people wanted to photograph him. They often had specific backgrounds they wanted. For one photoshoot, Jean brought Swatworth to a meadow at the edge of our property and began posing him for the camera. Unfortunately, just on the other side of the fence was a herd of twenty cows, grazing peacefully. At first Swatworth paid no attention to them as the treats Jean was offering to hold him in position were really good. But then apparently one of them made a sudden move and caught his attention. He froze. Then in a flash he took off, raced under the fence, and began to give chase. Twenty very large mammals panicked, turned, and fled from a thirty-pound figure streaking behind them. Power!

Alas, the moment of glory didn’t last. The cows glanced behind them, saw what they were fleeing from, stopped and the tables were turned. Twenty large mammals were chasing a thirty–pound bobcat with full fury. Swatworth raced for his life, back under the fence, and leapt directly into the arms of an astonished Jean. It was very hard not to laugh but it was all quite embarrassing enough so we tried not to.

Swatsworth, Josie and the Buffalo Girls

Swatsworth the bobcat, better known as Swatworth the Magnificent, probable descendant of Sultan Suleiman the Magnificent, Without Peer, to whom all rights adhere because of divine descent and innate superiority (I am only putting into words his evident opinion of himself, illustrated by an impressive swagger and many incidents); this very same bobcat may have met his match, though events transpired in such a way that he was able to save face.

And to introduce the other main character in this saga, we have Josie, the Buffalo Goat. She is a most shiny, well-padded and self-satisfied goat, companion and milk source for Rosebud and Bluebell, the Buffalo Girls, and knew no bounds to her own opinion of herself and her abilities. Looking out the bedroom window in the early morning, there was often a goat butting away without noticeable effect at a huge, lowered buffalo head, that head being concentrated at the moment on some green morsel. Or I would look out and there’d be two figures in the distance thundering toward the corral by the cabin having been taken with the idea that they need something there, and I’d see perhaps a hint of something small between them. As they pounded closer, ever larger, the small hint would materialize into a goat shape, all three abreast, thundering with equal presence and panache towards the corral. In any case, Swatworth was in the Wildlife Garden enjoying his afternoon siesta when suddenly he realized there was something moving on the other side of the fence.

He crouched on the top of the embankment behind a weed big enough to cover one ear and stared in fascination; Josie the Buffalo Goat was grazing peacefully. His hind feet made twitching movements as he struggled to contain himself. Josie is a plump and juicy goat. Many seconds went by until finally he could stand it no longer and made a flying leap, caught the fence at mid-height, flattened himself against it, and clung there. Josie looked up in astonishment and did what Josie does when she sees what could be a predator; she stopped and stared at him mesmerized, unable to take her eyes off a bobcat hanging on the fence. Not the best reaction but there you are, she does it every time. Perhaps she is unable to believe the gall of anyone thinking they are a match for her. She moved closer, eyes fixed. He twitched. She stared. He was obviously thinking of going over the fence. Then from the left of Josie materialized the immense buffalo face of Rosebud. On the right appeared another huge face, Bluebell, focused quite clearly on the bobcat. Josie moved closer and to the right.

Swatworth trembled in excitement and mirroring her, moved to the left. Two buffalo heads, succeeded by two massive buffalo bodies following in tandem. Maybe it was only a goat with the foolish illusion she was a buffalo, but she was their goat, and no lowly bobcat was going to harm a hair on her substantial body. With their backing, Josie gained courage and moved still closer, only a few feet now from the quivering cat. Swatworth twitched again, scarcely able to restrain himself despite the rather considerable reality of a humiliating ending. It was a showdown between four extremely stubborn creatures that were face to face. Staring, twitching, moving, following—wherever Josie went and Swatworth followed, Bluebell and Rosebud provided a glowering safety net. Stalemate. Swatworth was Buffaloed.

I finally had mercy, tore myself away from watching the saga and fetched a piece of fresh sweet chicken liver. I don’t know if it was the liver itself, or the fact that it might be a plausible story that the liver was so good that it could be excused if Swatworth broke his gaze, or if it offered him an opportunity to exercise for once a modicum of good judgment, but in any case, he allowed himself to be distracted by the liver. It couldn’t be that he was outgunned, he wasn’t really interested anyway; the goat was probably old and tough, and look at that bird over there. Now, this delicious liver was indeed food fit for royalty placed for him in his palace that just happened to be a plastic carrying crate.

He graciously entered and permitted himself to be carried back to his quarters by his bearers, the whole thing being beneath his dignity. Arriving home, he proceeded to mentally terrorize Pinkerton, stalking back and forth swatting the air. Ahhh, the satisfactions in life. Let it be known: Swatworth is truly a magnificent bobcat.