“Where? I can’t see it.”
“Straight ahead,” Elizabeth says
I try to hold my binoculars steady. “Near the dried stalk?”
“A little to the left. It’s completely camouflaged. It’s looking at us.”
Then I see it, its outline as subtle as a pencil sketch on a paper bag, reclining in the dry grasses of the pasture. Black ears. Round face, like Bert Lahr in the Wizard of Oz. Gazing back placidly. Two small deer pass between us along the edge of the fence.
“Go git em,” I say. The bobcat shows no interest, though the deer are obviously on high alert.
Every time I shift my line of sight it takes minutes to relocate it.
There it is again, still looking at us. I wonder what it sees, what its consciousness consists of. Wariness, perhaps. Curiosity. Maybe simple awareness with neither of the above. It belongs in this place in a way we don’t. Our self-consciousness makes us tourists no matter where we are. Unless, of course, we are lunch.
“Bobcats go for smaller stuff. Voles, rabbits.,” Elizabeth says.
It gets on its haunches, and, gratifying our hopes, stands. Through the untrustworthy perspective of the binoculars it looks about three feet high, with a broad, powerful torso. It walks slowly down the slope, out of sight.