By Susan H. Shane
Tugged from a sound sleep at midnight, my groggy mind tries to make sense of a deep, huffing
breath I don’t recognize. I listen intently, puzzling. When I hear the sound of scrabbling feet, I tell myself that my dog, Misty, lying at the foot of the bed beneath the open window, is having a
running dream. Half-satisfied, I slip back into sleep.
breath I don’t recognize. I listen intently, puzzling. When I hear the sound of scrabbling feet, I tell myself that my dog, Misty, lying at the foot of the bed beneath the open window, is having a
running dream. Half-satisfied, I slip back into sleep.
Upon rising, I go through my morning routine, one established during 30 years of living on an acre of land next to a state park
in the Santa Cruz Mountains. I greet my kitty with warm words,
a head scrub and breakfast, feed Misty and the chickens. En
route to the goats’ pen, I snag a piece of ice plant, a treat they
relish. I walk past the upper part of their pen and toss it in. I am
jolted out of auto-pilot by the absence of Kiko and Butterscotch’s
“maa”s and hoof thuds. I stare into the pen. A goat lies
motionless on the ground. My heart clutches. I stand on tiptoe searching for my other goat. I
see her body lying still in a corner. Falling to my knees, I scream over and over: “No, no, no!
My babies...”
Sobbing and shaking, I enter the goat pen for a closer look. There is only one explanation for
their deaths-- a mountain lion attack. Each goat lies on her side. No blood shows on their necks
where the cougar’s fangs had taken hold. I see only subtle indentations and a vague parting
of the fur. On each goat’s side, however, is what looks like the work of a satanic cult. A
large oval of skin and fur is clipped away, leaving a bright red membrane tightly stretched over
the innards. Neither goat’s body cavity is ruptured. The mother in me grieves in horror, while
the scientist observes and takes photos.
Fourteen years earlier, my two daughters and I had adopted Butterscotch (nicknamed “Butter”) their deaths-- a mountain lion attack. Each goat lies on her side. No blood shows on their necks
where the cougar’s fangs had taken hold. I see only subtle indentations and a vague parting
of the fur. On each goat’s side, however, is what looks like the work of a satanic cult. A
large oval of skin and fur is clipped away, leaving a bright red membrane tightly stretched over
the innards. Neither goat’s body cavity is ruptured. The mother in me grieves in horror, while
the scientist observes and takes photos.
and Kiko as tiny, angelic creatures who easily fit side by side in a large dog crate. Sisters, they
were a melange of meat-goat breeds whom we never intended to eat. Engaged and interactive
with us from the start, they would greet my morning nose blow with eager “maa”s. When they
were full grown, about 175 pounds each, my youngest daughter played cowgirl with them.
She hopped aboard a broad back and slipped and bounced as the goat
trotted out from under her. Occasionally, I let my goaties roam free in the
yard to feed. My illusions of having them gobble weeds were quickly
discarded, as they always headed straight for my most prized plantings.
were a melange of meat-goat breeds whom we never intended to eat. Engaged and interactive
with us from the start, they would greet my morning nose blow with eager “maa”s. When they
were full grown, about 175 pounds each, my youngest daughter played cowgirl with them.
She hopped aboard a broad back and slipped and bounced as the goat trotted out from under her. Occasionally, I let my goaties roam free in the
yard to feed. My illusions of having them gobble weeds were quickly
discarded, as they always headed straight for my most prized plantings.
Getting them back into their pen was always a chaotic, hilarious scene.
Butter was the more adept at evading capture. Chasing her, I would
reach out to fling a rope around her neck just as she’d pivot and gallop
away. At times, my dog, children and I would form a ragtag team running
erratically through the yard, sweaty and breathless with laughter, as Butter bolted and spun just beyond our reach.
Butter was the more adept at evading capture. Chasing her, I would
reach out to fling a rope around her neck just as she’d pivot and gallop
away. At times, my dog, children and I would form a ragtag team running
erratically through the yard, sweaty and breathless with laughter, as Butter bolted and spun just beyond our reach.
Goat walks in the state park next to our home were the highlight of life with our goaties. The forest was a smorgasbord of flavors for them to nibble. In the woods, however, their rambunctious boldness disappeared, and
they stayed nearly glued to me; they were prey animals, after all. Wide-
bodied Kiko constantly halted to browse, filling the narrow path. I’d shove
her massive bulk and dash ahead, trying to give myself space to hike.
Seconds later, one or both goats powered past me, knocking me aside.
If I ever succeeded in getting far enough ahead to be out of sight,
thundering hooves pursued me, and the goats crowded against me again.
As part of the family, Butterscotch and Kiko needed protection in case of a wildfire, an ever-present risk in rural, mountainous California. In June 2009 a fire did threaten
our neighborhood, and an evacuation was ordered. I boxed my five hens in a large plastic
container, my two cats in carriers, and deposited my dog and my daughter in the front seat of
my minivan. Then, as I had planned for years, I loaded Butterscotch and Kiko into the seatless
back of the van. Apart from depositing poop pellets on the carpet, the goats behaved well. As I
drove, they nibbled on my hair.
our neighborhood, and an evacuation was ordered. I boxed my five hens in a large plastic
container, my two cats in carriers, and deposited my dog and my daughter in the front seat of
my minivan. Then, as I had planned for years, I loaded Butterscotch and Kiko into the seatless
back of the van. Apart from depositing poop pellets on the carpet, the goats behaved well. As I
drove, they nibbled on my hair.
An hour after my grisly discovery of my goats’ bodies, I called The University of California at
SantaCruz (UCSC), ten minutes from my home. The university’s Puma Project had run a study
of mountain lions in our area for years. Sean, a field tech, came to survey the scene. Although
there were no discernible prints in the goat pen, I finally found a youngster’s paw print on the trail
leading into the state park. We found scratch marks at the base of the fence where Butter’s body
lay. Unable to lift her body, the lion had tried to drag her out beneath the fence. Sean suspected
that the attacker was 29F, a satellite-collared adult female lion who had an older cub. 29F’s
satellite tag battery was nearly kaput, so researchers were anxious to capture and re-collar her.
My goats’ deaths provided the opportunity to do that, so Sean left to gather equipment needed
for the capture.
SantaCruz (UCSC), ten minutes from my home. The university’s Puma Project had run a study
of mountain lions in our area for years. Sean, a field tech, came to survey the scene. Although
there were no discernible prints in the goat pen, I finally found a youngster’s paw print on the trail
leading into the state park. We found scratch marks at the base of the fence where Butter’s body
lay. Unable to lift her body, the lion had tried to drag her out beneath the fence. Sean suspected
that the attacker was 29F, a satellite-collared adult female lion who had an older cub. 29F’s
satellite tag battery was nearly kaput, so researchers were anxious to capture and re-collar her.
My goats’ deaths provided the opportunity to do that, so Sean left to gather equipment needed
for the capture.
The Puma Project’s research had revealed that goats are a favored prey of mountain lions. Why
had my goats survived for 14.5 years in prime mountain lion habitat? I had always assumed
their size would make it impossible for a mountain lion to haul the body over the six foot fence
surrounding their pen. Signs that Butter’s body had been dragged to the fence and an attempt
made to pull her beneath it confirmed that theory.
had my goats survived for 14.5 years in prime mountain lion habitat? I had always assumed
their size would make it impossible for a mountain lion to haul the body over the six foot fence
surrounding their pen. Signs that Butter’s body had been dragged to the fence and an attempt
made to pull her beneath it confirmed that theory.
As I waited for Sean to return, a kind neighbor, poignantly suffering from terminal cancer, used
his backhoe to dig a massive grave for my girls. Wishing to connect, suffer, do penance, I
spent a few hours saying goodbye and shoveling earth over my goaties.
his backhoe to dig a massive grave for my girls. Wishing to connect, suffer, do penance, I
spent a few hours saying goodbye and shoveling earth over my goaties.
After dark, Sean returned and placed a large, heavy-barred steel cage in the pen where Butter-
scotch’s body had lain. He baited it with dripping pieces of purplish red beef liver from Safeway,
then left the trap, and stationed himself in my house to wait for a radio alert that the trapdoor had
been triggered. At midnight, Sean woke me with news of success. He and I stood on the deck
and scanned the scene with a powerful flashlight. Occasional clanks echoed from the trap
where 29F was caught, but our attention was diverted to the garden where eyes glowed.
“There’s the cub,” Sean pointed out. We gazed in silence, and then Sean exclaimed “Wait,
there are four eyes in that bush!” Four glowing eyes peered out from the inadequate cover of a
dwarf lemon tree, beneath which crouched not one, but two cubs! Each kitten was nearly full-
sized but not as heavy as its mom. This discovery provided a potential explanation for my
goats’ deaths. Perhaps this mother puma had taken advantage of a chance to teach her cubs
hunting skills in a controlled environment? We heard one pure, sweet, loud chirp of a whistle,
the mother’s call to her cubs. After some time, perhaps convinced that we posed no threat,
the kittens crept out from their flimsy cover and began to explore. Always together, these lanky
blond creatures strode in and out of my garden, meandering and sniffing. It was a wonder to
watch, a “rare event”, Sean told me.
scotch’s body had lain. He baited it with dripping pieces of purplish red beef liver from Safeway,
then left the trap, and stationed himself in my house to wait for a radio alert that the trapdoor had
been triggered. At midnight, Sean woke me with news of success. He and I stood on the deck
and scanned the scene with a powerful flashlight. Occasional clanks echoed from the trap
where 29F was caught, but our attention was diverted to the garden where eyes glowed.
“There’s the cub,” Sean pointed out. We gazed in silence, and then Sean exclaimed “Wait,
there are four eyes in that bush!” Four glowing eyes peered out from the inadequate cover of a
dwarf lemon tree, beneath which crouched not one, but two cubs! Each kitten was nearly full-
sized but not as heavy as its mom. This discovery provided a potential explanation for my
goats’ deaths. Perhaps this mother puma had taken advantage of a chance to teach her cubs
hunting skills in a controlled environment? We heard one pure, sweet, loud chirp of a whistle,
the mother’s call to her cubs. After some time, perhaps convinced that we posed no threat,
the kittens crept out from their flimsy cover and began to explore. Always together, these lanky
blond creatures strode in and out of my garden, meandering and sniffing. It was a wonder to
watch, a “rare event”, Sean told me.
An hour later, reinforcements from the Puma Project arrived. We proceeded down to the goat
penwhere 29F crouched, watchful inside the cage. Two of us stepped close to one side of the
cage, and the cougar became a terrifying demon-- lips retracted, ears pinned to her head,
massive canines revealed, and deafening snarls directed at us. From the other side of the
cage, Sean injected the distracted lion with an anesthetic via a needle on a long pole. The
cubs had already melted into the chaparral, never to be seen again. Once the puma stilled and
slumped to the floor of the cage, two people shifted her onto a canvas sling and carried her into
the open yard at the edge of the woods.
While the researchers were busy with measuring, weighing
and photographing 29F, I sat on the ground and touched the
animal that had killed my beloved goats. “I hope you’re
suffering”, I told the cougar in my mind. And, then, I marveled
at her perfection, mesmerized by the unblemished, grey pads
of her paws and the thick, furred beauty of her heavy, golden
tail. My mind was a scramble of sadness, anger and awe.
As I sat there, I became aware of the mountain lion’s breathing.
With a chill, I realized it was this deep huffing that I had heard
penwhere 29F crouched, watchful inside the cage. Two of us stepped close to one side of the
cage, and the cougar became a terrifying demon-- lips retracted, ears pinned to her head,
massive canines revealed, and deafening snarls directed at us. From the other side of the
cage, Sean injected the distracted lion with an anesthetic via a needle on a long pole. The
cubs had already melted into the chaparral, never to be seen again. Once the puma stilled and
slumped to the floor of the cage, two people shifted her onto a canvas sling and carried her into
the open yard at the edge of the woods. While the researchers were busy with measuring, weighing
and photographing 29F, I sat on the ground and touched the
animal that had killed my beloved goats. “I hope you’re
suffering”, I told the cougar in my mind. And, then, I marveled
at her perfection, mesmerized by the unblemished, grey pads
of her paws and the thick, furred beauty of her heavy, golden
tail. My mind was a scramble of sadness, anger and awe.
As I sat there, I became aware of the mountain lion’s breathing.
With a chill, I realized it was this deep huffing that I had heard
from my bed just 24 hours before. The scrabbling feet I
attributed to my dog’s running dream? The final sparks of my
Kiko’s life, her hooves scraping desperately at the earth as the breath left her.
attributed to my dog’s running dream? The final sparks of my
Kiko’s life, her hooves scraping desperately at the earth as the breath left her.
2 January 2018
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