It’s not an uncommon sight on Jones Mountain to see Oscar the Cat crossing the road with his catch of the day. Nobody’s talking scrod here, mind you, and sometimes “catch” is plural.
After all, there’s such a wealth of “game” in these Appalachian foothills of this Northern West Virginia enclave that the word “smorgasbord” comes to mind.
Most of the time, Oscar, a 3-year-old orange Tabby, deposits his “gifts” on a broad front-porch slab of concrete next to a pair of oft-used white Cracker Barrel rocking chairs. Sometimes he takes his deposits directly to the front door.
Wrens, finches and field mice are common menu items. But Oscar, who prefers to take his drinking water from a stainless steel cup next to a bathroom sink, is not wont to shy away from bigger game.
Evidence the number of blue jays, clearly no shrinking violets, that Oscar has delivered. Or rabbits, certainly no slouches in the fleeing department.
These are not necessarily “clean kills,” you should know. In fact, if you didn’t know better, you might think some of the mountain kids had performed a Satanic ritual on the spot.
A few weekends ago, however, Oscar, prone to hiss and swat at your leg if your petting ends prematurely, tried a new delicacy.
On a pristine Jones Mountain day, Oscar the Cat came trotting across the road with a snake. A very much alive snake. Oh, it might have just been a garter snake but it was in excess of a foot long. And just as a certain hoe-toting scrivener approached Oscar to de-snake him, the snake struck, biting a startled Oscar on his left shoulder.
Oscar dropped the snake; the hoe-toter dispatched with its head. Oscar appeared no worse for the retaliation but skedaddled into the woods, likely seeking a repair kit to mend his reputation and to plot his return as the Hunter King of Jones Mountain.
Colin McNickle is a senior fellow and media specialist at the Allegheny Institute for Public Policy (cmcnickle@alleghenyinstitute.org).