Night Moves (Doc Ford) - By RandyWayne White Page 0,19
My friend’s words were lost in the roar of the plane passing overhead. I looked up just long enough to note that he was correct about the missing door. Inside, a male passenger was turning away from us, something in his hands. Yes . . . some kind of optical gizmo, a telephoto lens possibly. A pro photographer or videographer at work, maybe. Why else remove a perfectly good door from a perfectly good airplane?
My eyes didn’t linger. I was angling to the left, using my gloves to part sawgrass as if it were a wall of beaded curtains. If I gauged the distance correctly, maybe I could slip in behind the animal before it spooked. That didn’t strike me as risky. Black bears and coyotes have yet to place man in the food chain, and I could outdistance an alligator, or even a twenty-foot boa constrictor, if I surprised the thing from behind.
A Florida panther, though, was a different story, as I was aware. Surprising a big cat in the wild was risky. Probably riskier now than ever before. After being hunted to near extinction, they had learned to avoid contact with man. But, for reasons unknown, that is changing in the western varietal. Panthers—mountain lions, they are called—have attacked lone runners, hikers, and bikers. And I knew firsthand of an attempted attack on a pair of Florida hunters.
Even so, I wasn’t worried. I’m a biologist and I wanted a closer look. It was a sunny, windy day, so the odds of me surprising a panther were minuscule, and the odds of it attacking me even less.
“Doc! Where the hell are you? That damn plane’s circling back!”
No telling why Tomlinson was so concerned. Through a veil of sawgrass, I saw the plane bank to turn.
I kept moving as the plane pivoted toward us, but I was having no luck. Where the hell was the animal’s trail? I couldn’t find it. Sawgrass, I realized, was as indifferent as seawater when it came to preserving the tracks of an interloper. There was no trail to find. Ahead, a big snake could be lying in ambush. Or a big gator. Not good.
I stopped, did another slow three-sixty, holding my walking stick in both hands. The smart thing to do, I decided, was follow what little remained of my own trail back to the ridge. So I retreated, moving slowly at first, then faster. When the plane roared overhead a second time, I was slogging at top speed so took only a quick look. From my angle, I couldn’t see if the photographer was snapping pictures or not. Was it two crazy hikers that had interested them? Or the animal I had failed to find?
When I stepped into a clearing, only yards from the ridge, one of my questions was answered. The creature I had been tracking was there awaiting my exit. I had been outsmarted, which isn’t unusual, so I don’t know why I was surprised. But I was.
The animal stood on four sturdy legs studying me, yellow-eyed, ears alert, something recently captured in its mouth. I felt a microsecond of concern, then gradual relief. I moved several steps closer . . . stopped . . . then took a few more steps. Then I held out my hand.
—
“TELL ME I’m not hallucinating!” Tomlinson hollered as I sloshed up the ridge, the animal trotting at heel beside me. “You found a . . . dog?”
Yes, I had. “I think he’s a Lab. Or maybe a mixed breed—see the curly hair? He’s been out here lost for a while. Feel him, he’s all ribs and muscle. See all the crud in his coat? No collar, no tags. And something skinned a piece of fur off his tail, plus there’s a chunk missing from his leg. This guy’s had a tough time.”
“A dog’s a good sign, man. My morale was drooping. But finding a dog in the middle of fumbuck . . . Whoa . . . What’s he got in his mouth?” As Tomlinson asked the question, his eyes swerved to the Cessna, which was disappearing toward the west.
I felt a cold nose nudge my hand, so I scratched the dog’s ears. “A snake. But he won’t let me have it. The thing’s been dead a couple of days, from the smell, and part of it’s still wrapped around his neck. He either bit the thing in half or he ate it. So he had a hell of a battle with a boa