Further Thoughts on Wildcat Hunting

Over the last two months I have been murdered by reader e-mails and comments over a post I released two years ago about bobcat hunting. In five years of publishing content online through various forums and websites, I've covered at least a little bit of just about every kind of hunting in this country and others, whether it was based on personal experience or commentary on an issue. Combined, the topics of these posts haven't attracted this level of vitriol. Why after two years has one little article attracted this much attention? Is it because of my ascending stardom among the Outdoor Community? 

Yes, probably. This post has hundreds of hits a day now, which is great because it generates traffic, but judging by these sentiments, not all that sure I'm hitting my demographic.

Anyway, I published a couple of the comments; deleted those that crudely diminished my manhood - in both an ethical and anatomical sense - and those so poorly written they made me weep for our education system. All of them signed, "Anonymous."

Bold.

Look, it's quite clear few of these people actually read the post. In it, I argued that while bobcat hunting is fine sport, and they require management on certain lands, it's not like I'm out to butcher every one I run across - the reasons for hunting them are separate and apart.

But there is really no value in rationalizing with these folks.

Let's go ahead, though, and run through some of the major points surrounding bobcat hunting.

1. It's legal, at least in Florida and most of the Southern states. They are not endangered or considered threatened in any way.

2. Calling in a bobcat is the outdoor equivalent of a scary movie. You know that scene in those horrible flicks when a character is washing his face in the bathroom sink and looks up into the vanity to towel off and startlingly sees the image of a child with cold, frightening eyes standing behind him in the reflection? That's about what it's like to be in the middle of a calling session and realizing the cat is right there, and you're not sure how that came to be true so suddenly and quietly.

3. Bobcat management is a somewhat debatable practice, but most folks believe that the removal of a few a year will help turkey, small game and songbird populations - when combined with other land management tools. I've seen them on properties follow flocks of turkey like blacktips shadow schools of mullet along the East Coast beaches each summer. It's not healthy to wipe them all out - and you never could, anyhow - but taking a limited number each year is wise.

4. Nobody really eats bobcat. Now, I say nobody with the full intention of realizing someone out there probably does, but it's not common practice which turns off plenty of hunters and non-hunters. I feel no need to justify my actions today; I shot a lot more when I was younger and more blood-thirsty. I have a mount I'm very proud of. I've let several walk since my last post about the matter, but I'm going predator hunting this weekend and may very well be holding up another one by Sunday evening because of the three other reasons described above.

So there it is. I realize that bobcat hunting doesn't sit well with a lot of people - especially in a world where some members of our citizenry place felines on a pedestal, though domestic and feral cats are among the gravest pestilences that have ever struck our native ecosystems.

There's some temptation to argue back with the knobs who leave these comments, but most would be over-matched and the balance wouldn't care. I'm OK if you disagree with me. Promise.

Just don't expect me to be insulted over it.

"You're the worst kind of human being. You surely will be shot and skinned in your next life. ENJOY!!! " -  Anonymous

The Bobcat Mount

I’ve seen plenty of crappy bobcat mounts. In most cases, the head looks all wrong, as if his skin and fur were pulled back in preparation for a face lift. The tufts that make the cat so distinguishable are flattened; eyes bugging and whiskers lay bare the resemblance of a feline that had been rescued from a storm drain.

And as I’ve written before, I have a personal preference for how I have animals mounted. I didn’t want him chasing a bobwhite, quarrelling with a raccoon, lounging on a tree branch or covering his feces with dirt. Nothing wrong if others choose these poses, I simply prefer a fair representation of the creature’s nature when the Moment of Truth arrived.

Bobcats are also lithe animals that are much more impressive in Real Life. Without antlers, it’s difficult for taxidermy to capture the trophy or quality aspect of the animal. Being skinny creatures, a lot of mounts – especially those in which the animal is lunging for a flying quail – emphasize this. The manufactured eyes are oftentimes searing yellow or grasshopper-green with the queried lifelessness of a politician whose teleprompter died. Or so fake you look for a red button to push so the cat's jaws will move and start crooning "Cat Scratch Fever." It becomes the first thing one notices about many mounts. The eyes on a live bobcat – while hypnotic for sure – typically aren’t the first things I recognize in the field. You instantly see that cunning, fluid animal. As I said, it’s tough for a taxidermist to capture that.

Being one to loathe wasting money, I was trepidatious when deciding to have a large wildcat mounted last February. But I have been taking animals to George Norwood of Plant City for 15 years and know the quality of his work.

I was not disappointed.

I set out with the peculiar set of goals described above. With this cat, I wanted his hockey puck feet visible and not buried in any background. Since he was shot while prowling around after a female, I preferred a semi-stalk form with his mouth slightly turned and mouth open, but not so much that he’d be snarling. I wanted his ample manhood hanging well below his thighs...

No, but what was really important was to capture the body size of this beast. This was a 20-30 pound cat - pretty large for this neck of the woods. Looking through the taxidermy catalogues, I couldn’t find quite the form I wanted and allowed George the artistic license. With that, it just became a waiting game to get the mount back

And here are the results.







In the end, I wish the head was tilted down a little more and those damn eyes were softer. But that's being ticky-tacky - the craftsmanship of this mount is outstanding. The eyes are set well into the head, his muttonchops are prominent, and the half-crouch/semi-sneak pose does justice to the cat’s frame. My photography talents betray the size of the animal, as well as the handiwork. Perhaps I should have put a handle of bourbon next to it for a size reference.

Anyway, very, very pleased. If you ever decide to get a bobcat mount, always ask the taxidermist for samples of his work and a few phone numbers from other clients. Remember, no matter what style of mount you prefer, poor quality is never cheap and approaching it in this manner will leave a bitter taste. Shop around for what you feel comfortable spending – but remember to gauge the taxidermist’s work. It’s a unique piece of work; think value over cost.

This will be my only, foreseeable, bobcat mount; happy it turned out this well.

(If you’d like George’s contact information, please e-mail me at inance880@aol.com. His work is excellent and prices more than reasonable.)

The Annual Christmas Hunt

Remember the “Gallimimus Stampede Scene” in Jurassic Park when the long-legged dinosaurs trampled past Dr. Grant and the kids? Remember the noise of that charging herd? That’s about what this flock of hens sounded like as they bum-rushed the feeder for a late afternoon meal of whole corn.

Travis and I had constructed a ground blind of palmettos and other debris in hopes of sticking a big boar with our bows. Hogs were on the brain – knew turkey came here, but they were an afterthought. Imagine the excitement, then, when you hear this commotion quickly advance from behind, and all you can think about is your flimsy hideout being demolished by hungry snouts and clacking cutters of timer-trained swine. Nonetheless, you are hunter, and must remain totally still if you want the kill. Imagine the strange relief and catch-your-breath moment when, instead of being bowled over for foolishly getting in the way of some stud swine’s supper, you are staring eye to eye with a clucking jake.

The flock fed under the feeder for five minutes or so, vacuuming up every last kernel. Eventually, they meandered off, though they’d return every 30 minutes or so until we heard them fly up before dark. The hogs never paid a visit. With the turkeys holding such vigil here, it’s no surprise why the hogs didn’t visit.

This was our annual Christmas hunt at a ranch in Sarasota. Some members abandon to camp after dinner Christmas night. I, not wanting to be single, usually leave the next morning, and it’s then I reach the full holiday spirit. It’s a fun hunt, nothing too serious. Pigs are the usual fare with the occasional doe or predator taken along the way. In fact, this effort for an archery boar was even a bit more than we do on this trip. Typically, this is a spot-and-stalk from the truck ordeal. The ranch owner and manager wants ‘em dead and there’s a lot of land to cover.

Really, this campaign may have been too successful the last couple of years. I can’t prove it beyond empirical evidence, but I think we’re finally putting a dent in these things. Piling up a half-dozen an evening used to be no big trick. Times, they have a-changed.

In full disclosure, I had my chances. The Sunday after Christmas, with the woeful Bucs having just beaten the Saints, E-Man, Dirty, and I were cruising through a sod field when E-Man noticed movement in an adjacent cow pasture. Out in the open, four to five hundred yards out, was a pretty decent mottled-colored boar. We hopped out of the Dodge and hurried along the barbed wire. Recognizing he wasn’t sitting still for very much longer, we reached a fence post where I could get a clear 250-300 yard shot with the .300.

At the report, the boar swapped ends, ran in a circle, then off into oblivion. Normally, I’d kept slinging lead his way, but he ran right towards a herd of cattle. We marked him well but still found no spoor, not totally surprising as those boars can soak up even big loads. Disappointed, we returned to the truck and pressed on – he turned out to be the only hog spied that night.



E-Man had better luck earlier that morning. While driving through an orange grove, someone caught sight of the hog he had shot Saturday night. A 220lb. – on a scale - listed barr hog, we couldn’t decide if he’d hit the pig that night, his 6.5 Mauser not leaving any sign in the poor light of the grove. We settled on a miss, but Sunday morning proved us wrong. E-Man’s mood flipped in a hurry. The meat was still good and full of fat, perfect for a BBQ. It was just another reminder of how tough those animals are.



Don killed a few sows. Travis popped a doe. Dirty and E-Man each added another hog or two to their coolers. Young Jacob had his granddaddy call in a fall gobbler for him, but he missed the shot. Once he advances past Junior High he’ll have to start taking his lumps about this. His brother, Austin, may have taken the trophy of the weekend, a fine bobcat that stalked around a feeder. It was the biggest critter Austin had taken, he made a perfect shot, and we were right proud. And in another sign he'd gotten closer to full initiation into the hunting ranks was the cut on the bridge of his nose where the scope caught him on the recoil. And out came the war stories from everyone who'd done something similar.



Hunts like this are few and far between. This crew has hunted together a long time - the elders even longer. There’s a fair amount of teasing and lying involved, with a toddy or two flaring that fire. Food is always hot and plentiful. And the wildlife on this ranch is something to behold. Besides the hog and turkey and deer, we saw fox squirrels, caracaras, bald eagles, teal, mottled ducks, and ibis of several different varieties. I think I remember at least one guy saying he’d seen a coyote, outside the standard fare of gators, coons, possums, and armadillos.

Lucky, no doubt, that I’m able to do this year after year. These Christmas gifts amongst the trees are quite often better than any I’ll ever find under a tree.