Ole’ Bobcat called a while back. Said he didn’t think he would be around much longer. Said he had three heart attacks in the last few months.

“Bobcat,” I said, “As many wrecks and close calls as you’ve had you shouldn’t let a few little heart attacks bring you down.”

He laughed.
Bobcat was a couple of years older than I. It was natural for me as a child to watch what older boys were doing and emulate their actions. Our homes were in the same proximity and before we were friends he walked through the backyard without my permission. I shot him in the back with my BB gun for trespassing. The shot drew blood—a couple of drops.

The war was on. He went home and fetched his pump Daisy which was more powerful and had longer range my cock Daisy.

Being outgunned, I summoned friend Paul, who had no BB gun, to enlist the services of friend Danny who also had a cock Daisy.

For two days we shot at each other from behind privet, stumps  and downed trees while somehow not  shooting out eyes, organs or limbs. We would send Paul for more ammunition (to get nickel bags of BBs from a nearby Drake-Mangrum grocery). Bobcat would yell asking for ammo for himself. We agreed to share munitions bearer to keep our war competitive. It was the right thing to do.

We were friends ever after.

The ‘Cat would go off to another war. I’m not sure what he did there, but Vietnam was hot and heavy, and he came back more worldly than before. The scars of his war there were not physical.

He has since seen more than his share of hospitals and institutions, especially the VA. Physical scars of other escapades had taken toll on his wiry body.

Cat had a distinctive, crow-footed walk that could be spotted from quite a ways off and his slight  frame was very recognizable especially after he let his hair grow long.

He lost his father at an early age and was a passenger in his brother’s muscle car the night it flipped on the Dam Road killing his only sibling.

Several years ago, just days before his high school graduation, his son Forrest died in a car wreck. It was almost ironic that the boy favored Cat’s brother and died like him, too. It’s the only time I would ever witness his tears.

There have been marriages. Nobody’s quite sure how many were legally binding. There have been several more bad accidents but the Cat lived through them all.

But the heart thing had him worried—worried that he didn’t have much time.

He couldn’t  drive then—probably shouldn’t have been driving for the past several decades. That’s the reason he had so much problem getting around. Legs mangled in auto accidents added to his immobility in the final years.

They put him in a nursing home following one serious wreck, but he took the wheel chair to the taxi stand and got them to bring him close enough to home that he could call a friend to come get him—and pay the taxi. He said if they ever got him in a nursing home they would never let him out. He “escaped” a couple more later.

Bobcat said he wanted to again visit the Gulf Coast before reminding me that he didn’t think he had much time left. His driving ability and privileges were either impaired or unlicensed, so he depended on other modes of transport, such as an acquaintance with a vehicle.

Too bad Bobcat and others who might have a desire to move about, don’t have public transit. Having no planes, trains or buses coming through Batesville kept him in close proximity.

Apparently a weak heart did what other serious injury could not and the Cat finally used up the last of his nine lives.

Bobby Reid “Bobcat” Mangrum, 1950-2013.