P.W. Rooter reports on a cat fight . . .

How many kinda cats you rek'n they is out there in these woods? When I was a sho at 
rootin' fer akerns and watchin' out fer a good patch 'a ros'n ears back out on Flat Creek,
I've h'yeardfolks talkin' about bobcats, n' pant'er cats, n' brindled cats. I've even h'yeard 
tell of alley cats, n' tom cats, n' hep cats.
It ain't been 'til right here lately, though, that I h'yeard tell a' somethin' called a Tiger Cat.
Best I can tell, this here cat ain't got no fur on 'is collar, and he's awful uppity when it comes
to jis' Cat cats.
You mighta fig'erd they was a yarn here som'ers, so, le'me tell it. I jist got onto this'n a week
'er so back, an' I had to travel 'way off up to Monroe to git a'hold of it, 'cause I rek'n
nobody here 'round Dodson cared if I h'yeard it 'er not. I might not 'a been too anxious 
to let it out on myself neither, buthere's what I h'yeard.
Back there durin' that Forest Festival down at Winnfield, things down at th' Fair Grounds
got sorta slow on over in the ev'nin' after the wimmen and kids had gone on t' th' house,
an' them ol' loggin' boys was argyin' about which kind a' cat could pull the hardest. Some 
said it was a Tiger Cat. Some said it was a Cat cat. Well, I don' know what kinda coffee they
was sippin,' but it got kinda loud, and fin'ly, somebody offered to bet on which one
thought it was. (You might as well fergit about me namin' anynames; I ain't fixin' to git my 
tail twisted fer lettin' out secrits.)
Well, sir, they all got to smartin' off, and nothin' would do 'em 'cept to tie them Cats' tails 
together, and may the stoutest mama be the bull of the woods - or somethin' like that . . .
They all picked out one 'a th' most level headed and honest loggers in the bunch and named 
him to tote the money, which by the time they all had ante'd up was a pot a' two thousand U.S.
green winner take it all.
Since they had all that machinery there on the Fair Grounds a' showin' it off, it didn' take 
'em long to back them two skidder cats up rump to rump, the Tiger Cat on one end, and 
the Cat caton 't other, with their grapples hooked up to one big log between 'em
Ever'body was 'hoopin' and hollerin' fer their faverite feline. They had an ol' boy from 'way
up in Canada there lined up to drive the Tiger Cat, and some local feller who was a' sellin'
Cats to drive his'n. They cranked 'em up, idled 'em down, an' waited.
When the starter blowed the whissle, it come real plain who was the driver, and who was 
the salesman. The Canadian boy on that Tiger Cat jist set his brakes real hard, and the 
salesman leaned into his throttle clean down to the radiater cap.
What happened was, the Tiger Cat jist hunkered, and the Cat cat bellered like a freight
train pawin' up a dirt road. In a couple 'a seconts, that Cat cat r'ared up on 'er hind legs,
an' acted like she was fixin' to climb a tree. The front end was higher than a tall man's 
head, and she started to wobble sideways like a rodeo bull headed fer the fence. That
salesman got bug eyed, and let off all at once on the gas which war'nt a real good id'y but
he done it anyhow. That ol' Cat belly whopped like a Tenderfoot Boy Scout hittin' the 
water at 'is first Camporee, and busted the plumb bottom out of 'er, guts, rails, bolts, and all.
Ray jist walked over and handed that Canadian driver the two thousand, and got in
'is pickup and drove north. The salesman? Last I h'yeard, he was peelin' pine poles in 
Punkin' Center.

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