April 7. Raw and rainy. Eleven-ish.

Out in the woodshed on a morning whim, I’m rearranging what’s left of my winter cordwood supply, heaped against the north and east walls. I can see there’ll be a little left for fall.

I chuck a big, heavy, all-nighter wedge of hard seasoned red oak closer to the entryway when I hear the phone ring in the kitchen. No rush. I’ll check the caller-ID when finished with my chores. The woodburning routine is less demanding come springtime.

Before going inside, I load up an armful of smaller, irregular, knotty pieces – tangled, twisted, and messy with debris. They burn hot and revive a fire when needed. During my daily woodshed chores, I routinely build a little side pile of these oddball pieces to make them easily available from time to time as needed. Kinda like medicine for the daily fire, especially morning’s first on embers from the night before.

Anyway, with my wood-gathering duties completed, I go to the phone expecting to find a familiar name on the caller-ID screen. Nope. Someone new. Last name Richardson, first initial D. Phone number beginning with South Deerfield’s familiar 665 exchange.

Hmmmmm? Facebook friend Peter Richardson, perhaps?

I promptly return the call, and a man answers the third ring.

“Peter?”

“Nope, Doug.”

“Oh, sorry. Didn’t get the first name, and figured it must be Peter.”

“I’m his big brother,” he said – and his River Road neighbor as well, the two residing in adjacent dwellings within sight of Sunderland Bridge.

He went on.

“You’re the guy who wrote an outdoor column in the Recorder, right, and used to report cat sightings?”

“Yep, that’s me. I’ve been retired seven years. What’s on your mind?”

He had a tale to tell. One he believed – correctly – would interest me.

It unfolded on the west bank of the Connecticut River, across the road from his house, where he and three neighbors had been monitoring a bald eagle nest on an island across the way. Following a familiar path to an unobstructed vantagepoint, tripod telescope in tow, they were pleased to discover an eaglet, and were sharing the telescope for close-ups.

As they chatted, Richardson noticed something that drew his attention, nestled into the steep upstream riverbank to his left. There, about 40 feet away, motionless and blending into the backdrop, was the face of what looked to him like a wildcat. Or was it an optical illusion?

When he pointed it out to the man next to him for an opinion, he was assured it wasn’t a log. Sure looked like a cat to his friend as well. When it finally moved, they knew they were viewing a brownish bobcat that didn’t seem unnerved by their presence.

Though I’ve never associated bobcats with the Connecticut River, it makes perfect sense that they’d be attracted to such riverbank environments, which provide tangled shelter and a tasty smorgasbord of prey.

The cat, wearing a blue tag on each ear, just calmly laid there, cleaning itself as the four eagle-watchers quickly switched their focus. All four studied it with their naked eyes, and discussed it as they alternated closer looks through the scope. One even took cell-phone photographs that showed up on Facebook soon after my phone conversation with Richardson ended.

Curious to the four observers was the fact that the animal, though well aware of their presence, seemed relaxed. Why didn’t it flee? Injured, perhaps? Then it calmly rose to its feet and sauntered away at an angle from the intruders. No sign of a limp or unsteady gait. It appeared to be perfectly healthy.

Richardson returned home perplexed. He was certain what he had witnessed was not typical bobcat behavior. Given that the animal was tagged and the number was discernable through the scope, he called MassWildlife’s Connecticut Valley District office in Belchertown to see what he could learn. Possibly state wildlife biologists were conducting a bobcat study, and would be interested in his observations.

To his good fortune, the call came into the district office at a hectic time and was answered by none other than district manager Joseph E. Rogers. What better source than the boss?

Apprised of what Richardson and friends had seen, Rogers wasn’t surprised. Though MassWildlife is not currently tagging bobcats for a study, state wildlife biologists in Connecticut are, and a similar sighting had recently been reported in Hampshire or Hampden County. In Rogers’ opinion, it was likely the same cat. He thanked Richardson for reaching out.

Richardson’s wife Kathleen emailed Rogers the four-digit number on the cat’s ear tags, in case he wanted to dig deeper and confirm his initial presumption that it was the wayward Connecticut cat on an upstream journey.

A few days after the sighting, late afternoon-early evening, my phone rang and Richardson’s name again appeared on the caller-ID. I answered. He wanted to report new information he thought would interest me. Rogers chased down the cat’s identity. The tags were not from Connecticut.

Let Rogers’ April 9 email to Kathleen Richardson explain: “It took me a couple of days to track down, but I was able to ID the tag numbers for the bobcat you reported. It appears this was a bobcat treated at Tufts Wildlife Rehabilitation Clinic and released in Belchertown this past winter. It’s good to know the animal is healthy. Thanks for reporting the sighting.”

So, there you have it. Mystery solved.

Apparently, the bobcat remains semi-comfortable around humans after being fed and nursed back to health by Tufts veterinary personnel. That’ll likely change if the animal stays out of harm’s way and continues reacclimating to the wild.

That said, one can never confidently predict such outcomes. Some rehabilitated wild creatures make it. Some don’t.