<p>Jon Rombach</p>

Cam Scott is a fishing guide. And a writer. Of poetry, mainly, but I dont hold that against him. Scott got out here in the Wallowas some years back as the Fishtrap writer in residence, spreading the good word to local students about writing good words. He kept coming back to the county, coinciding with steelhead coming back, and now owns a house in Wallowa. He spends a good deal of his Wallowa County time as a volunteer aquatic fitness instructor, exercising the local steelhead population.

This Cameron Scott fellow has taught me a few lessons about the fine art of throwing things in the water with a fly rod. I enjoy fishing with this guy. Im a fan.

Then he handed me a copy of his recently published book, The Book of Ocho, and described it as poems about a cat. Poems and cats are two things I do not understand. But, hey, I didnt understand how to fish certain runs until Cam straightened me out, so I looked forward to reading the work of somebody I already know has a good read on the world.

Spoiler alert: Ocho the cat has cancer. Sorry to say, I bet most of us have experience by now with someone we know navigating the rough seas of cancer. Cam Scott is a good helmsman and I recommend the book for his handling of not just the cancer territory, but his take on the bigger pictures and how he goes about illustrating those.

Armed with my recent success at understanding poetry, I saw an opportunity recently to also connect with cats. A friend was moving back into a freshly renovated home and I was a member of the posse on hand to help shift the heavy stuff. Word spread that a door had been left open and the strictly-indoor cat had slipped outside. This same cat ran off years ago and survived on its own in the Hurricane Creek area for about a year, so its basically a domesticated panther. I knew the backstory. Knew this cat was familiar with how to use claws. But I went outside to aid in the recapture.

The panther began to stroll my way. I crouched down and made soothing noises. It came closer. Don McAlister was standing nearby and advised me not to pick it up. It attacked me, I believe were his exact words. Again, Id heard the stories. I knew this feline had a rambunctious past. But we all deserve second, or third, or however many chances, do we not? This kitty looked so calm. So innocent. I reached to pick it up. I heard Don say, I wouldnt … as my hands made contact with fur, then I couldnt hear anything over the banshee yowling on my arm.

Twenty claws sinking into my arm took my mind off the noise, but I wasnt sure what to do next. My reflexes, though much slower than the miniature cougars, decided it was best to remove the furry tornado from my arm. I wasnt about to grab it with my other hand. You dont put your birth certificate into a paper shredder because you mistakenly started to shred your car title first. So I flung my arm up and out, sending the small jaguar spinning through the air with bits of my flesh streaming from the razors at the ends of its legs. It was almost poetic, that bundle of fury gliding through the air so peacefully. It was like slow motion, or just me getting woozy from sudden blood loss.

Of course the cat came out of its spin, landed lightly as you please and went right back to purring along, not a care in the world. Don came over as I started to inventory the holes in my arm leaking blood, rolled up his sleeve and showed me an exact match. Did you not believe me? he asked.

I believe you now, Don. I believe you now.

Join us next time for Poetry Corner, when I review a collection of haikus about wrestling badgers. In the meantime, Mary has copies of The Book of Ocho by Cameron Keller Scott at The Bookloft in Enterprise.

Jon Rombach is a local columnist for the Chieftain.