Here's my review for Listening to Cougar, originally published in "Southwestern American Literature:"
Some people regard Puma concolor primarily as a menace to livestock, not to mention the occasional suburban poodle. Their rare attacks on humans draw extraordinary attention, but the fact remains that the average American is far more likely to die choking on a Twinkie than getting mauled by a mountain lion.
Cougars have long been a source of fascination, but relatively little knowledge has been acquired about the elusive animals. Unlike wolves and bears, cougars do not tolerate human observers, and some scientists who study them have never seen one in the wild.
Cougars have plenty of defenders, but unfortunately, their ranks do not often include the people with guns. Thousands of cougars are killed every year in the Southwest, although no one is sure of the exact number, since no statistics are kept in Texas, where it is perfectly legal to kill them “any time of year, with guns, bow and arrows, and from cars. They can be trapped and poisoned—even tiny kittens.”
The cruelty of hunting is one of the topics addressed in Listening to Cougar, an anthology that presents twenty perspectives on the mountain lion. Included is J. Frank Dobie’s 1928 account of an expedition into New Mexico’s Mogollon Mountains. Ten days into the hunt, the dogs finally trapped the lion on a rock ledge. “He was game and noble game,” Dobie wrote, “the noblest and most beautiful predatory animal on the American continent. As a bullet found its mark, I felt, momentarily, mean and ignoble.”
Scientists weigh in on a few pieces, including Linda Sweanor’s “A Puma’s Journey,” which presents the distilled knowledge of ten years spent studying cougars in the San Andres Mountains of New Mexico. Relying primarily on radio collars, Sweanor pieces together a portrait of a cougar population under tremendous duress, particularly as the human presence expands throughout the Southwest.
Many of the entries in this volume are given over to writers and dreamers, all of whom are deeply sympathetic to cougars. Here the anthology is on shakier ground, as the accounts reveal more about the writer than the animal. The worst are infected by a New Age-tinged narcissism, with correspondents who report feeling “the raw power of Spirit as I merged with its light. I knew in my core that I had transcended the physical world and embodied the energy of the cougar.”
Reading about those who discover that the cougar is their personal totem animal reminds me of all the people who retrace their past lives and conclude that they were once Cleopatra.
Among the most interesting contributions to Listening to Cougar are the essays that take a careful measure of the cougar’s impact on the human psyche. BK Loren, in “The Shifting Light of Shadows,” goes out for an evening walk when she sees a cougar lope across a tennis court and pass within ten yards of a group of teenagers before suddenly leaping into the darkness. Loren uses this encounter as a point of departure to examine the cougar within the context of Jung’s archetype of the shadow, and she argues, “It is precisely because we fear large predators that we need them. They hold within them so many things we have lost, or are on the verge of losing, personally and collectively, permanently and forever. If we sacrifice the fear, we also sacrifice the strength, the wildness, the beauty, the awe.”
Despite the anthology’s strengths, one wishes that, at some point, the editors would have taken on the more challenging task of directly addressing the reasons cougars are exterminated in the first place—their inconvenient habit of killing livestock. Not many ranchers are going to be impressed by Jungian analysis, or with a collection of work that entirely overlooks their perspective on the animal. One need not be a defender of the ranching industry to see that the cougar’s long-term interest—and perhaps survival—is better served by acknowledging the opposition, rather than compiling a round of essays congratulating those who have already seen the light.