He that hath ears to hear, let him hear.

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Nearly two decades ago, a hard-luck pioneer named Bob settled near Lava Hot Springs in southeastern Idaho. Bob and his girlfriend Dot came from Oregon with enough cash to buy five acres of sage-covered hills. Bob and Dot purchased a camp trailer and moved onto the land, where they collected a mismatched pride of lions, tigers, and wolves. Bob dreamt of opening an exotic zoo, but many forces worked against his big-cat utopia. City water ran through the property, but Bob had no funds to dig a sewer. The couple planted a power pole, but didn’t have scratch to purchase electricity. He constructed the barrier to his ranch—dubbed Ligertown once the lions and tigers interbred—with poached poles and fencing. The animals lived in a dilapidated school bus that Bob stationed at the crest of a hill, in a few rusted-out sedans, and in pens made of discarded pallets.

Bob fed his brood road-killed deer and rabbits. Soon the ranchers complained that the animals had breached the fences and were watering at Fish Creek. Some cattleman even argued that their livestock were being tracked and targeted. Twice, Bannock County brought charges. Both times the couple defended themselves, claiming private property rights, and won.

The situation culminated on September 20, 1995. The cats and wolves grew uneasy outside the trailer. That night a lioness attacked Bob, the resulting injury minor but warranting medical attention. Hospital officials notified police, and Bob and Dot were arrested on counts of cruelty to animals and creating public nuisance. At dawn, the cops moved on Ligertown.

In three days time, nineteen cats were killed. Reputedly, one was shot five-hundred yards from the town’s elementary school. Two were taken by area ranchers protecting their livestock. And one straggler, as reported in the New York Times on October 1, 1995, was shot by Woney Roberts, a forty-year old railroad worker, from the balcony of his home. Woney had recently returned from town with his wife and daughter. He spied the lion sprawled beneath a tree not far from the horses. Woney said, “It was about the scariest shot I ever shot.”

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Even so, Father: For so it seemed good in thy sight.

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From the eighty-four animal cruelty charges and sixteen counts concerning public nuisance, Bob was fined nearly $10,000 and sentenced to a year in jail. Dot received a six-month sentence. Twenty-seven big cats—twenty-four African lions and three ligers—were sent to a Californian animal rescue. But the three-dozen wolves, coyotes, and wolf-dog hybrids remained homeless. The state wanted the canines for evidence but had no place to store them. A deal was struck with my father who had recently rented a one-of-a-kind cattle feedlot that also had once been a private zoo. Included among the stockyards were monkey hutches, giraffe barns, rhino pens, aviaries, and kennels. Plenty of room for the wild dogs. The evidence came transported in semi-trucks, and the state paid my family $60 a day to provide basic care.

The dogs’ plight broke national news for a week, and animal rights groups from across the country responded by donating feed and funds. Inside the door of both barns sat stacks of fifty-pound sacks of dog food and bales of straw for bedding. Supplies were replenished weekly. New metal bowls graced every kennel.

The canines were a thin, mangy bunch. Some were deformed from growing in the cramped quarters of Ligertown, stooped in their back loins, tails permanently tucked between their legs. Some of the dogs were ghosts, leaving only fecal deposits to prove their existence, while others lapped near the barn barrier, waiting for food.

The novelty of the wolves soon wore off, and the work became mundane and tiresome. Winter brought severe conditions. Adopters waned and donations expired. My family contacted local stores asking for broken bags of feed. Nature took its course—litters of pups were born.

My last memory of the wolves came on a spring day when I went to muck out the pens. And there was a kennel-full of curious pups, with perked ears and a youthful ignorance that perhaps I mirrored. While my family washed-down, I crawled through the small kennel door to the exterior run. I hunkered by the door and stared at them. We stayed deadlocked. I stretched forth a hand, and soon enough, the pack crept towards me, shuddering close to the ground. One broke free and ran within inches of my fingertips. We nearly touched when, inside the barn, someone dropped a shovel. The pups bolted back to the corner, again a mass of shivers and fur.

Later, I read a story about Bob. He was so close to his pets, he gave the animals free reign inside his camp trailer. The cats lounged beside him on the couch, fascinated by the powerless television, and Bob raked their backs with both hands.

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No man knoweth the Son, but the Father; neither knoweth any man the Father, save the Son.

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By summer, the state ran out of money and, compelled by the fact that no animal rescue would adopt deformed and inbred dogs, the government asked my father to dispatch the pack and bury the carcasses in the feedlot’s dead pit. My father recalls this incident with much trepidation. This problem was not his fault. He hunts; he does not off, nor rub out. But my father had his guns, and this pack was abandoned on his property. So he did what had to be done.

I imagine him out there on that summer morning, his two-twenty-three—a caliber that fires fast and kills clean—shadowed along his right leg. He wiggles into a pen and strands straight, brushes shit from his knees. Come unto me, my father mumbles as he raises the gun to his shoulder, levels the barrel on the closest animal, come unto me all ye malformed and mistreated, all ye that have starved and survived, ye limpers and those with broken backs, ye stooped and one-eye blind, and I will give you rest.