Trout Whisperer - Dr. Doo... a lot

He knows I’m coming to visit. I’m on time. I pull up to the gate. I honk my horn. I wait. The electric gate starts to slide open so I drive into his yard and park right next to the garage built out of logs. The gate closes behind me. I’m in, and I stay in my truck.
I look all around the yard.
He steps out of his front door, tosses a massive wooden latch and it secures the door from the outside. He doesn’t want anything getting inside.
He walks up to me and says, “Look at this.” He lifts a shirt pocket and nested inside is a sleeping baby red squirrel he is keeping warm. At the same time one lone bantam chicken hen runs around the front of his home when his pet mountain lion roars around the same corner and in one chomp, inhales the hen.
He yells at the long tawny cat to stop, it does. Then as quick as possible he pries open the cat’s mouth releasing the salvia’d wet but unharmed hen, as it dashes for the barn.
Now the scolded cat sits, its long windy tail twitching. The cat looks up at him. Its eyes stare unnerving me. He pets its head, the cat leans against his Carrhart bibs, and he says, “One day, I’m just gonna pelt that cat out.”
I ask to see his bear. We start walking, the cat just sits there watching me; I don’t like that at all.
He says, “Aint much to look at, she’s been hibernating now for better than three weeks. His bear has its own bear den built into the side of the hill in the yard, made out of logs like everything else on the property. Inside the man-made bear’s den is so much straw and hay that peeking in through a small opening I can only see a tiny swath of black hair.
Not seeing much of the bear, we go over to the wolf enclosure. The pen has seven wolves of which only one is a male and, as owner of all these critters, he has raised them all to understand he is lord and master; he is the alpha male of all this.
When he enters the wire wolf run he has me hand him a front shoulder chunk of road-killed whitetail, which no single wolf can touch until he physically touches each one.
The lone male cowers and whines a bit when he holds its head. Three years ago that male was playing with him, he admits he was roughhousing a bit too much, and the wolf snapped its jaw shut and clipped the end of his nose almost off. His wife stitched it back on with six pound mono fishing line. His nose is all back on, but it’s a smidge crooked.
We walk by the wolverine. He aint happy; he is never happy. His cage is really big and made from re-bar above and below the ground, and the aroma of it and him keeps me walking right past.
Me and Mr. crooked nose go to my favorite place on his animal farm. It’s the Arctic fox cage.
They are so fluffy white, they couldn’t be more playful. All five of them jump on my back. They run across my shoulders and sniff at my hair, bounding and bouncing everywhere around me. It’s the only critters here, I feel like I won’t get eaten by.

- The trout whisperer