What you see in the accompanying photo is clear evidence of a cougar attack. It was painful, and the outcome could have been far worse.

Of course, as we all know, clear evidence can be misleading.

The reality is something more mundane. But a large feline was involved.

I was upstairs, and my wife called me down to the kitchen to help her with some household task. Probably to use my superhuman strength to twist the lid off a jar. Like a good husband, I rushed to her aid. Unknown to me, our cat followed me down the stairs. Just as I reached the bottom, the cat scooted between my feet and turned to rub against my leg. I stumbled, instinctively threw up my hands, and drove my forearm into the corner of the kitchen doorway. It bounced off as I continued forward and hit two more times before I regained my balance.

It was painful, and the outcome could have been far worse. I could have fallen forward, smashed my head into the corner of the doorway, and crushed my skull. Not a very glorious way to shuffle off this mortal coil.

You have to admit heroically fighting off a cougar attack makes a better story. After all, among other things, I am a novelist, and I write fiction. Or, as novelist W.O. Mitchell often said, his job was to tell lies.

On the other hand, it might be easier for readers to identify with the actual story. A lot of them have cats, and it is likely that some of them are as klutzy as I am. Not many of them have had to fight off a cougar attack.

I guess it all depends on how well you tell the story.