Jun 7, 2011

Little Lion, A Story

Little Lion feral cat

Little Lion

The sun breaks across the fields and pastures; I stir from my safe sleeping spot. Now is the time for me to venture forth to find food, as with other creatures of the wild.

I sit for a moment to contemplate the fields. Birds now chirp and in the distance my sensitive ears pick up a stirring in the grasslands. Creatures large and small, predator and prey, all begin the great dance. This is my domain. I am a lion.

Sliding gracefully through the fences, my paws feel the cold and the moisture of the ground – but not only that; they pick up the tiniest vibrations. I hear the sound of the wind through the tall grass.. and so much more. The grass is taller than I but my ears, my nose and my paws tell me what is nearby.

I venture forth into the wild world, a lone hunter seeking sustenance. A mouse would taste good right now but a bug will do.

All my senses are on full alert. I must be on guard for everywhere there are things that wish me harm. They would like to make a meal of me. Can you imagine that? I must stop and listen and smell the air, alert for danger and for food.

Suddenly, in the distance I hear another sound. This one is different from all the others and I have come to know it well. The sounds that greet my ears tell me that soon I will have my breakfast.

I turn and begin slowly stalking, focusing on this new sound while remaining alert for enemies. In the distance I hear the scurrying of paws, some clanging and new footsteps. I pause to consider the possible dangers. Despite my best efforts I cannot contain my excitement and I begin to trot and then to run. I must pursue my meal before it gets away.

Leaping obstacles at full speed, my predator instincts are now focused on a single purpose; that delicious morsel of breakfast upon which I now pounce.

This breakfast doesn’t have fur. And although it disappears quickly, it has never run away. This meal, you see, is provided by strangers who leave it for all my kin and me. I don’t know why they do this, but I am glad. The ones who leave the food are called people. They are large and sometimes I am afraid of them. But I like what they bring for me. Yes, it is for me! They know me, somehow, and they call my name.

The people call me Little Lion – and that is what I am.

the orange feral tomcat we call Little Lion