By Tony DeLorger© 2011
Padding softly the jungle beast moves from the shadows and into the tall grasses of the plain. He quietly lays within the dry stalks, camouflaged, eyes ever vigilant. Birds dart overhead, feeding on the wild figs at the edge of the plain, daring not to draw too close to the beast. His agility and speed no match for his feathered prey, he sits like a coiled spring, ready to take advantage of any miscalculation.
The jungle beast stretches out and yawns, the sun relaxing his sinewy muscles. For now hunting is his last thought. His stomach is full and the day has lulled him into an approaching slumber. As his mind drifts into sleep he dreams of the hunt, the chase and the final kill. He remembers the cold lifeless stare of the wildebeest as his jaws clamp down hard on its neck and his pride vocalise their approval, and gather for the feast.
The jungle beast rolls onto his back, the dream pleasuring him and the coarse grass beneath scratching an ill-gotten itch. The sun is now high over the plain and has become too intense. The beast rolls over and lethargically rises to his feet, looking for the closest shade. He saunters toward a large fig and once in the cool of its thick foliage slumps down and sighs.
For now it is a waiting game. The heat of the day has once again determined his movements. Now he will rest, conserve his strength and at dusk he will seek water and by night he will hunt.
As the sun descends in the vast azure sky, the jungle beast slowly comes to life and his thirst begins to gnaw at him. He makes his way toward the waterhole, across the savannah, then onto the hard dusty foothills and up and over the plateau. Through what looks like a doorway he pads slowly toward the water. No-one else is there, so he sits on his haunches and begins to drink.
The cool water soothes his aching body and gives life for the coming hunt. His metal tag lightly clinks on the water bowl as he drinks his fill. He then turns and looks up making a growling sound only his master understands.
‘Here’s some dinner, Beasty,‘ he says as he pours food into the bowl. Beast tucks into his meal, savouring every mouthful. In the background the door is shut, and the jungle will have to wait ‘till morning. But for now there are other things, other delights. A cosy spot on the lounge and the affection of his master are craved.
Domestic Beast now takes up his position in front of the TV. He is warm and comfortable, loved and pampered and life is sweet. Beast snoozes on the lounge, once again dreaming about his jungle exploits and looking forward to another adventure. Life is good for a jungle beast; he is feared and respected, a hunter and protector, and the king of his domain.
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