The Kill Feb 11, 1975

Listfully, the sun hung in the orange sky, above the flat, brush covered plain bordered by a thick forest of bushes and trees. As if guided by an unseen hand, the rays of light played among the dew laden branches, on the leaves of the slightly bending trees. All the sounds of the early dawn were present as the dark world came to life with the birth of a new day. The time had come.
The pang in his stomach told the big cat that it was time to hunt. Two days had passed since the need for food had been satisfied. Slowly, as the sleep left his body, he began to stretch his disproportionately long legs. Colored a tawny tan with white underparts, the sleek body of the spotted cat was only four feet long. His head was small with two black shining eyes mounted forward on his streamlined skull. His ears, keen and discerning, were placed well back on his head. He sauntered over to his stretching tree and limbered every powerful inch of his figure. Curved, retractable claws digging into the thin bark, he felt the tiredness ebbing from his muscular form. Slim, swift greyhound of the cat family was he. The fastest mammal on land; the cheetah!

With feline deftness, he hastened to his most productive hunting ground. Boldly he stepped, out into the open, knowing he was fast enough to run down any prey he decided to tackle. He walked over to a thorny tree and with one leap was atop his observation post. Crouching on all four powerful legs, head down, eyes watching and ears alert to all sound, he waited.

Off in the distance a herd of Impala, the most graceful of antelopes, was feeding and frolicking by the water hole. With ears perked for the slightest of sounds they carried on with the business of their lives. Only thirty to forty inches high, the impala is chestnut brown with a sharply defined white stomach. It was the height of the rutting season, and a few pair of impala were not as aware of the surroundings as they were of each other. Some males were busy challenging and fighting their competition to establish dominance in this season of mating.

Suddenly a guttural scream was issued across the flat plain. The herd was caught unaware as the predator rushed with the speed of the wind toward them. Unable to outrun the fast cat, the herd engaged in a fantastic display of leaping. Forward, backward, with half turns up to ten feet in the air, they leaped. The brown color of their coats, combined with the erratic motion, made individuals hard to single out.
Confused, the cheetah stopped. As if time and motion itself had ended, he froze. A motion off to his right caught his attention. It broke the strange spell. One lone pair of impala, lost in a world of oblivion, a world of pleasure, was spotted. Another scream was broadcast as the cheetah flew after another prey. Swiftly, surely, with all confidence, he ran.

Realizing the danger, the quick female broke from the male and ran a zig zagging path to one side. The male hesitated. Then, with adrenalin still coursing through his body, the male broke the other way. Zigging and zagging, through the bushes and grass, for a quarter mile he ran. His heart pounding furiously within his body, the impala slowed. It was over.

With a violent burst of energy from somewhere within, the cheetah leapt toward the neck of his victim. While still in mid-flight, the cheetah heard another familiar sound, somewhat foreign; yet, strangely familiar. He was thrown from his flight by an unseen foe.

"I say, bloody good shot, old boy. Bloody good!"

"Nice trophy for the lodge. Don't you think?"

The cheetah lay on the ground, not knowing how or why. He picked himself up. The pain in his side spread throughout all parts of his powerful body. He fell.
The kill.