Earlier in the day, as my bachelor herd and I rested in the shadows and shade of the trees, we saw panic amongst the many oxpeckers feeding on the small female herd. Alarmed, the birds took flight and screamed, alerting the females that danger was near. The herd stood straight and still, listening and smelling the air, then jumped and sprinted for the safety of the trees. We never saw it but it was probably the leopard that has been hunting nearby. There are many young fawns in the female herd. One was attacked only the other day by a spotted hyena. Somehow, it managed to escape, a large, raw wound on its tiny side. I saw it drinking between its parents at the waterhole. It will not be so lucky next time.
The night is closing in but it is the consensus of the herd that we will make our way to the waterhole to drink. We have had very little water and the night may be as stifling as the days have been. The moon is nearly full and so bright that everything around us is illuminated. The wind is picking up and cooling us off but I fear that between the glare of the moon and our inability to make out the scent of predators on the now swirling wind, we will be in danger.
Even in the shadows, the moonlight is offering silhouettes, a lone bull buffalo is standing next to the marulas trunk, but he is highly visible, even in his dark coat. He is old and must be careful. I see many others as we gingerly make our way down the riverbed and along the tree line. I hear rustling in the bush, nyala. Ahead and nearing the waterhole, five wildebeest. The heat is bringing many of us together for drink. The waterhole will be crowded and will attract the attention of lion and hyena. Rarely do we venture off at night in search of water. I feel frightened and my heart is pumping wildly in my chest, but I am driven by thirst.
I make my way to the edge of the waterhole. For now, the other impala stand still in what few shadowy pools they can find. Another male impala comes close. He is not of my herd. He is large and strong with immense antlers. We both hold our ground. I stand tall, my posture erect and for the moment, unyielding. I have come far to drink. He is larger than I and quite proud, and he too holds steady. Our eyes are locked on one another. This waterhole is part of his territory. He lifts his tail displaying the white undersides and moves closer to me. I do not move. He is getting agitated and tosses his head. I can sense his aggression and do not wish to provoke him. I drop my head and step back, quietly, giving him room to drink, alone. I am not large or strong enough to lock in battle with this brilliant male. I must submit to his dominance until he has drunk and moved on. There are enough hidden dangers in this night without being wounded by one of my own.
Having drunk, he moves into the bush and I am joined by others in my herd. I feel safer now. Others are around me, safer. We cautiously sip, one or two at a time while the others stand tall, nostrils to the wind. The wind is blowing in every direction making it impossible to get a good scent. Suddenly, one jumps back in alarm, we freeze, hearts racing, eyes wide, frantically trying to smell the direction of where danger lurks. We are lost to the wind. Frozen for some time, barely breathing, legs locked, no sound, no movement from the shadowy bush. Slowly, with great hesitation, we tip toe back to the edge of the cool water. Tiny, quick sips. Then back, quickly. Back to the shadows of limbs and trunks.
We begin our movement back from where we came. There is much quiet commotion around us, in the bush. Other hooved and padded feet slip in and out of the night. Without warning, the darkness is ripped apart by the blood-curdling screams of a baboon. It shatters the night into tiny shards making my skin crawl and my ears ache from the shrill death screams. I can hear and smell the death struggle, the wet, guttural growls of the hunter, the slowing, now stifled gasps of the dying baboon, fresh blood. On the alert, we pick up our pace, hugging the shadows dancing along the tree line. We must move out quickly, the night is tender still, allowing much time for other unlucky beasts to be caught unaware in the jaws of a hungry predator. The night is never silent.
* * * * * * *
Pearl grey shafts of light begin to sprout from a dark blue horizon, fingering their way across the shrouded plains. The cooler night air and gusty winds brought a bit of dew and moisture to the parched grasses, giving the savannah a silver shimmer in the early morning light. My babies nuzzle close to my warm fur, still heavy of breath and sleep. Soon, when they awaken, I will hunt. Before my babies, I could go longer without food, but now with three additional mouths to feed, I must constantly be on the lookout for our next meal. I enjoy the quiet moment of dawn, watch the rising mist dissipate into the warming air. I squint my still tired eyes, yawn, and tuck my head down into the warmth of my cubs’ thick fur. I will let them sleep for just a bit longer, allowing them to savor their dreams, dreams of play, tug-o-war, king of the castle, chasing tiny fawns through fortresses of yellow grasses, then gently, I will nudge them into another day.
Slowly, they begin to stir, without my encouragement, and offer tiny yaps and chirps at the bright morning light, at me, and at one another. They extend their little paws and go through a nursing motion, nuzzling my chest and belly, purring contentedly, but they have been weaned for some time now, and at three months, eat what I catch. They jump up, all feet and clumsy and ready to play. Even standing, my little cheetah cubs are no taller than the surrounding grasses.
Each new day, I must leave them behind to their own defenses as I go for the hunt. I hope for them to be still and quiet, but I know better. Cubs will play, foolishly and unaware, tugging, wrestling and somersaulting, rarely yielding to sound or scent. I have lost two cubs already to lions. I move my family often to prevent such attacks, but there are no guarantees in the wild and some will die. I stand tall, my lithe body feeling awake now and limber. I snap at my young, tenderly, and as always, take a long, last look at their tear-stain marks that dominate their tiny faces. I will bring back food.
I skulk off into the wide expanse of rippling savannah, my long, thin legs moving gracefully through the cool grass, my nostrils extended, smelling the richness of scents already catching the morning breeze. The day is warming quickly and I must hunt successfully before the gripping hand of the noonday sun takes hold. There is a large herd of antelope just on the horizon. Though my legs are long, I am small, and my backbone and ear tips just brush the top of grass blades, providing perfect cover.
Effortlessly, I move through the grass as easily as an eel through water, barely causing a ripple or disturbance in my wake. Each careful footstep brings the impala herd into clearer focus, the once blur of brown and rust bodies is now broken into individuals. Nothing exists but the herd directly in front of me, nothing right or left is of concern. My eyes and ears and nostrils are centered in on my target, my concentration unyielding.
For a moment, the herd appears to have caught scent of my presence. They freeze and wide eyed, nervously look about. They are motionless for some time. Even the handful of tiny young fawns stop grazing and edge nearer to their mothers. Their ears pricked, they look like a sea of liquid brown eyes, all staring in my direction, but seeing nothing. I, too freeze, my eyes still focused, and slowly, very slowly, lower my body into the soft depression about my feet. I will stay crouched in ambush until the anxiety of the herd has lifted with the wind, my golden eyes piercing through the slimmest blades of grass. I can see them perfectly. I can smell the warmth of the sun penetrating their coats, the rich smell of their meat. My stomach rumbles and my heart flutters. Driven by insatiable hunger and the need to nourish my cubs, I must go in for the kill soon. I dare not leave my cubs for too much longer. They are hungry, and they may wander.
My eyes continue to run through the herd. There is one impala that catches my interest. Her coat is not as sleek and shiny as the others. She stands somewhat separated from the rest of the herd as she gingerly nibbles on roots. Her movements are not as smooth, but tired and shaky. I can sense she will not be as swift or capable as the rest. The fawns, too, would be an easy kill, but the adult impala will offer more meat.
Silently, I lift my body from the crouch, barely breathing. The herd has relaxed and resumed grazing. Like a bolt of lightning ripping across the open savannah, I rush toward the herd with explosive speed narrowing in on the feeble impala. The frightened herd takes flight, running and jumping in all directions, as I continue to chase down the kill. She runs frantically across the plains, kicking up gusts of dirt and grass as she bolts and swerves, but she is not fast. I feel the biting wind at my sides.
Relentless, I narrow in, her hide just within inches, dust swirling, feeble screams, I feel my body and claws come down upon her hindquarters. She trips, falls to the ground, my heart and body pulsating with excitement and bloodrush. I deliver a swift, hard blow, and she cannot get up. Snarling and dizzy I lunge for her throat, clamping down hard around her windpipe, her final muffled screams choking from deep within her. I hold firm, tiny, warm spurts of blood trickling into my mouth. I can feel her last heartbeat, slow and final. She dies quickly.
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