Prey

I always thought I was a prey animal until he pointed out that my eyes faced forward and my peripheral vision was poor. “I stood beside you for a good five minutes,” he said, “and you didn’t even notice. What kind of prey is that?”

He was right, I’d been distracted measuring the distance between the trees and the river beyond. When I told him this, he gave a knowing grin, his sharp teeth glinting in the moonlight. “There’s your depth perception, my friend. I knew you weren’t prey.”

After that it was easy. He taught me how to lie low, watch and wait. Inevitably a wide-eyed mark, blind to depth, would skip past and off we’d go. Or off he’d go. I told him I only wanted to watch; it was too soon for me. He seemed to understand. He could be patient sometimes, but I knew that wouldn’t last. So I kept watching and learning until I was ready.

One day he had a live one in his mouth. He looked so pleased with himself that I knew it was time. I crept to the tree where I’d hidden a stone, grabbed it and struck him so hard he fell to the ground. “Run,” I said to the little one, as I turned to finish him off. By the time it was over she’d reached the second tree and was turning to face the river. I wasn’t concerned. The river always slows them down, I knew she wouldn’t get far. In fact I could have easily taken her right there and then, in that same place he took me. But I wouldn't. Not yet. I’ve decided to like it when they run.