I am ready to kill, kill, kill at the end of the exhilarating run. I feel the blood coursing through arteries, feeding my beating heart, all energy, all heat. I am dripping saliva at the mere thought of the irony taste of blood pooling in my mouth. I get ready to spring, a final lunge down the hole at the cornered beasts, quivering in their den when I notice Roman is talking. I practically roll my eyes, but halt my advances. I still need his help. Not necessarily just this hunt, but in the future, to either return to my pack or go with him. I cannot handle game on my own, or live in solitude at this age. So I try to be patient, and lick my lips to hide the drool starting to run down from the canines.
I find his philosophy of killing off the bucks to leave the does an interesting concept. How does he know any will return? What if they run and find a new home, or the does remain but the bucks never come back? But I trust his expertise, the experience that comes with age. I do not argue. Once he is finished food will come, and I will my belly not to rumble in protest to the dawdling of speech.
I copy his motions, though my teeth are sharp and pointy, quick to cause puncutres, my jaw does not have the instant strength o snap its neck. The doe gives a parting scream-gasp, as far as I can tell, by the vibration of vocal chords pressed against my muzzle that are swiftly silenced once I sever the chord in another twist-bite. Then rake open the stomach, enjoying the warm meal. The first in a while. I start with the soft internal organs, easy and chewy. Some still hum with life. I leave the gallbladder, its bitter taste not appealing to my palette. I ignore any further lessons in philosophy. With my head turned I cannot see the continuation of conversation, if there happens to be any now that the meal is served.
There is no sorrow in this, their death. The life they offer me is more important, an offering to stave off the fearful edgy nerves of survival with that instinct to survive. I leave the poetry of life and death to those more accomplished in descriptive ways, and better able to allocate brain power to something beyond eating. Which is not me. I'm starting to feel full, and I carefully lick the blood from my face, a paw still steadying the small corpse, perhaps wondering whether to stop and save some, or just keep going then find a safe spot to sleep off the inevitable food coma.
female|0|none|no one|no home
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