The Unfortunate Warthog

They know that he is coming. They know that he doesn't know they are there. They crouch waiting. Listening. They catch the noises as the wind carries them to outstretched ears. They don't know what he is yet. They don't know he is just a warthog. He could be anything. They wait patiently. They are hungry. They know he will appear soon. They can hear him. They sense he will walk right into them. And there he is. Trotting towards them. They see him. And he still hasn't seen them. They lie there, ready to pounce. They have him now. He can't escape. And then in seconds it is over. Eight lions to one warthog. They have him. He never stood a chance. Poor warthog.

But they are nature and nature is them.

Panic

He stands there quivering. His eyes are unfocused and his back legs crumbling beneath him. He looks at me and he whimpers. "But what do you want me to do," I beg. How could I make things better? He can't talk and he doesn't understand me. I don't know what to do. "Stop shaking will you?" I feel anger - resentment that we can't communicate is blazing in my mind, the fire glittering through my open eyes. I can't control the ringing. The ringing - incessant and unforgiving. I want it to stop too. It is ringing in my bones and my head aches. The door is locked and we can't get out. I know he wants to run. He wants to bolt and so I lunge forwards grabbing him in my arms. The smoke is coming now. I can smell it. In my nostrils - thick and concentrated - entering my lungs. I cough and shove him under my sweater. I need to find us a way out of here. I need to save him. I need to save myself.