Pulled From The Herd

The herd is racing terrified through the long grass; the herd veers to left and right led by the whims or frights of the leading beasts who can't see the hyenas, can only sense them behind, and consequently these veerings of the herd are not always to the advantage of us at the back. The hyenas - source of our terror and my death - use no cunning thought to effect their killings, not like the lions who startle us with one of their number, driving us into the jaws of the others who lie in hiding; no, the hyenas drive us ruthlessly taking indiscriminate snaps at our legs until one of us weakens .  .  . and falls back. Like all naked brutality, it is always effective. I am second to last in the flight. I urgently wish he who is last, and who now races on my shoulder, to give up the struggle and fall into the mouths of those tearing at his haunches; I kick at him sideways, with both hind legs, hoping to trip him, but of course he dodges. I must contend with one beast in particular, a creature with yellow eyes, who, determined to make me his prey, turns and looks into my eyes as I turn my neck and look into his, tears a hunk from my flank as I race, and turns to look again as I also turn to watch him.

I am last. I pant: "It must not be me. It must not be me." No, it is not death that I fear; not that. It is being singled out, it is being on stage, it is being the lead character that I fear. I assure you of this. I shiver with cold.

For a moment I am second to last, but the extra effort is futile. I stand with my hind legs parted to accommodate the urgent heads of the hyenas, who pull at my soft parts, and those hind legs are already buckling. The pack smiles at me. Seemingly unconcerned, some beasts sit a little way off and hold conversations. Others, while smiling, walk to and fro in front of me in an unhurried manner - I suppose they are grateful to me, though that doesn't interest me at all. No one actually speaks to me.  

Then the creature with the yellow eyes kneels, tilts me up a little, and cradles my head in his lap holding it between his paws, so that I can watch my killers, who approach one at a time, and lick my entrails delicately with their red tongues. However, I do have one power left me - to choose to close my eyes and to refuse to see them - which I elect to do.