The yellowish-red of the caracal <br />blended like natural camouflage <br />into the yellow-brown winter grass <br />and when it moved its head, <br />the pointed ears with tufts <br />of black hair caught my eye. <br /> <br />Eighteen kilograms of hate <br />and pent up rage <br />hissed and growled at me <br />and white teeth <br />was biting death <br />out of the air. <br /> <br />Far too weak to move from <br />a hunter’s shot <br />and caked <br />with blood oozing <br />from its lungs <br />a paw clawed the air. <br /> <br />No birds and small mammals <br />or any lesser antelope <br />were to fall <br />to its claws and teeth again <br />and as life faded away <br />with the setting sun, <br />I saw hate glaring <br />out of yellow eyes. <br /> <br />Some faculty of mine <br />let me stretch out my hand <br />to stroke the soft head <br />between the pointed ears <br />and something changed <br />inside that deadly cat <br />and for the last moment, <br />it was at peace <br />and to this day <br />I can swear <br />it sounded <br />like a kitten being stroked <br />as life ebbed away. <br /> <br />[Reference: “Gentling a Wildcat” by Douglas Livingstone.]<br /><br />Gert Strydom<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/gentling-a-wildcat/
