*Cat Attacks

Cat Attacks -Jo Deurbrouck and Dean Miller
I can see them. Feel the unprecedented silence of the pounce. We are at complete oblivion to their eyes. And before I hear a sound the back of my neck is in the hot mouth of a lion.
The way they run, while stalking, so close to the ground, so graceful, almost rolling, and silent. I’ve never before seen an animal become a complete blur. We lock eyes. Or maybe it locks on my eyes and I paralyze. Or maybe I rip off my sunglasses to compensate for the depth of its stare, which takes in most of the canyon’s light. Don’t look away, I say to myself. Don’t look away. I start backing up and run into a bush. For one split moment I glance down, and then back up and the lion has halved the distance between us and is still as if it never moved. I unbutton my shirt with my left hand. Don’t look down. I pull it away from my body, assuming more girth. I snarl. Scream. Hoist my crosier in the air like some hellish cataclysm and the lion doesn’t even flinch. When my echo dies, the lion, without sound, takes about six lightning steps forward and stops again, now less than fifteen yards from me. Don’t look away. With my left hand I reach across my body and unbuckle the sheath to my knife. The lion takes two more steps. It’s still enough to be dead. My eyes water and the lion blurs into the camouflage of the sand. As if it could sense my slightly obscured vision, it creeps closer. Now I know it’s a male. Too big to be a female. But still, probably weighing less than my one forty-five. I unsheath my knife and again raise my crosier in the air. Without reason, during the scream, I feint forward and I see the lion tense. I feint again. Snarling and brandishing my crosier like some lunatic samurai. The lion doesn’t move. I feint and stamp the ground and slash the air with my knife and feint. The lion doesn’t move. Then it charges.
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