“Have you ever considered hormone therapy for yourself?” I laugh.
“No. Have you?” He fires back without missing a beat. If only he had the same gusto when it came to cleaning the elephant stable.
The rest of the patrol is done in silence until we reach the maintenance building.
“A quick stop in here, then we’ll feed the lions.”
He goes inside, leaving me outside for several minutes. I get out to stretch my aching legs. I walk around the back of the shack, out of sight of the rangers inside. I can’t let anyone see that I am suffering from the grueling work—especially the Drill Sergeant.
As soon as I turn the corner, I hit a wall of the most pungent stench ever imaginable. It smells like what can best be described as rotting death. My nose immediately goes on strike and refuses to inhale. I open my mouth to breathe and instantly gag, as I can now taste whatever this is. I pull my bandana over my face, but this proves to be no obstacle for the reek. It is now in my eyes, making them water uncontrollably. I gag with more force this time, bringing up bits of the chocolate bar I ate for lunch. This stink is fierce, and it won’t back down. My senses are refusing to give in to it, and each and every orifice is fighting for survival.
I run in circles trying to escape this sensory invasion. I can’t go back to the front of the maintenance shack because I’d rather die than let the Drill Sergeant and the other rangers see me gagging. I make a dash for what appears to be a makeshift tarp-covered shed, thinking I’ll hide in there until I can collect myself and stop gagging.
I sprint into the shed, but am stopped dead in my tracks as I run smack into the source of the revolting odor. There’s a large hook hanging from heavy wire cable that stretches from one side of the ceiling to the other. Suspended from the hook is a cow—or what is left of a cow. It doesn’t have any legs and there is raw flesh everywhere. I turn to run out, but the floor is slippery, and I almost lose my balance on the blood-soaked concrete.
I walk with quick, long steps directly back to the truck. A moment later, the Drill Sergeant comes out. “You could have come in.”
If he was polite enough to ask me in the first place, then there wouldn’t be bloodstains on my shoes, a stench from hell stuck in my sensory membranes, and the vision of a mutilated carcass forever emblazoned in my memory.
He drives Harrison to the rear of the building and loads the carcass into the back. I stare straight ahead. “What’s the matter?” he asks.
“Nothing. What happened to that cow?”
“She couldn’t stand up after she gave birth. When that happens the farmers call us. We shoot the cow and bring it back here for cat food.”
“That’s horrible.”
“It’s the circle of life, it’s natural, and it’s normal. Everything dies, and it’s what it leaves behind that matters. That cow is leaving behind her remains to give life to another animal.”
“It’s still horrible.”
“What’s horrible about it? Death is an inevitable part of life. The sooner you accept it, the easier life will be.”
There’s nothing black or white about life and death. Nor is there anything final about death. Sometimes death takes on a life of its own.
The cab goes quiet again as we leave the maintenance area.
I am no stranger to Death. In fact, Death haunts me every day. I wish I could accept him, but he’s an ugly beast who lacks civility. The last time I saw him, he stole everything that was sacred to me.
“Merry Christmas, Mum.”
“What is this?” She smiles like a child as she looks at the box in my hand.
“Your Christmas present.”
I bend over her and fasten the silver chain around her neck, adjusting the crystal heart to sit in the center.
“There we go. It looks beautiful. You can wear this on New Year’s Eve.”
“I love it, thank you. Your Christmas present is still in my bedroom closet, go get it and bring it back here.”
“I’ll get it later.”
“But I made it for you. I want you to see it now.”
“I’ll go to the house tomorrow, it’s Christmas, let’s just watch some Christmas movies”
“Where is everybody?” she asks, confused.
I don’t have the heart to tell her that everybody left town, with the exception of one sister who wanted to be here, but is at home with the flu.
The Drill Sergeant abruptly interrupts my thoughts again, “Are you all right, Melissa? Does the cow really bother you that much? I’ve never seen anyone cry over a dead cow before.”
“I’m not crying. I’m allergic to the Lucerne.”
8
Feeding The Cats
The first gate opens and Harrison crawls into the holding pen to wait for the gate to close behind us before the next one will open. They call this a security measure. I don’t see the security in this if we were being chased by lions and had to get out of the camp in a hurry. We would make it to the gate only to die waiting for it to open. There isn’t even an emergency door close by, just in case one had to take to the ground and make a run for it.
This time, there is no Melanie at the window seat, a barrier between the lions and me. This time, the door will not even close, and it flapped around the entire way here on the pothole-infested road. Each bounce threatened to take it off its hinges, retiring it for good. This time, I’m terrified to go into the lion camp because I know what is waiting on the other side.
“There they are,” the Drill Sergeant says.
My throat tightens as my heart jumps into it. Are they going to chase us again? What are we in for now? How does this work, exactly? I’ve never fed a lion before.
Two fearless lionesses begin sprinting head-on towards the truck in a game of chicken. They’re closing in fast. Each one of their running strides is nearly the length of the truck. No one is backing away—even old Harrison is picking up speed.
Huuuuuuucccccckkkkkkk.
The lead lioness is only a few feet in front of us. She will be on top of us in less than a second. She is sprinting so fast, her face is pulled back, and her eyes are wide with ferocity. I squeeze my eyes shut and brace for the impact. The Drill Sergeant veers to the left, and I slide hard into the gearshift between the front seats. There are no working seatbelts inside Harrison.
“Hold on,” the Drill Sergeant says, in an oddly calm voice. His green eyes are ablaze.
“To what?” I scream. There’s nothing for me to hold on to, not even a door handle. My whitened knuckles grip the edge of the seat, nearly tearing through it. Despite my death grip, I’m being tossed around like a rag doll, and my head smashes against the tin ceiling with every rock we run over.
This is insane. “I can’t hold on anymore!”
“Are you ready to go to Cape Town, yet?” he yells back.
Bastard.
I wedge my damp shoes deeper into the holes of the rusty floor for more stability. The Drill Sergeant takes a sharp left around a tree, and my door flies all the way open. Momentarily suspended in the air, I see myself rolling out the open door into the path of the lions.
“I don’t have a seat belt, or even a damn door! Stop driving like a mad man. I’m going to be tossed out!” He’s trying to kill me.
“It’s easier to do this with only ONE person in the truck,” he shouts back.
Harrison speeds up a steep hill, the lionesses still right behind us. Huuuccckkkk, huk, huk, it sounds like Harrison is gasping for air, and may run out of steam.
I scream above what sounds like Harrison’s dying gasps. “What is that? Is this truck dying?”