There is something unnatural about a lion roaring out in the country.
I saw him when I was young- too young to remember him. I remember the leopard and the man dressed as the easter bunny, but not the lion, which I find really sad. PAWS only opened its doors that one day for the public. If it had since, I haven’t heard about it. If I had heard, I’m sure I would have went. Unless I was busy. Or had rehearsal. Or had to work. Or…
It was feeding time when he would roar. Feeding time with him sometimes came during dinner for us, but it was usually after. I remember going outside to get a soda from the ice chest, hearing that roar, and staring over the pond. I could imagine that he was not an old circus lion, that he was not old and probably disabled in some way. I could forget he was held behind bars. I could think that there was a real live lion romping around in the tall yellow grass, sneaking up, haunches raised, amber eyes watching me.
Do you know how it feels to be watched by a lion? Real or not?
He was real, or course, but he was not watching me. As I walked inside, I felt aware, as though he was right behind me, but I would always sort of laugh at myself when I realized that I had just skittered inside thinking there was a LION on my heels. This was California. Lions did not attack little girls in the valley.
Still… there was this romantic notion in my head. That one day I would go for a walk in the yellow, dried field. Kicking dirt clods, tugging the grass roots, and I would look up and be face to face with my lion. And he would stare at me, and I would stare at him. And I would reach out and take a tuft of his ratted, burgundy mane in my fist and untangle it. And he would place a paw larger than my head against my cheek, tap my nose with his nail and blink. I imagined the adventures we would go on; I imagined the way he would kill me; I imagined the way I would escape; I imagined turning and parting ways.
He was my lion.
I guess I sought to figure out what would happen if we met. Sometimes, around feeding time, I would take a walk in the fields. Kicking dirt clods. Tugging grass roots. I would look up and hear the distant roar. My heart would sink. Not tonight. He was being fed lion kibble. Mom would want me to come in before dark. “Not tonight, lion, not tonight.”
As people grow up, they get busy. Some nights, I wasn’t around for feeding time. I was at school, or at a friends, or I forgot because I was watching television or playing computer games. I grew older, I grew distant, and I forgot about my lion. And one night, at feeding time, I was outside, getting a soda… And that’s when I heard it. Or rather, I didn’t.
Silence.
There was no roar.
I came out earlier the next day and stalled. No roar. Stayed late. No roar.
I brought it up, really casual-like. My parents mentioned that he had been old. Probably died or got moved.
I went to the fields and had a nice little cry. I sat in the dirt, kicking dirt clods, tugging on grass roots. I looked up, but I knew
I really never would see my lion.
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