Beast by Donna Jo Napoli

alone. He seems to prefer night hunting. And he swims in the huge river almost as though he likes it. Then he disappears into the jungle on the east side of the river. I’m grateful he never crosses to this side.
    That side of the river is home to another kind of loner, too: the rhinoceros. I’ve watched them browse on twigs and grass, completely calm, even when the tiger passes.
    But I am neither tiger nor rhinoceros. I am not meant to live alone.
    I return to my rock ledge and sleep.
    That night I wander for hours. The next morning, when I’m dozing in the sun, a lioness from my pride comes out of a thicket carrying a cub by its shoulders. Three other cubs follow on her heels. They don’t seeme, but I’m delighted to see them. She’s kept the cubs well-hidden these two months. Once I was sure I knew where they were, but when I got up the nerve to investigate, she had moved them. Only the matted grasses and milky musk told that they’d been there. I’m convinced she moved them every few days. But it’s clear they can now move easily by themselves. The one hanging from her mouth thrashes after a while. She drops it, and it joins the others, running in crazy zigzags around her legs.
    The lioness patiently leads her cubs to a new thicket. She licks them all over, then leaves.
    Without hesitation, I go to the thicket. The small cubs rest on top of one another, in a pile. They come to attention and look at me with huge eyes. They hiss. I lie down with my jaw resting on the ground between my forepaws. The cubs jump and yowl around me, trying to scare me off. I stare at them calmly. Finally, one comes close and sniffs at my paw. I blink. The cub comes to my face. I lift my head as slowly as I can. The cub freezes. I lick his leg. He smells my face. Then he offers me his side. And I lick this small creature from shoulder to rump. The other three come along for their baths, despite the fact that their mother has just licked them. Greedy for attention. I roll them over with my muzzle. I rub my forehead on their fat milk bellies. Two males, two females. The males’ jaws arewider, but all have the most wonderfully expressive faces. One of the females grunts. I don’t know what it means, but I get up quickly and leave.
    That very night the weather changes. Rain comes in. It pours for days. But nothing stops me from watching the cubs. The lioness moved them after my first visit. Undoubtedly she picked up my scent. But I followed her to the little cave, where they’ve been ever since.
    The cubs peek out into the rain now, one after another, and finally give in to their exuberance and romp outside, rolling on top of each other through the mud. I join in.
    I visit them every day, some days twice, some days three times. They meow and leap on me in greeting. They lick my face. They attack my tail, and I flick it at them as though it’s the fiercest snake. They are my joy.
    Today I take a new route to the cave. A noisy buzz catches my attention. Bees swarm around a hollow tree. Their nest has been raided. Despite the rain, it’s easy to follow the scent of honey to a hole in the ground. I dig furiously. The honey badger wakes and scrambles to get away. I bite into its back. The animal turns inside its loose skin and sinks its teeth into my nose. It scratches my cheeks with its enormous claws. I ignore the pain and open my jaws just enough to get a bigger bite, then I clamp down with all my might.The badger goes limp instantly. I eat every part I can — my first wild kill other than mouselings—every part but the liver, the choicest morsel. I look around for any honeycomb that might remain. After all, it seems like a lifetime since I had a dessert, and honey is the best dessert. But the badger must have eaten all of it.
    So I go tardy to my cubs, but with a gift: I drop the liver on the ground, and they fight over it, more out of curiosity than anything else, for their mother still