by Cyn Bagley

Created on: January 25, 2008   Last Updated: December 29, 2009

Multi-specie-ism: Another form of racism?

"Horsepuckie. No self-respecting lion, at least a lion of my generation, will pass up veal cutlets or juicy steaks just to satisfy a law that says 'no species can eat or molest another species.' Yesssss, I have tried soy burgers, veggie burgers, and meat substitutes, but frankly . . . (he turned, looking squarely at his audience, composed mainly of sheep and goats) nothing tastes good, nothing satisfies my cravings like meat, chicken, fish, cutlets . . ."

Shiver. Shake. Before the crowd had trotted in, one of the carnies had laid down some sawdust to soak up the expected excrement from the yokels. The canvas tent warmed by the sun, the crowd wrapped in wool, the fear mixed with the sweet smell of fresh sawdust -all these smells drifted to his nostrils, a delectable feast. He took a deep breath.

"How would you like it if we, the predators, the top of the food chain, insisted that you change from eating grass to flesh? Could you survive as flesh-eaters? I think not. You would dream of grass, trees, flowers, anything green. You would smell your meadows wrapped in summer flowers, alfalfa in purple bloom. You would want, no, crave plant matter."

Strips of saliva slipped through his teeth and down his mouth; his voice, mild and hypnotic, almost soothed the crowd. No bars, no cages, only a long chain fastened around his neck kept him from the crowd. The chain clanked across the stage as he plodded back and forth.

Outside a barker yelled, "Specie-eating lion. 25 cents. Take a look at his big teeth. Captured after eating the mayor of Sheepsville. Only 25 cents to see the most dangerous lion of all time."

The lion continued.

"I dream. I dream of red, of the kill, of blood dripping down my teeth fresh and warm blood, flesh, meat. My teeth clenched around the throat of a warm-blooded animal. Ripping the throat out, bathing in blood, eating flesh: I dream in one color: red."

His voice trailed off. His brown eyes gazed at the crowd. Tears fell from his eyes. The crowd sighed: safe, safe, safe. They were safe from the big, bad, boogie man-the lion. He lunged. The chain stopped him right before the crowd. He strained towards them. His claws, paws with shivs, almost touched the cheeks of the first row. His eyes stared into their souls. They were the meat he dreamed of, talked of. He would, he would eat them.

Oooooh. A moaned ripped out of the crowd. They jumped back. Some scrambled out the tent's flapping door, vowing they would never come back. One matronly ewe fainted. Her ram dragged her out, away from the lion. The lion smiled, showing his long white fangs made for ripping and tearing. His tongue lazily touched the roof of his mouth as he yawned.

"But, I am defiant. I am me. I am a lion. Ha ha ha ha ha!"

Then, he roared. Brown gunk spread across the floor of the tent, mixing with the sawdust, a sweet sour smell. Smugly, he watched the yelling, screaming, shoving-hooves beating a rhythm on the hard floor; the noise settled; the tent cleared. Not even a mouse sat in front of the old lion.

He sighed. A good show. He slipped the chain over his head, took out his teeth, the fangs that had impressed the crowd, yawned, then laid his head on his paws. That was the good old days, he thought. When lions were lions and sheep weren't treated like people. He snored, a light rhythmic sound. He dreamed in red.

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