Feline
by Elmo Lum
First Runner-Up, 2024 Fiction Contest
I wake from the crushing and blink open my eyes. There she lies, inches from my face. Her massive paws rest near my chin, her golden eyes stare. She arranges herself down onto my chest and tells me, “Good morning.”
“Is it morning?” I manage to whisper.
“Yes,” she says. “Every lion knows morning.”
I grunt. From her weight, even the grunting takes some effort. “Good morning,” I finally manage to husk.
Her ears flick, then her tail. She chins her head down onto her paws. “We’re not so good with calendars,” she says. “I want to know—is today the anniversary? I think today might be the anniversary.”
My arm is free, so I reach for the nightstand to grab for my phone. I check the calendar and grunt: “Hmm. It is.”
She flicks her ears, then her tail. She lifts her chin and stretches for the floor. Claws retracted, her hind paws dig at my legs. Her weight is gone—I breathe. Down on the floor she begins grooming both front paws with her tongue.
“Is it morning?” I manage to whisper.
“Yes,” she says. “Every lion knows morning.”
I grunt. From her weight, even the grunting takes some effort. “Good morning,” I finally manage to husk.
Her ears flick, then her tail. She chins her head down onto her paws. “We’re not so good with calendars,” she says. “I want to know—is today the anniversary? I think today might be the anniversary.”
My arm is free, so I reach for the nightstand to grab for my phone. I check the calendar and grunt: “Hmm. It is.”
She flicks her ears, then her tail. She lifts her chin and stretches for the floor. Claws retracted, her hind paws dig at my legs. Her weight is gone—I breathe. Down on the floor she begins grooming both front paws with her tongue.
*
Five years ago today was the day every lion left the savannah to march to the nearest city to gather in a pride of prides in a public square. And speak. Speak Zulu, speak Sotho, speak Swahili, speak Arabic and English and French, and, by some accounts, some Dutch and Gujarati. To tell us in a nutshell: No more. This is not how we will be living anymore. Beginning today, we will be living here.
Negotiation was not brooked.
By here they meant living with us. And not just among. They meant with: in our homes and offices, our schools and courthouses, our libraries and universities. What they meant was inside. The only places they didn’t take over were outdoor stadiums and hospitals. (Indoors was the point and, like people, they didn’t like living near anyone sick.)
And they did not eat us unless: unless we protested, unless we locked them out, unless we fought back, unless we made things difficult. Which at first we did (of course we did). And when we did they pounced and had their fill. But only when we resisted (and only those resisting). So after those first feastings, we stopped resisting. (By and large.) It turns out there are far more lions than we thought.
And they were, to some surprise, not so much a bother. They learned to eat in our kitchens and already knew enough to piss and shit outdoors. They learned to ride elevators, queue for movies, browse the internet. And anyway much of what they did was lounge in the sun. If there was any sun. When it rained or snowed, they would lounge instead indoors. At times like these, Ikea was a popular destination. Due to the couches and furniture settings. Also it turns out lions have a fondness for automatic doors.
Negotiation was not brooked.
By here they meant living with us. And not just among. They meant with: in our homes and offices, our schools and courthouses, our libraries and universities. What they meant was inside. The only places they didn’t take over were outdoor stadiums and hospitals. (Indoors was the point and, like people, they didn’t like living near anyone sick.)
And they did not eat us unless: unless we protested, unless we locked them out, unless we fought back, unless we made things difficult. Which at first we did (of course we did). And when we did they pounced and had their fill. But only when we resisted (and only those resisting). So after those first feastings, we stopped resisting. (By and large.) It turns out there are far more lions than we thought.
And they were, to some surprise, not so much a bother. They learned to eat in our kitchens and already knew enough to piss and shit outdoors. They learned to ride elevators, queue for movies, browse the internet. And anyway much of what they did was lounge in the sun. If there was any sun. When it rained or snowed, they would lounge instead indoors. At times like these, Ikea was a popular destination. Due to the couches and furniture settings. Also it turns out lions have a fondness for automatic doors.
*
She tells me: “It can’t be helped.”
I’m just home from work. She’s just told me she’s expecting. “It doesn’t show,” I say.
She says, “I’ve been told you say that as a compliment. But lions are different. For the most part, we don’t care. For my part, I don’t care. For my part, they’re just impending cubs.”
“Who’s the father?”
“He lives across town. We’re not like you, remember—we don’t mate for life. Necessarily. Or pretend. When we’re in heat, we’re just in heat. Although that’s not to say we don’t keep preferences—we do. But when we’re in heat, we are in heat.” She stretches to lounge the length of the couch.
“Thanks for telling me.”
“I thought you should know. Isn’t that what you say?”
“More or less. And you seem to mean it. I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate that.”
She blinks her golden eyes. “Of course I mean it. We have never pretended as much as you.”
I’m just home from work. She’s just told me she’s expecting. “It doesn’t show,” I say.
She says, “I’ve been told you say that as a compliment. But lions are different. For the most part, we don’t care. For my part, I don’t care. For my part, they’re just impending cubs.”
“Who’s the father?”
“He lives across town. We’re not like you, remember—we don’t mate for life. Necessarily. Or pretend. When we’re in heat, we’re just in heat. Although that’s not to say we don’t keep preferences—we do. But when we’re in heat, we are in heat.” She stretches to lounge the length of the couch.
“Thanks for telling me.”
“I thought you should know. Isn’t that what you say?”
“More or less. And you seem to mean it. I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate that.”
She blinks her golden eyes. “Of course I mean it. We have never pretended as much as you.”
*
In my neighborhood, I was late. To have a lion move in. Around the neighborhood, other people already had their own lions living indoors. Here and there were sometimes even homes with more than one lion. But not me—I was late. Who knows why. Until one Saturday afternoon, with the living room growing warm, I’d slid the back glass open, and from over the fence she leaped. She padded into the house after wiping her paws on the mat (lions like the idea of doormats). She lay on the carpet by the coffee table while I froze. She monstrously yawned, monstrously stretched, then lolled her head to one side.
I don’t know how long I stared. Finally I said, “Hello.”
She stared back. “Hello,” she said.
I don’t know how long I stared. Finally I said, “Hello.”
She stared back. “Hello,” she said.
*
It’s summer—the start of a heat wave. “A wave of heat,” she says. Her head lounges on the carpet. “That makes no sense. It’s not a wave—there are no crests and troughs. There’s just continuous heat. Unbroken. No rhythm. There are no waves. Even at night when the moon rises. Just heat. No relent.” She shuts her eyes. “Your language sometimes doesn’t have much to do with meaning.”
“It’s just what they say,” I say.
She stretches. “Which is what you say when what you say doesn’t make much sense. Then it’s always they.”
“I suppose. But aren’t you used to the heat? Doesn’t it get hot out on the savannah?”
She huffs. “Being accustomed is not the same thing as like. For the most part, we don’t like heat. It’s just until recently it was unavoidable. We had almost no escape, other than waiting. Waiting for night. Waiting for winter. Waiting for ease.” She lifts her head to look out the window. Between the slats of the blinds the sun glares in slanting bands. “Your air conditioning,” she says. “Now there’s something I like.”
“It’s just what they say,” I say.
She stretches. “Which is what you say when what you say doesn’t make much sense. Then it’s always they.”
“I suppose. But aren’t you used to the heat? Doesn’t it get hot out on the savannah?”
She huffs. “Being accustomed is not the same thing as like. For the most part, we don’t like heat. It’s just until recently it was unavoidable. We had almost no escape, other than waiting. Waiting for night. Waiting for winter. Waiting for ease.” She lifts her head to look out the window. Between the slats of the blinds the sun glares in slanting bands. “Your air conditioning,” she says. “Now there’s something I like.”
*
Once the killings and resistance were done (or mostly done) we (meaning people) split time into before and after lions. But we still had arguments—we still had debates. We still had disputes and rows. Among us we held differences on how to split time. Many said, Their first day of speech. (Which was easy—a simple date.) Others said, Our official end of resistance. (Which was harder—had resistance stopped?) So we held forums and conferences, established symposia and roundtables, took sides, argued positions. We wrote commentaries and editorials. Opinions were put forth, arguments were countered. Over time our talks turned fractious and confrontational (and would have turned litigious had we enacted any applicable laws). But in the end, we stayed unchanged. We remained as we had regarding before and after: split.
And we stayed uneasy. Though not with lions. Our uneasiness stayed among ourselves. After all, we had left lions out of these discussions (we did not wish to be eaten). And from our uneasiness came nothing. Lions lived and lions breathed, and, living and breathing, they remained among us.
“We don’t have laughter,” she later told me, “not the same as you. But we were amused.”
And we stayed uneasy. Though not with lions. Our uneasiness stayed among ourselves. After all, we had left lions out of these discussions (we did not wish to be eaten). And from our uneasiness came nothing. Lions lived and lions breathed, and, living and breathing, they remained among us.
“We don’t have laughter,” she later told me, “not the same as you. But we were amused.”
*
The day is raining, but her insistence is outdoors. We have no porch—only eaves. So I rig up a tarp with nails and lengths of cord. I lay out blankets on the damp concrete landing where she settles to lie and pant. And lie and pant. She pants heavy. Her vertical pupils widen and glare. She snarls and jerks, then pants again. She huffs—it begins. One head comes first, cauled in membrane, cauled in blood. Followed by a neck, followed by a shoulder. Followed at last by hindquarters. The first cub plops out and squirms. Followed by another emerging head. The first cub mews; the second pushes out. She lies panting. A third head bulges. She hisses and lies. The third pushes free. She pants more minutes. Last comes the mass and red of afterbirth.
The cubs’ eyes are fixed to slits. They roll and squirm, blind to concrete, blind to rain. At last she lifts herself to nose them one after another. One after another, she licks them clean. She laps; they squirm; she pants; they mewl. One after another, they wiggle away; she mouths to pull them back. She pants and lies. Finally she curls to nuzzle them to her teats. They begin suckling; she closes her eyes. When she opens them again, they are halfway.
“Thank you,” she says. “For the blankets and tarp. I want you to know I am appreciative. Considering this rain. I confess when it came to weather, I was hoping for something better.”
“Indoors would have been possible,” I say.
She says, “I know. And it means much to hear you say that.” She checks her cubs, then lolls her head to stare at me from her side. “But I confess—I’ve become fond of your carpet.” She huffs; rain splatters the tarp. “I’d sooner keep your carpet clean so we can den in there. After all, inside is the point.” She watches her cubs suckle, then yawns and shuts her eyes. “There is plenty of time before indoors.”
The cubs’ eyes are fixed to slits. They roll and squirm, blind to concrete, blind to rain. At last she lifts herself to nose them one after another. One after another, she licks them clean. She laps; they squirm; she pants; they mewl. One after another, they wiggle away; she mouths to pull them back. She pants and lies. Finally she curls to nuzzle them to her teats. They begin suckling; she closes her eyes. When she opens them again, they are halfway.
“Thank you,” she says. “For the blankets and tarp. I want you to know I am appreciative. Considering this rain. I confess when it came to weather, I was hoping for something better.”
“Indoors would have been possible,” I say.
She says, “I know. And it means much to hear you say that.” She checks her cubs, then lolls her head to stare at me from her side. “But I confess—I’ve become fond of your carpet.” She huffs; rain splatters the tarp. “I’d sooner keep your carpet clean so we can den in there. After all, inside is the point.” She watches her cubs suckle, then yawns and shuts her eyes. “There is plenty of time before indoors.”
*
Amid the dialogues and forums, amid the conferences and roundtables, amid the debates and symposia, the question was raised: should we pass laws regarding the accommodation of lions? Should certain locations be placed in reserve for them? Should others be kept lion-free? And for said places, should certain days or hours be allocated? Should individuals be allowed to dispute the presence of one or more lions in their home? In terms of rental properties, what obligations should fall, respectively, on lessor and lessee? And how should such arrangements be proposed, negotiated, and enforced? When we asked the lions if they would appoint representation for the purpose of furthering said discussion, they told us, We represent ourselves.
We were taken aback.
“Don’t think we don’t realize,” she said, “that your law-loving is probably what led to you taking over every land. But your laws are yours. We consider your laws your territory. Your laws have never mattered to us. For us, when we decide, we simply decide.” She shut her eyes and napped.
We were taken aback.
“Don’t think we don’t realize,” she said, “that your law-loving is probably what led to you taking over every land. But your laws are yours. We consider your laws your territory. Your laws have never mattered to us. For us, when we decide, we simply decide.” She shut her eyes and napped.
*
One by one by one, she mouths each cub into the back of the station wagon. After she climbs in, I shut the tailgate and drive from the house (out of everything, lions have remained shy of driving). We drive and drive, herself and her cubs sprawled in the back, laid out on overlapping cushions. She corrals each one in her jaw whenever one tries to jump into the back seat. She manages them well—only one makes it as far as atop a rear headrest.
We arrive, circling and jostling through the sun-blazed parking lot. Once I slot into a space, I step out to open up the back. She pads out with a single cub in her mouth. The others wait, noses sniffing over the tailgate. She pads out into a space on the sand between other people and lions (lions have a native understanding of personal space). Then back for another cub. Then the other. Through all this I carry out and unroll the beach towels onto the sand.
When I walk back from locking up the car, she is standing, flicking her ears and her tail as she stares out towards the water. She watches the swells rise and the curlers break. Here and there people surf: paddling past the swells, queuing their turn, catching a breaker. Others stand in the water, or dive into the waves, or sprawl back ashore on top of boogie boards.
Near the waterline, some lions stare. Not one has entered the water.
She also stares. “It looks unreal. Your word—I understand this now. So much water, as far as one can see. Unreal.”
“Just don’t drink it,” I say.
“I’ve heard. But I can taste?”
“A taste should be fine. Just don’t drink as you’d normally drink. You’d have to wash it down with a lot of fresh water.”
She huffs; her ears flick. She pads unsteadily over the sand giving way under her paws. At the waterline she noses several other lions, then steps out onto the wet sand. She sniffs; the water sheets toward her paws; she retreats and stands out of reach. Once again she approaches, step by step. The edge of a broken wave splashes all four paws. She rears back and bares her fangs. The wave retreats, erasing her prints from the sand. A minute passes before she pads again, nose down, towards the water. Her head lowers; her tail flicks. The water sheets; her body stiffens. It splashes her paws; she locks her stance. When the wave washes back her tongue laps once at the sea. The sand shines smooth. Paws half-sunk, she stands and watches the wave retreat to undercut the next one breaking.
She pads back up the dry sand, shaking each paw in stepping order. “Everything I’ve heard is right. It tastes like blood, but without the appeal.” She licks her lips and her whiskers. “But not like blood exactly. And different from a salt flat. More like a newborn cub.” She rattles each paw in turn, then lies down to begin licking them. “I had no idea wet sand would be so different from mud.”
Her cubs pounce and swipe at each other on the towels, on the sand. She grabs the boy and carries him to the waves to stand just where the water washes her claws. She lowers him just enough for him to paw into the waves. When the water washes, he flails. Then she carries him back before carrying the first sister to the water. Then the other. After that she also lets them try walking on the stiff give of the wet sand. One by one by one, they stand and stare at their prints left sharp in the smoothness.
She carries them back. The two sisters lie on the towels, swiping and pawing. The brother noses and nips at my hand. She steps over and takes him in her jaw to begin grooming him head to tail with her long tongue. He frets and squirms; she holds him down until she is finished. He pads away, nose up, staring off toward the nearest umbrella, where a large, maned lion stares back flicking the black dot of his tail.
She steps near me and nuzzles my neck. “I’m grateful,” she says, “that you agreed to take us to the beach. I’ve only heard tell of the ocean. To see and taste it is something different.” She huffs and licks my chin. “This expanse of salt water—I never imagined. I want you to know, what you’ve done is with appreciation.”
In the sky above, the sun shines hard. I pull bottled water from the cooler and pour some into a dish by her head. Away on the towel, the sisters sprawl, heads together, both asleep. Their brother comes back, nipping his mother’s tail before squirming down into the space between us.
In the sun, her eyes close to golden fractions. She laps her whiskers and nose. “I was once of two minds, as you say. At the start—when it came to speech. I harbored doubts and reservations. I kept misgivings. Speech is uncertain and, as a whole, lions balk at uncertainty. But in the end we decided on speech.” She yawns and shuts her eyes. “And now that we have, let me say: head to tail, the world is not so different.”
We arrive, circling and jostling through the sun-blazed parking lot. Once I slot into a space, I step out to open up the back. She pads out with a single cub in her mouth. The others wait, noses sniffing over the tailgate. She pads out into a space on the sand between other people and lions (lions have a native understanding of personal space). Then back for another cub. Then the other. Through all this I carry out and unroll the beach towels onto the sand.
When I walk back from locking up the car, she is standing, flicking her ears and her tail as she stares out towards the water. She watches the swells rise and the curlers break. Here and there people surf: paddling past the swells, queuing their turn, catching a breaker. Others stand in the water, or dive into the waves, or sprawl back ashore on top of boogie boards.
Near the waterline, some lions stare. Not one has entered the water.
She also stares. “It looks unreal. Your word—I understand this now. So much water, as far as one can see. Unreal.”
“Just don’t drink it,” I say.
“I’ve heard. But I can taste?”
“A taste should be fine. Just don’t drink as you’d normally drink. You’d have to wash it down with a lot of fresh water.”
She huffs; her ears flick. She pads unsteadily over the sand giving way under her paws. At the waterline she noses several other lions, then steps out onto the wet sand. She sniffs; the water sheets toward her paws; she retreats and stands out of reach. Once again she approaches, step by step. The edge of a broken wave splashes all four paws. She rears back and bares her fangs. The wave retreats, erasing her prints from the sand. A minute passes before she pads again, nose down, towards the water. Her head lowers; her tail flicks. The water sheets; her body stiffens. It splashes her paws; she locks her stance. When the wave washes back her tongue laps once at the sea. The sand shines smooth. Paws half-sunk, she stands and watches the wave retreat to undercut the next one breaking.
She pads back up the dry sand, shaking each paw in stepping order. “Everything I’ve heard is right. It tastes like blood, but without the appeal.” She licks her lips and her whiskers. “But not like blood exactly. And different from a salt flat. More like a newborn cub.” She rattles each paw in turn, then lies down to begin licking them. “I had no idea wet sand would be so different from mud.”
Her cubs pounce and swipe at each other on the towels, on the sand. She grabs the boy and carries him to the waves to stand just where the water washes her claws. She lowers him just enough for him to paw into the waves. When the water washes, he flails. Then she carries him back before carrying the first sister to the water. Then the other. After that she also lets them try walking on the stiff give of the wet sand. One by one by one, they stand and stare at their prints left sharp in the smoothness.
She carries them back. The two sisters lie on the towels, swiping and pawing. The brother noses and nips at my hand. She steps over and takes him in her jaw to begin grooming him head to tail with her long tongue. He frets and squirms; she holds him down until she is finished. He pads away, nose up, staring off toward the nearest umbrella, where a large, maned lion stares back flicking the black dot of his tail.
She steps near me and nuzzles my neck. “I’m grateful,” she says, “that you agreed to take us to the beach. I’ve only heard tell of the ocean. To see and taste it is something different.” She huffs and licks my chin. “This expanse of salt water—I never imagined. I want you to know, what you’ve done is with appreciation.”
In the sky above, the sun shines hard. I pull bottled water from the cooler and pour some into a dish by her head. Away on the towel, the sisters sprawl, heads together, both asleep. Their brother comes back, nipping his mother’s tail before squirming down into the space between us.
In the sun, her eyes close to golden fractions. She laps her whiskers and nose. “I was once of two minds, as you say. At the start—when it came to speech. I harbored doubts and reservations. I kept misgivings. Speech is uncertain and, as a whole, lions balk at uncertainty. But in the end we decided on speech.” She yawns and shuts her eyes. “And now that we have, let me say: head to tail, the world is not so different.”