Cheeted

In a faraway land, I knew a boy who kept a cheetah as a pet.

It had lived in his villa since it was a cub, but still stalked its surroundings with unfamiliarity; an animal vagabond. Each morning, the boy’s maid would fill the creature’s bowl with kibble and mince. It always looked wearily up at her as she set it down. And she looked wearily back, a mirror of tear-streaked tribulation.

She did not belong here either.

The cheetah’s form was lithe, but inert with existence stunted by the rigid arabesque of human ego. Its limbs lay extinct of vigour beneath the static noise of daytime television. The lonesome creature did not know of the horizons which beckoned for the blur of its silhouette. The exiled beast did not know of the lands arid with the thirst to callous its nimble paws. The stray cat did not know of its savanna stolen, a hijacking of habitat and hunt.

Neither did she.