Running through the grassy plain
While hungry one is in constant pain.
Sun shines providing a beautiful sheen.
The beast’s body coiled like a spring.
Claws have no need to be shown.
The prey lets out a fearful groan.
Chase begins, it moves quite fast.
Will the beast’s hunger always last?
Straight dash for a thousand feet.
Will the prey and death ever meet?
One false turn and the beast slips.
The prey escapes, it’s time to quit.
Hungry but in a dry safe place.
The chase will begin another day.
The cat runs and chases the little mouse.
It stalks, leaps, and claws at it.
It does this not just out of hunger but also for fun.
Finally the hunt is over it sinks its fangs into its prize.
All is not well however.
The mouse had been poisoned by some naughty human contraption.
Too late for the cat, so graceful during the hunt.
So pathetic in death.
Looking back the mouse was tainted too sickly, too slow.
The cat should have known.
The cat did not and thus became a pawn in the game of life.
One of the animals I was most interested in during camp was Jazz, the Canadian Lynx.
I waited a long two sessions (four weeks!) before finally capturing a slight glimpse of him.
I remember always, always craning my neck to see if I could spot Jazz in his enclosure. Missouri is always hot, and Jazz has quite a bit of fur, so it was obvious that he wouldn’t like to be outside in the heat. Yet somehow, many people said that they would spot Jazz while on their way to the nursery or barn, so I would always pause for a few moments to see if I could spot Jazz.
I stayed at camp for three two-week sessions and by the start of the third and last session I had almost nearly given up hope on seeing Jazz.
There was a counselor sitting in his enclosure feeding him a hunk of meat. I could hear the crunch of the bones from where I stood, outside the cage fence, staring in.
It was really dark in the enclosure, and I think it was cloudy that day too. Jazz had a slight glint in his eyes while he chewed, keeping a careful eye on the counselor, some other campers, and I while we watched him.
As the days at camp got cooler I saw Jazz more and more, though I never had the time to really watch him. Campers weren’t allowed in his enclosure anymore, though while he was a kit he was allowed to be held and bottle fed.
I’m still quite upset that I couldn’t pet Jazz, or at least sit in his enclosure with him or even toss him a dead, bloody chicken. I sort of just wanted to sit on the ground and watch him, creepy as that sounds.
OVS Journalism Blog 
