The Animal-Lover's Book of Beastly Murder Read Free Page A

out.
    There is no one in the park. It is pleasant to walk on the ground again, as I haven’t done since they stopped the weekend rides so long ago. The dry ground even feels soft. I pause to raise my trunk, pull some green leaves off a branch, and eat them. The leaves are tough and prickly, but at least they are fresh. Here is the round fountain, that I was never allowed to pause at, or drink from, on the weekend outings. Now I take a long cool draft.
    Behind me there are excited voices. The voices are no doubt back at my cage, but I don’t even bother looking. I enjoy my freedom. Above me is the great blue sky, a whole world of emptiness overhead. I go into a thicket of trees growing so close that they scrape both my sides. But there are so few trees, I am immediately out again, and on a cement path where apes and monkeys in cages stared goggle-eyed and chatter in amazement as I stroll by. A couple of them huddle at the back of their cage, little hairy fellows. Gray monkeys yell shrilly at me, then turn their blue behinds at me and scamper to the far corner of their cage. But perhaps some of them would like to ride on my back? From somewhere I remember that. I pull some flowers and eat them, just for amusement. The black monkeys with long arms are grinning and laughing, holding on to their bars, jerking the bars up and down and making a clatter.
    I stroll over, and they are only a little afraid, much more curious than afraid, as I stick my trunk around two of the bars and pull the bars towards me. Then a third bar, and there is room for the black monkeys to scramble out.
    They scream and titter, leaping along the ground, using their hands to boost them. One grabs my tail mischievously. Two of them take to a tree with delight.
    But now there are footsteps from somewhere, sounds of running feet, shouts.
    “There she is! By the monkeys!”
    I turn to face them. A monkey scrambles on to my back, using my tail to get up. He slaps my shoulders, wanting a ride. He seems to weigh nothing at all. Two men, the same as yesterday, with the long guns, come running towards me, then halt, skidding, and raise their guns. Before I can lift my trunk in a gesture that might indicate friendliness, before I can kneel even, three shots go off.
    “Don’t hit the monkey!”
    But they hit me.
    Bang !
    Now the sun is coming up and the tops of the trees are greenish, not all the trees being bare. My eyes go up and up. My body sinks. I am aware of the monkey leaping nimbly from my back to the ground, loping off, terrified by the gunshots. I feel very heavy suddenly, as if falling asleep. I mean to kneel and lie down, but my body sways sideways and I strike the cement. Another shot jolts my head. That was between the eyes, but my eyes are still open.
    Men scamper round me as the monkeys did, kicking me, shouting to one another. Again I see the huge cats leaping in the forest, leaping on me now. Then through the blur of the men’s figures I see Steve very clearly, but Steve as he was when he was young—smiling, talking to me, with his pipe in his teeth. Steve moves slowly and gracefully. So I know I am dying, because I know Steve is dead. He is more real than the others. There is a forest around him. Steve is my friend, as always. There are no cats, only Steve, my friend.

Djemal’s Revenge

    D eep in the Arab desert lived Djemal, with his master Mahmet. They slept in the desert, because it was cheaper. By day, they trudged (Mahmet riding) to the nearest town, Elu-Bana, where Djemal gave rides to tourists, squealing women in summer dresses and nervous men in shorts. It was about the only time that Mahmet walked.
    Djemal was aware that the other Arabs didn’t care for Mahmet. A faint groan came from other camel drivers when he and Mahmet approached. There was much haggling over prices, dinars, between Mahmet and the other drivers who would at once pounce upon him. Hands would fly and voices rise madly. But no one exchanged dinars, only talked