Magnus crouched low, creeping silently towards the grasslands. He lowered himself to the ground next to a rock outcropping and scanned the horizon, his tail twitching. Feeling hunger pangs, he knew he needed to hunt, to kill. He needed to gorge on the flesh, meat, sinew and blood of a fresh kill until his belly was distended and his hunger slated. The mouse he killed earlier lay where he left it. It had tasted like dusty fur and catnip. Not worth his time. He wanted a springbok or other small antelope. A small herd with babies would be perfect. He could cull a baby; separate it from the herd for an easy kill. He twitched his whiskers. No sign of game. No scent of game. Only a giraffe ambling back forth, browsing on the tall branches of the baobab trees. He wondered if he could bring down a giraffe.
He tensed, his body ready to spring. Closer, closer…now! He leapt at the giraffe as it walked closer on impossibly long legs. He grabbed a thigh with his powerful claws and held on, intending to climb as high as he could to topple the giraffe.
“Ouch, Magnus. You startled me. What are you doing? Get your claws out of my leg!” yelled the giraffe. Magnus dropped to the ground. He had forgotten that these two-legged giraffes talked. He waited while his tall prey rubbed its thigh, then launched himself at its ankle, wrapping his body around the foot while kicking and biting at its hoof.
“What are you doing, you crazy cat?” yelled the giraffe. “I’m trying to fold laundry. Don’t trip me.”
“I am not a crazy cat. I am a lion. You are my prey.” Magnus shook his head to puff up his mane-like ruff and stretched. “And I’m bored.” He yawned hugely, showing off his long incisors, then turned and sauntered away, eying the stack of soft, warm, clean folded towels. The towels looked comfy. It was time for his nap.