The hunt

The fox ran. It ran from the danger that was coming. It was not far behind, baying and snapping its teeth. Still the fox ran. The predator had become the prey.

The men were not far away now, hiding in the bush with the sticks that meant death. Death. If the fox stopped running, it would mean death. If it kept going, it would mean death. There was nowhere safe to go. Either way meant death. To keep going meant to lose its life and the small bundle in its jaws. To stop and fight would mean to lose its precious bundle and its own life. Death was snapping at the foxes heels now, its hot breath getting dangerously close. Death was tense at the other end of the clearing, ready to end a life. Two lives. This was the foxes only cub, Its most precious possession, worth more than life itself. If this cub was to live, it would need safety. And safety was far from this place.

The men rose out of the bushes now, pointing their hatred and scorn at the fox as it neared. Those guns meant death. They could not miss. They did not miss. With a sound that echoed around the forest, darkness came. The foxes legs buckled under her, and her lifeless head flopped to the ground. Her cubs cries were drowned out by the baying of the dogs, and the stomping of the men as they ran to collect their kill.

To kill, one must have a reason. These men had no reason, other than the hatred they had for this species. Hate. This beautiful creature had died because of hate. Hate for her will to survive, her cunning and her beauty. All those reasons should not be enough to kill for.

But in an imperfect world such as this, It is kill or be killed.