Cecil the lion ate my baby.  While millions of sheep-like American’s choke on their hyperbolic outrage, I mourn. From the landslide of hashtags and social media explosion, I’ve come to learn the facts of Cecil’s killing.  Killed by a steady-handed dentist.  The media gasps at the atrocity.  A timeworn, black-maned lion, pierced though the heart.  A trophy with a fifty-five thousand dollar price tag.  The meat, likely rotted.  The hide, taken with great care, to bring further nightmares to children with cavities.  I don’t mourn for Cecil.

My baby was six months old, helpless, delectably fatten on his mother’s succulent breast milk.  I remember the day with precision.  Late afternoon, mosquitoes in the corners of my eyes, the sun a pink wound on the infinite sky.  I held my child in my arms.  Rocked him to-and-fro.  Sang Outkast’s, “Sorry Miss Jackson,” in my baritone vocals.  My child was a happy child.  He burped and barfed and slept beautifully throughout the day.

I was tired.  I try not to blame myself for this disaster, but it is difficult not to shoulder the burden.  My legs ached from walking.  My feet spicy and scorched from the heat of the earth.  My child fell into a slumber in my arms.  With his little plump cheeks and his bare bottom, he looked so comfortable.  Watching him sleep made me drowsy.

I succumbed to the urge.  Found a spot in the tall grass, flattened out an area, stomped my foot to frighten off any serpents.  Then I laid on my back, looking up at the wondrous sky.  The serenity put me in a miraculous haze.  My belly was full of cold, bottled Coca-Cola.  I laid my child next to me and slept soundly.

I awoke some time during the night.  The pink had been rung from the sky, leaving it black.  There was no moon.  Stars lit my sleeping patch.  I remember not wanting to move.  I didn’t want to wake my child.  My head was too comfortable on the bed of flattened grass.  I drifted into sleep once again.

When I awoke the second time, well into the night, I heard something that sounded like a man eating chicken, nipping the last bit of meat off the bones.  It was a warm night, but there was an exceptional heat at my side.  I looked over to see two piercing eyes.  The stars illuminated those eyes so fiercely that I was doused with confusion.  I knew these weren’t the eyes of my child.  They were too far apart.  Too ferocious.  I leaned closer, searching the ground with my hands for my child.

The eyes were still there, mere feet from my face.  I called for my child, but the eyes did not waver.  I heard the licking of lips and a gurgle from a final swallow.  I knew at that moment that something terrible had occurred.  I struggled to my knees and found a book of matches in my pocket.  I struck one, but it fell dead.  I struck another.  The initial blaze of light blinded me momentarily.  When my eyes adjusted, I was face to face with something heavy.  A creature with claws and unforgettably beautiful eyes.  Its face was scarred and it smelled like uncooked goat meat.

I waited there for what seemed like centuries.  I could not break eye contact with the beast.  Caught like a fly in a web.  Behind the eyes, its mane was tinted black.  I recognized it.  Cecil.  Cecil the lion.

At first I reached out to pet it.  I was hypnotized.  I’d never been so close one of nature’s most efficient killers.  Such a beauty, this animal.  As I began to reach, I came to my senses.  This was no animal from a children’s story book.  This was no stuffed prize won at the county fair.  This was a killer.  This was a baby eater.

Cecil contemplated slashing my throat.  I saw it in his eyes.  But he turned away.  He flicked his tail violently.  Maybe he was full from my chubby child.  I cried out.  Cecil spared me.

When I heard the news of Cecil’s death, I was not consumed with hatred for the wealthy hunter.  I did not protest.  I did not hashtag.  Instead, I shed two pitiful tears.  One on behalf of the day Cecil spared my life.  I knew in my heart he could have easily eaten my head that day.  And the final tear fell for my poor, fully eaten, probably delicious child.