On Speaking Terms with a Lion

Mr. Mx and I are not friends, we are the best of enemies. Often I find myself grinning, with joyful Terrestrial defiance and feral tooth bearing combined. I cannot bring myself to hate him wholly, betrayed by my ability to understand why he is instead of seeing him for what he is. Depending on who you ask, Mr. Mx is a power-hungry monster with an excess of potential sustenance at his disposal. Others would find these accusations unfounded, as he is nothing less than a tenderhearted gentleman from the highest level of society, all earned by his own will.

I am not his equal. Rather than admit to having less intelligence, I cling to my defence that I am simply different. That’s not how he sees it.

To him, I am primitive, but intriguing. I have often caught him looking at me as if I were a family dog. Unnerving as it may be, I try to soothe my worries by taking comfort knowing that I am not seated lower in the pecking order. I could be a beast, one with no redeemable qualities.

Some days I wonder if he truly listens to the words I speak, or if it is nothing more than childish babble that he pretends to take in only because he finds me endearing. His words are gentle, and I hope to keep them that way. To stay amicably detesting one another is comfortable, given the alternative.

Sometimes I think Mr. Mx is nothing more than a dormant volcano. He has a disarming charm about him in spite of his large stature and bear-like paws. His fury is latent when placated, but its reputation precedes him. While I know it exists, I wish to remain as ignorant of it as possible.

So we remain friendly enemies, waiting for the day that one of us gives into our perceptions, and disaster strikes.