Noé León, Misionero Comido por Tigre (missionary eaten by a tiger), 1967

He wakes up suddenly, the rosettes on his back shaking as if in an earthquake. It takes him a minute to figure out where he is. It’s dark. He perks his ears and listens to the syncopated breathing of the man and the woman. He wags his tail and pulls himself under the wood. He smells the mango outside the bedroom, a rodent that scampers among the pots and pans, and the far-off water of the river that he discovered a few months back.

Before leaving the room, he arches his back and stretches his front legs as he yawns. He gets up, using his shoulder to create a space in the partially opened door and sets off toward the front exit. He wanders down the hall and catches a glimpse of himself in one of the mirrors. He jumps up to a window and opens it, pushing with his paws. Outside, he savors the air: the leaves, the feathers, the shouts.

He crosses one of the pastures. Under a full moon, the blades of grass glitter like fish scales. He sees dozens of insects—grasshoppers. moths, ants—which scamper as he approaches. He wags his tail to annoy them, his head erect, his face cold.

Photo of a jaguar by Santiago Wills

Walking slowly in the midst of the fields, his back feet falling into the footprints of his front feet, he blends into the night like a golden ghost covered with spots. He jostles straight ahead, jumping over rocks and termite nests, rolling himself into a ball to get under the barbed wire that delineates the old boundaries of his wanderings.

The cattle —that sadly prohibited prey— sleep under the ceiba trees. He steals a glance out of the corner of his eyes: black coal and maroon hulks that occasionally moo at his presence. They don’t get up and they are not scared, as they used to be a while ago, but they still feel the need to give a voice of alarm whenever they see him.

After passing a banyan tree, he turns at a relatively recent trail. He continues on, inclining himself below fallen trees and floating above piles of leaves and thorn-laden branches. His whiskers shape his path. He listens to the singing toads, the noisy explosions of the cicadas and the waters that wind down from the high part of the Sierra Nevada.

He notices the increasingly dense trees. He’s not far from the house, but he doesn’t know this area well. He wonders why he hasn’t marked it before, even though, bit by bit, he is understanding it better. There are the vacant fields where he played as a puppy, the banyan tree, which marks the entrance to the forest, and now, the jagua tree, which marks the ascent towards the mountains and ensuing descent to the valley. He hugs the trunk, supporting himself on his hind legs, and scratches it forcefully to sharpen his claws.

Photo of a jaguar by Santiago Wills

He leaves the jagua tree with deep wounds and sets off toward the river. His muscles tense, he stops for a while and lets the sounds and the smells of the jungle assault him. He listens to the falling leaves, the owl flapping its wings, and the labored breathing of the peccary. The possibility of the hunt excites him. He smells the thick nocturnal exhalation of the trees, the intoxicating stench of the peccary, and a new smell, one that’s somehow familiar.

He pulls back his upper lip, lets the air enter into his snout and draws it in forcefully. Again, he smells the odor of the peccary, but he ignores it. He’s interested in the new smell, a combination of musk, ammonia and unknown hormones. He repeats the process and feels inebriated by the perfume.

Immediately, he goes in its pursuit. He abandons the known trail and negotiates the fields hastily. He goes along the edge of a stream until he finds a place to cross it. He runs among the trees without paying any attention to the noise he is making. He stumbles on a root, but keeps on, the smell guiding him to a place in the river that he had never visited.

When he reaches the shore, he observes the churning flow, and hesitates. Trunks and branches are lost among the whirlpools and foam that dashes against the rocks. He sees a possible route, but he resists jumping. A cold wind caresses his bank and makes him shiver. He pulls his lip back to gather force and lets himself be intoxicated by the smell. Then he hears it: a growl similar to his own, but more urgent. A command that leaves him no choice.

Impassioned, he jumps. The cold water strikes him like a blow. His body sinks and, for a moment, he only sees the black vacuum that threatens to devour him. The current pushes him down the river and the water pulls him toward the bottom. He uses his paws frenetically to get out. As if he were supporting himself on firm ground, he propels himself against the water to rise to the surface. The river continues to force him down, but he manages to lift his head out of the water, breathe and reach a section of the river where he can swim with ease.

Photo of a jaguar by Santiago Wills

He hears the long deep cry once more. He feels the rocks below his paws, the wind on his soaked fur, and an overwhelming desire. He shakes himself off, sending drops of water towards the plants on the shore. He runs toward the sound, towards the smell, towards his very self.

It’s dawning when he sees her. Dazed, he confronts her with a growl. He recognizes her as a similar being, even though he only has vague memories—fleeting images, odors, tastes, textures, sounds—of his mother and  dog-devoured corpse of his litter mate. She is his size or just a bit smaller. Her face is thin, graceful. She has brown eyes, like the river water during the day, nearly squared rosettes with spots on the inside of her back, and thick legs with poorly defined muscles. An L-shaped stain surrounds her left eye.

She growls at him and bears her fangs when she sees him emerge from the thicket. She surveils him, extending her right paw, claws out, and quickly swipes the air, as if challenging him to combat.

After a moment’s hesitation, he approaches. He encircles her, maintaining a prudent distance, his gaze always attentive to her claws, her jaws and the L on her left eye.  He doesn’t quite know what to do. He draws near, dodges her attacks and growls over and over again, smelling her, beholding her, savoring her aroma. He discovers his fangs, moves his head from side to side, turns his ears, and drags his tail on  ground whose dampness has begun to evaporate; below his face, his eyes fixed, he twists his whiskers, absorbs the golden color under the shining rosettes, and growls, at once confused and certain of himself.

He circles her, drawing closer to her claws, to her flank, to her tail, measuring each movement in the midst of his anxiety. He is scared, but it’s a strange kind of fear. It’s not the fear of being punished or the fear of pain or abandonment. This fear drives him. It makes him sweat, take a step forward and study with glee the claws that strike the air only a few inches from his nose.

His senses are dulled and at the same time, they are more alert than ever. For the first time, he does not smell the jungle, only the amalgam of odors emitted by the body in front of him. He can distinguish the smell of the dry blood of a deer on her face, the acrid perfume of vaginal fluids, the pus of an unhealed wound on her back leg. He listens to the sharp tone of her growls, the less violent snorts, the muscles below her skin. He feels how his back is heating up, the black spaces that absorb the golden light, and the dark mud hardening under the pads of his paws.

The ritual continues for a while. Finally, he waits for an attack and lunges at her paws, while dodging it. He rolls on his back with his two front legs joined in the air like a mantis. And there’s a change. The snorts stop, the claws are drawn in and she turns her back.

He stops and slowly approaches her, his tail between his legs. He feels the heat of desire, the anxiety of closeness and a sudden discomfort. Frozen, he watches her.

It takes him a while to figure out what’s wrong. He sees her turn her face and growl, but he keeps still. A familiar sound bothers him. His ears perk up to hear it better.

The timbre of the man’s voice. He hears it regardless of the distance. In spite of everything, he concentrates on the echo that the air brings over from the other side of the river. He hears the tones that form his name.

Wavering, he looks at her anew. She is still on the ground with her eyes nailed to his, commanding him.  He takes a step forward, conscious of what he should do. He growls. He devours her taste, her aroma, her body and falters one last time.

Tense, he contemplates her before turning his face and running toward the river, the forest, the vacant fields and the voice that follows him ever since he can remember.