The Alternative Author ·
13 February 07

Hello. My given name is “Graaaaawarrr”, and I was named by my adoptive parents. You see, when I was young, my adoptive parents killed my real parents while on a trek to Africa. When they saw I didn’t have any meat on me, the decided to raise me instead, as part of an experiment. I personally think they saw too many episodes of Tarzan, but my parents don’t like me mentioning that (may they rest in peace) and say that Tarzan did some bad things to his monkey, and confused a lot of people when he said Cheetah – because then lots of Cheetahs would come and stupid Tarzan killed them all, my mum and dad said.

The most cherished memories of my family and I return, when I take a moment in my hectic lifestyle to look back at a picture that was taken of us by a group of hunters, who first “ooed” and “ahhed” until they got bored and decided shooting at us. We were ready for them of course; though dad had this, shall we say mild, alcohol problem and it sometimes took a bullet in the tail area to get him into gear. How we laughed when he bled and bled and started biting at us.

Having grown up a little, I learnt to chase my food and kill it, skin it and then eat it raw. Unfortunately we were captured by a zoo who said they would look after us and protect. They did this by throwing us into a zoo which had steel cages. In the mornings little human children would run up to the cage that protected them from us, because they feared we would kill them. They were right, because it’s what we do as cheetahs.

So, they then discovered that I had turned from a cheetah into a human person, and they decided to let me go. I know my parents weren’t happy, because my dad tried to chew off the zoo keepers arm. The zoo keeper is commonly known as the zoo keeper with one hand now, thanks to dad’s brave effort. Unfortunately, they took me out and turned me into an obedient servant of the human race, and so I learnt to walk like a biped, talk like a biped and do all the stuff that capitalists do such as take from the poor, pollute the world and destroy it, while at the same time creating a dome for myself made from plastic and paper mache to live in because it’s de rigueur.

The next time I went to see my parents; I was shocked to learn of some horrific news. Dad was put down after he had his lunch; his final meal was the zoo keeper’s arm, as the zoo decided that looking after him would work best if there was a bullet through his cranium, which would then pierce into his brain and essentially kill him dead. Mother of course wasn’t happy, and she got very angry and started to prowl the cage and was often very menacing towards those that killed my dad.

Sadly though, her time was at an end, and she became a fashion accessory. It’s rather humbling to think that somewhere, out there, my mother is carrying someone’s crap in what was once the skin that covered her stomach. Dad of course, wasn’t so lucky and after he was put down, was turned in to a shoe. As a subject to discuss, it drudges up some awful memories, and it hurts to even think about it. Sometimes, I get so distressed, that I…yes…I admit it…sometimes I think I’m a leopard! I know, it’s a shameful sin, and I really should see somebody about it, but I feel it is the burden I must carry as the only remaining survivor of my family.

I have unsuccessfully mated with a cheetah in another zoo, and I did confer that we were not related. She replied by clawing my neck, which caused an arterial bleed and I was rushed to hospital for immediate surgery. They fixed me, but they said that I was crazy for doing it, and the police were called in to question me. I told them of my sorrow, and how I was lonely being the only cheetah left from my family and my parents would have been proud had I successfully mated with a female cheetah.

They said there were some people who would look after me, and they would ensure that I didn’t get hurt or hurt anyone else. I didn’t know what they meant, but all I could think about was that cheetah who clawed my neck. I think she really must have liked me, and all our little cheetahs would have been wonderful, and we could teach them how to hunt and scavenge in a caged environment. Of course, they may have to kill each other for practice, because there would be no real chase.

Sometimes they let me out of the white room twice a day, and they say that the outfit I am wearing is a special outfit which can turn me into a butterfly if I start to communicate and take my medicine. I think they’re a little bit crazy here, because everyone knows that cheetahs can’t turn into butterflies. I sometimes wonder if they should take the same medicine too.

I miss living life as a cheetah, but the soft white room is very nice, because when I growl only I can hear it, and when I try to bite the walls, I can grip it between my fangs. Sometimes it keeps me calm, but other times I think I’m a polar bear, but then I get confused because I can’t find any fish inside here, and then I hibernate after taking my medicine.

They tell me I have to go back now, because they have to talk to me and ask me if I’m feeling any better. Of course I’m not feeling better! My dad was turned into a pair of soft, comfy slippers and my mother is a handbag, would you be happy if was your parents? They say if I’m extra nice, they’ll let me watch some of my cousins running in Africa, so I have to behave now. Perhaps if I pretend to be a cow, they may let me go and then I can try to breed with other cows! Then there could be cheecows, which will have the power of a cheetah and the skill of a cow. But I if get hungry, I may have to eat my wife, and I hope she won’t mind.

Bye bye everyone!