“Better is a neighbor who is nearby than kindred who are far away.”
-- PROVERBS 27, 10
“Pumbaa, come ON,” Timon groaned. “The ground’s as dry as a bone, now; we’re not gonna find any more bugs out here.”
“I don’t know...” Pumbaa’s voice was filled with doubt. “We found that beetle a little while ago, remember?”
“‘A little while ago?!’ That was two hours ago! I’m fried!” Timon continued to gripe as the foraged listlessly among the cracked and dried flats. A brief rain had sprung up this morning, the dry ground greedily soaking up the moisture and driving the insects out in droves. The meerkat and warthog had delighted in this banquet, at least until the sun emerged again. The insects had vanished with the water, the ground drying into the haphazard mosaic that lay before them, baked hard now in the glaring sun.
Sighing, Timon leaned down to try again when faint movement caught his eyes. He skittered up Pumbaa’s back to perch atop his head, shading his eyes in the glare.
“H-Hey!” Pumbaa, laughed. “That tickles!”
“Hush!” Timon squinted. “A-HA! Buzzards!”
Pumbaa grimaced. “Ewww! I hate buzzards.”
“Pumbaa!” Timon tapped his friend’s head reproachfully. “We do not speak ill of those who might show us where to find some goodies.”
“Huh?”
“They might be giving us a pointer on where we might locate a leftover culinary delight!” Timon’s stomach growled in anticipation.
“Awwww!” Pumbaa looked downcast. “I was hoping they might show us where to find some food.”
The meerkat sighed. “Just head thataway.”
Pumbaa trotted off obligingly, heading towards the circling birds, who were beginning to descend, a sure sign that whatever they had been stalking was about to expire. Fresh meat! Timon shook the rough mane on Pumbaa’s shoulders with glee. “Oh boy oh boy! We’re gonna eat right today, pal, just you wait!”
Pumbaa halted suddenly, nearly sending Timon overboard. “Why do I have to wait?! Who says YOU eat first?!”
“No, no! Just forget it and head for the buzzards before they get the good stuff!” Timon seized Pumbaa’s ears and flicked them, kicking his heels into the warthog’s neck. “YAHHHH!!!”
Pumbaa accelerated, a horrendous war cry of his own issuing from his mouth as the two charged into the pack of jostling birds, sending them scattering in disarray, feathers flying as they squawked an indignant protest back at the two. Ignoring this, the duo checked around themselves for any malingerers, then relaxed, Timon chuckling at the sight.
“I love it!” Pumbaa snorted in mirth. “Bowling for buzzards!”
Timon guffawed. “Gets ‘em every time!” He proceeded to brush himself off as Pumbaa examined the carcass that lay at their feet. “Uh-oh. Hey Timon! You better come look. I think it’s still alive.”
The meerkat drew up involuntarily. “Yeesh!” Steeling himself, he meandered over, trying to look nonchalant. After all, Pumbaa WAS watching.
“Allrighty, whatta we got here?” Bending low, he sniffed the air carefully. The scent filled his nostrils; something exotic, but vaguely familiar. But alive, he could tell that much. Shrugging, he wriggled under the paw that covered the creature’s face and strained, lifting...
...and saw the soft furry features, the whiskers, and the tip of one ivory fang protruding over the lower lip. His blood ran cold as he dropped the paw, staggering back in terror.
“Jeez, it’s a LION!”