It all began when I was a strapping young lad of 19, full of fire and determination. I was traipsing through the jungles of southern mozambique, alongside a few of my newfound friends from the Zoobabi tribe. We’d been hunting sabre cats for nearly a week, following them through the forests every night. Tough tracking, sabre cats; they barely leave a trace, so if you want to find them you’ve got to follow the corpses of their prey. Anyways, it was a steaming hot night, as most nights are on the continent, and our party had split into three groups of two each. We’d cornered a big ol kitty and we were closing in that night. One of my Zoobabi friends, Dabibo, had already got him in the leg with a spear, so it was only a matter of time before we got him. Dabibo had split off from the rest of the group with me, and we were pulling up the flank. We were tiptoing around some boulders when suddenly, we saw him in a clearing. There he was, lying out in the middle, taking a breath and trying to nurse his spear wound. My Zoobabi fellow wasted no time, and loosed another spear, clicking in his native tounge all the while. With that last attack, the cat’s fate was sealed. He collapsed under his own weight, the will taken out of him. We approached him cautiously, wary of the notorious ‘last wind’ known to accompany the death if a sabre cat. As we got closer, we noticed he was still breathing, although it could be more accurately described as a wheeze. We circled around to his front, and when I looked him in the eyes, I knew he was done. The fight to live had gone out of him. But in his last moments, when he stared me down, I knew that his fight to spite me still burned deep within his heart. With his final breath, he looked me right in the eyes and said, “(###) ###-####”, and that was the moment I knew we’d felled a beautiful, virtuous beast. That was the last time I hunted sabre cats with my comrades of Zoobabi.