You can’t just tell a Leopard to FUCK off. (Part 2)

Paul Connolly

(The colourful title of this story goes to the credit of Nelfie Kemp.)

However my polite suggestion that it leave the property forthwith was met with insolence and clear contempt; it slowly turned towards me, and when I looked into its blazing yellow eyes, I knew that I’d made a mistake. A big one. I was no more than five meters from it, and with a deep growl from the depth of its belly, which would have added an extra level to Dante’s Seven Levels of Hell, it launched itself at me. 

Instinctively I raised my arm so that my forearm was protecting my face.  In three bounds it had me, and clamped its jaws over my forearm.  Down we went, and for a ludicrous moment we lay side by side staring into each other’s faces.  It still gripped my left arm, and I could see blood beginning to spread across my arm and onto the stone paving.  With my right fist I started to punch it on the eyes and nose, but with little effect.  I then gripped it on the throat with my right hand, and ripped the left hand from its jaws, so that I could use both hands to try and throttle it.  For a moment I thought I could beat it.  I had it pinned to the ground, but at the same time I knew that it was a matter of seconds before it would begin to rake upwards and eviscerate my stomach with its hind claws.

 I shouted to Marilyn and Alice, the maid, to get the child into a safe place, and the claws began to rake.  Realising that either I lose my stomach, or I let go to fight another round, I released it. The kitchen door was no more than three meters from me, and as I reached it, it hit me again, this time gripping me on the right forearm. I felt the pain as it’s teeth went through my hand from one side to the other. I was on my knees, fighting against being pulled to the ground and in desperation I wrenched my arm from its jaws and slammed the door.

However, instinct told me that the battle was far from over.  I shouted again to Marilyn to get the child to safety, and as I ran across the kitchen, I noticed that the leopard had sprinted around the side and was looking at me through the wide window pane above the kitchen sink. I stopped, and stared at it, sensing the inevitable. And the inevitable occurred.  

It launched itself up toward the pane, smashing it into fragments of splintered and flying glass. Whatever happens to our minds at times like this, the effect is extraordinary, a dramatic alteration of ‘time and space’.  Time slowed down to milliseconds, and I remember that I needed the shattered pane of glass to drop below the leopards head before I could strike back.

But this time I was prepared.  Gathering all the strength I could, I hit it square on the nose as it exploded through the glass.  It dropped onto the kitchen sink, dazed and probably confused at having smashed through the window. 

Round three began.  I think for the first time I got worried because now I knew that it wanted to kill me.  It had had three opportunities to leave me, but that was not to be the case. I was running out of strength and losing blood from both hands and forearms. I was punching for my life, not too sure if I was connecting effectively, because blood was now slightly obscuring my vision. It was snarling and slashing at me with its claws, reducing my shirt to bloody shreds.  The terrified gardener was crouching at the internal kitchen door, yelling words of support and encouragement, exhorting me to greater effort, but sensibly staying well back from the scrap. I shouted for him to bring me a knife, but he refused.

 Desperately now, with a last gasp punch and a push, I shoved it back through the broken window, and rushed out of the kitchen, slamming all the doors behind me.

The story thus related under the teak trees, caused no more than mild interest, although the novel idea of a boxing match with a leopard on the kitchen sink during morning tea was regarded as a nice touch. Other than that, it was relegated to its rightful place behind others considerably more gory.

I ran down the long corridor to my bathroom to bathe my hands and forearms in hot water and wrapped them in a towel to stop the bleeding. But I faced another problem. Six double French doors lead out from various rooms in my house, onto long verandas.  I had no idea how many were open through which the leopard could enter the house.

My chief concern was the safety of the child, so it was with trepidation that I ran from my bathroom down the long corridor to find her. If the leopard had come through any one of the doors and found me, it would have killed me because I was faint and dizzy with exhaustion.

Then appeared the knight in shining armour. Two houses away from mine, lived a man called Fanie Pretorius. He was also a professional hunter, and he was enormous. He once stood his ground as a wounded lion attacked him and he held it up as it raked the back of his neck. His tracker killed the lion, but the strength required to stand upright and hold a lion at bay, is simply phenomenal. The usual cynics in the community said that the lion had lost interest in Fanie after it had taken a bite out of his nose, after which it felt satisfied and would have let him go anyway. And it’s true, Fanie had a nose of unusual proportions. It was Fanie who, on hearing the sounds of a smashing large window pane, and the yelling and shouting, quickly analysed the situation.

As I was staggering down the corridor in search of the child, I heard the unmistakable sound of a double barrelled 12 bore shotgun discharging two rounds of buckshot. I do not think I can remember a sound more comforting than that.

However, where I held the trump card, was at the end of the tale. I set off in search of the child. To my surprise, I heard noises coming from the toilet which is contained in a room less than two meters long and one meter wide. When Alice, the maid, finally and reluctantly opened the door and saw me, she slid down the wall in a dead faint. I saw before me an extraordinary sight. Marilyn was attempting to squeeze the child into the toilet bowl, and all I saw were two plump arms, and an equally plump neck and head bearing two startled eyes, protruding from the bowl, with the child’s mother still attempting to close the lid on it. “It’s OK Marilyn” I said, “you can take the child out of the toilet”

They liked that bit.

Fats, who had once been to Johannesburg and fancied himself as something of an international traveller, said that the child must have looked like one of those gargoyle things on that cathedral in Notre Dame.

When my two daughters who were attending the local primary school came into my room, Claire, she of the soft heart, reversed herself up to the edge of my bed and sat down.  She refused to look at the wounds.

On the other hand Julie, the stoic, said;  “Let’s see Dad. Let’s see”