No words could describe the rush she felt when she stepped out on stage, center-placed with fellow performers--friends--to the left and right of her.

Golden decorations jingled, trinkled and shimmered in the moonlight, songbirds singing to the beat of her paws. The smell of the flowers tossed at her feet scented the air with a sweet aroma, but Oboe couldn't smell it.

She couldn't smell, see, or hear anything--she just felt the dance.

Tail like an elegant rudder, the leopard swayed, stomped, writhed, coiled and stepped about the flat-stone beneath her, paw pads scraping and sliding, making a cool sound that filled the ears of the audience.

They were entranced.

The leopardesses on either side of the pink star were smiling and stomping, front paws slamming down as the pace of the dance quickened. Bodies and tails were spinning, coils of color and grace, swirling in the eyes of the faces that watched--dazed with awe and amazement.

Still, Oboe danced, a lazy smile on her face, happiness filling her from top to bottom. She loved to dance. The dance was in her. The dance was alive.

She WAS the dance.

As the dance grew faster and faster, stronger and more powerful, cheers of young males began to resound, their hearts pounding and their maws crooked with grins of delight and fascination.

Females watched in envy with flittering gazes, wanting to be what those leopards were--wishing they could be like petals and wings, beautiful and strong.

The song birds were flying in a frenzy, their voices echoing in a chorus of night, the flapping of their feathered wings added to the beat of slamming, scraping paws and limbs.

Faster, faster, stronger, stronger, louder, more energetic, more life, more power, more grace, more strength; the dance went on.

When Oboe stepped one way, her fellow dancers stepped another. Sometimes if she stepped one way, they'd step the same way. If she bent down, they stretched up. If she cried out, they were silent. If she was silent, they cried out. They were perfectly in sync with one another; the dance went on.

Finally, it was the climax of the dance. Blurs of color and sound and moonlight rose to the height of their power, moonlight cascading down like beams of energy around the dancers, birds singing at the tops of their lungs before suddenly, powerfully, stunningly, the dance stomped to a halt.

There was silence, and no sound could be heard but the pounding of hearts and pulsing of heated, excited blood.

Then the screaming cheers washed over the dancers.

Oboe, panting for breath as she grinned, swung her tail back, closed her eyes, bent her head and bowed down gracefully as she had learned. When she lifted her head, body still stretched, her gold eyes opened and shined in their youth, taking in the sights of the audience.

Their voices filled her gold-pierced ears like the voices of lovers, and in that moment, she was truly and utterly happy.

There was nothing like the dance--nothing. She loved to dance. She loved to show others what the dance meant to her. And if they enjoyed it, even more the rush and the joy. No, there were no words to describe that feeling of stepping to the center, all eyes on her, performers to her left and right.

Performance nights were Oboe's favorite nights. Although she was excited for the night to come on those days, the first real sign of the dance night--the first true feeling was the feeling of the gold weight draped on her back and over her head. Yes, once that decoration was upon her, that was when she knew it was a night to dance. Tonight was the same, but not the same.

Things were never the same. But she always loved them. She loved...she loved it so. It was like embracing a family member--a family member she never had.

Oboe was young and beautiful, lithe and coy; the star of the show. She was loved. And she loved.

Her eyes rotated through the crowd, remaining bowed to show her gratitude. Her eyes fell on the face of a green-colored serval. His eyes were captivating and captivated, and his body seemed to be stuck on the spot. When he caught her gaze, he started, then his body gave a strange tremble and he smiled.

A fan, a fan--she had fans. The dance was loved, so she was loved. She loved the world, and it loved her. She loved the animals, and they loved her. The dance was in her, and she was in it. A green serval smiled...

And Oboe smiled back.