Chaka sat on a rock in the sun and licked the remnants of her last kill off her paws, a rather large mouse or rat of some sort. I had been tasty and surprisingly hard to catch. Hunting had been harder recently. Perhaps she was getting old. Or the rogue life was ceasing to suit her. She knew she saw prides from far off sometimes and yearned to meet them. But they were often derisive and unbelieving to her. She picked up one of her brown gold paws and stared at it intently. Am I really not what I think I am? No one seems to believe me anymore. She shook the depressing thoughts out of her head and flicked the remnants of her meal off the rock and stared off at a distant point.
