I found the stuffed lion at the antique shop.
He was in poor shape,
but I was quite taken by him.
I thought to give him to my niece for her birthday,
but found I couldn’t part with him.
I cuddled him before work and
rushed home to see him afterward.
He was on my mind all day.
In retrospect,
I guess I was suspicious early on.
A little, anyway.
How my stuffed lion looked fresher each day,
grew larger,
noticing after work that he wasn’t always in the same place
I had left him in the morning,
how I woke up that Sunday
when I felt something tickling my lip,
to discover his furry face practically inside my mouth,
inhaling,
how we looked into each other’s eyes in that moment,
me wondering how a stuffed toy had suddenly grown real eyes,
and thinking that I must be dreaming.
I needed to see two doctors
before I could see the specialist.
She wanted to do more tests.
My bones were becoming brittle,
my face deeply lined.
She couldn’t understand why I was aging prematurely.
But I knew why.
It’s bedtime now,
and I open my journal.
This will probably be my last entry.
He’s blocking the door, you see,
preventing my escape.
Silly lion.
I wouldn’t have the energy,
not with the wheelchair anyway.
Besides, I could never abandon my lion.
He needs me.
I lick the tip of my pencil and write:
Predators don’t need claws and teeth when
cute and cuddly snares the prey.