Pala is such a bitch, Pickle thought to herself as she poked her claw through the eye of the mouse she had been toying with. She has no right to delegate her duties to me. She’s barely even pregnant. The pregnant cheetahs always got the best treatment – food brought right to their mouths, the sunniest rocks for their naps. Even a favored front seat at their weekly tribe meetings. Pickle always had to sit in the back with the rest of the cub-less ladies. She could barely hear the agenda items, and always had to roar “LOUDER PLEASE,” which she knew embarrassed her brother, Malachi, half to death. But how was she ever going to get pregnant if she couldn’t even make herself seen?
She dragged her paw listlessly through the sand. The mouse was dead. The fun was over.