Her room was a cage, separated from the animals below by bars and a screen but no glass. In the wild, snow leopards use a personalized anal secretion to mark terrain. It means keep out, written in animal scent. At the zoo, that musky animal smell crowded the air, acrid and persistent. It clung to Sarah’s clothes like smoke on a smoker, seeped into her skin and hair, and followed her home. In the evenings Ben put his nose to her hair and whispered, “Here kitty, kitty.” He hadn’t put his nose to her hair lately, though, not since he’d smashed his face. Her timer sounded a peep, like a baby bird, and Sarah wrote “Motoring” on a chart for Malthus, the male. Dame Anne sprawled on a fake sculpted ledge, her eyes narrow. Sarah waited for a caterwaul. Malthus could mount. Why not? He’d sink his teeth so gently into Dame Anne’s neck, force his barbed cock in, make her eyes open, her thighs quiver. Kapow. Uncia uncia. Once once. The Latin name for the snow leopard couldn’t be more lonely or singular.
