I gambol joyfully through thigh-high grass, little knowing that my carefree days are drawing to a close. The black balls of fluff with pointy ears who are my brother and sister, tumble and roll in the savanna beside me, growling when playful nips pierce the skin, in the exuberance of being alive.
It is said that the Cerrado, with its dense grasslands of silver, green, gold and rose, is close to paradise, but to me, as I look up at the orange globe glowing in the sky, it’s home.
Our mother, a ghostly creature, quiet, shy and rarely seen, disappears for days at a time looking for food. Our favourite is the aromatic, sweet loberia fruit, round and green like an apple. I am sad that it is getting harder to find.
We are the gardeners of the plains; when we eat the loberia, the Cerrado becomes fertilised and can maintain its beauty. But the fertility of the grasslands means it’s prized by farmers to grow food for humans. But that doesn’t worry us as we live our joyous childhood hour by glorious hour.
Suddenly, there’s stillness in the air.
A change.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. We stop our play, little knowing that our idyllic childhood has ended.
We look for our mother – we need her now, her guidance and protection, we need her love. But she has gone.
Howling, our fear is palpable, as we hunker down, trying to disappear into the long dense grass. The sun has gone the beautiful colours in the sky, hidden by dark, dense smoke. There is an acrid smell – we can taste it, our senses fully alive in our mounting terror.
Sensing, rather than seeing a movement in the grass, an unrecognisable smell in the air, before we have a chance to react, a gloved hand grabs us by the scruff of the neck and shoves us into a small cage.
Our captors move swiftly with a sense of urgency, a sense of impending doom. The smoke becomes thicker, crackling flames are encroaching, circling us, crimson and orange sparks, dancing in the smoky darkness. Our captors run, cleaving a path through the tall grass, grunting in their exertion. We feel their terror as the wind rushes through our fur. We huddle petrified.
Our cage thrown unceremoniously into the back of a truck, the engine roars, the tyres spin with the effort of gaining traction. In a second, which feels like an hour, we are off, speeding through the dense smoke. The fire behind us is spewing flames, like an angry dragon. We fall asleep, exhausted by stress and hunger. We wonder if we will make it, if we will ever see our mother again.
The truck stops, our cage is taken into the human shelter, into a large room, bright like the sun. Gently, we are taken from the cage, hissing, scratching and biting in our fear. Our captors speak to us in slow, gentle voices, whilst they examine us closely. We can feel their excitement. Our breed is almost extinct; they feel it was worth risking their lives to save ours.
They treat us kindly, a meal of delicious loberia fruit awaits us, before sleep in a large comfortable cage. It’s not the long, soft grass under a starry sky that is our want - but we are alive. We are now wearing collars, just as our mother did, but it didn’t save her from the farmers’ fires, deliberately started, without a thought to our lives, our idyllic lives!
We are orphans, too young to fend for ourselves, helpless bundles of fur. But one day we will be set free to return to the Cerrado, whether or not we survive, well that’s in human hands.
