25) Hunger does not reach me but by indirect paths. I might sleep two days then get up for water only to find myself weak and dizzy from the exertion. Hunger. I might walk and walk and walk, then notice an odd drift of my thoughts toward the sweet and fleshy, have memories of hot fat dripping down my chin, or a desire to chew something other than willow bark, my usual choice. Hunger. In a pinch I might hide out in the well stocked pantry of a house, waiting for the occupants to leave. Could take hours. Food all around. Hunger. Of this latter path to hunger, I dreampt it. Last night. I find myself in said pantry. I think the occupants have left. And when I step out with my pockets heavy with their trivial possessions, and now with noodles, canned beans, and peaches, spilling out my coat front, I am confronted by a young boy, trembling, in the hands of which is a big gun. The boy shoots me dead, right though the food. Oh, dreams, dreams. I am full of death.
So it was this morning. I woke up in my deep, restful cave to wind howling outside. It sounded like a pack of dogs. Panicked, I raised my head too quickly and collided with the ceiling that had tapered to a silty hollow, essentially my bed, at the back of the cave. I touched the hurt and saw blood. Immediately I thought of meat. I was hungry. In so savage a land one can easily hearken back, with the help of stories, to humanity's coarse and brutal beginnings, a time when they lived full time in caves. All about me were beetles, some wriggling upon their backs, others crushed to yellow paste. I must have had a restless night. But I was not in the mood for beetle. I wanted meat.
I left my pack tucked away and set out to kill the first loping thing I could catch. I have no stealth. My large, poorly maintained frame makes for noise in the step and for labored breathing. No, I would have to depend on the stupidity of my prey. I followed the trail out. It was morning. Sunny. Bent grass made little cracking sounds righting itself as the dew fled. Listen to me! I am a hunter, not a naturalist. Ahead, (where else?) I spied a creature. It was alone, nibbling. Kind of a little thing. Hairy, mostly neck. I crashed forward as quietly as I could. At twenty feet, it raised its head. One look at me and it just dropped dead! Well, I assume. It fell over, so I quickly closed the distance and stomped upon its tough body until I was satisfied I had been coarse and brutal enough. Still, I feel certain that it had died with but one look at me.
What kind of hunter am I?