She was beautiful, spots and all,

Today was Saturday, our day of rest. Just a few quizzes to grade and then the faculty could go play. And play we did. You see, on Sunday is out to the churches to preach and mix with the rural folk. Stressful for a outsider. But that’s tomorrow….
At a ranch even bigger than the Bush ranch in Crawford, TX.
23,000 Acacia Acres. About 15 miles north of Scott. But with the washboard they use for a road it takes 55 minutes to get there. It’s typical African plains, with sparse groves of acacia. Did you know there are scores of varieties of acacia trees? Neither did I.
Three of us went early for a guided wildlife tour with a trained guide (all for $15 each). We saw the usual—giraffes, wart hogs, eland, Oryx (not common elsewhere), zebra, wildebeest, tawny eagle, lilac-breasted roller, and various antelope species, to name a few. And the rare Geranock (Sp?) Looks like a short-necked giraffe. We were in an open top land rover so we could get photos without shooting through glass. It was a warm day with a gentle breeze—no clouds.
But the highlight was my cheetah. You will see me with her in a photo when I get a chance to download my camera.
She was beautiful, though a tad overweight for a cheetah. Most cheetahs are bone-showing thin because hyenas hang out near them. When they make a kill they have to pause to catch their breath and the cheeky hyenas snatch the prey. But my cheetah was orphaned at age 3 in Somalia and ended up here on this Kenya ranch, fed on beef once a day, and kept in a compound at night. She may live to be 25—ten years more than in the wild.
Soon the guys say to save our photos until she comes out. One puts a collar around her neck—but no leash. “We don’t need a leash. If she wanders off we track her with the radio. But usually she stays close by. Just don’t make any sudden motions."
Out she comes. She sniffs us. First Jack and Karen Mitchell. Then me. Really glad I shaved and washed up this morning. She goes to lie in the shade of a thatched shed. We go up one by one to bend down and groom her coat with a brush the handler hands us. Photos are snapping. I am last. And—are you ready for this?—she licks my hand! Maybe she senses we are the same age for our species.
You can feel her black spots. The fur is different somehow. She yawns. Look at those fangs! And did you know cheetahs do not have retractable claws as most cats do? Neither did I. She lies back on her side. Stretches. I guess she is getting bored, for she ambles a few yards to sit on a mound to look out over the plains. I notice she is looking northeast—in the direction of Somalia, her homeland.
The guide now bids us come into a rickety barn that has been there forever. It has some thatch, some tin roofing. Unbelievable. It's got dozens of antique cars and cycles. A bit dusty, sure. But there is a Rolls, a T-bird, a hand-crank 1920s Ford. And that cream colored one? That’s the one Meryl Streep rode in while filming “Out of Africa,” the story of Karen Blixen. Motorcycles going back to the thirties. A couple of creaky bicycles, too. And the walls have wood shelves holding all manner of ancient auto parts. All out here on the plains of Africa miles from any decent density of population to enjoy these treasures.
I turn to go back toward the entry. And who is walking at my side? Ms Cheetah, of course. I think she likes me. That’s understandable. I tell her she’s the only cheetah for me. I don’t want her howling to the full moon next week about my cheetin’ hart. Maybe she mistakes me for a hartebeest. I have a hard time reading the minds of females of all species. I’m thinking of adapting an old Swedish song—“cheetah, my hand-lickin’ sweetheart—I’m crazy nuts about you!”
Meanwhile, back at the ranch, a lunch awaits us.
Wives and kids have arrived for a buffet under a thatched roof pavilion. All food guaranteed safe for western stomachs. A garden salad, spinach quiche, and cold cooked asparagus spears. Course One.
Go back to the hot table. Mixed vegetables, roasted potatoes, and breaded fish. Course Two.
Then to the custom-order chefs. They hold a 10 inch black skillet. Pour in oil. Add what you like. I choose onion, mushrooms, sun-dried tomatoes, fresh diced tomatoes, chopped garlic, braised Hamburg, green peppers. He mixes it over the flame, adds spaghetti. Mmmmm. Course Three.
Course Four. Repeat Course Three, smaller portion.
Course Five. Repeat Course One, smaller portion.
Course Six. Repeat a tiny Course Two.
Since it is Jack Mitchell’s birthday (yesterday) we all get hot apple crisp with ice cream. Course Seven.
That’s the perfect number. I know when I have had enough. No over-eating for me, nossiree!
Disclosure—I did not eat again that day until Kim Okesson and little Anna came to our house with hot muffins at 8 PM. A little glass of milk with the two smallest muffins (George is out so I ate one of his while it was hot, as I’m sure he would want) and I am ready for bed and sweet dreams.
Anyway—we talked out there while the kids chased Frisbees and watched monkeys. I dozed off quite a few times. A professor’s lot is not an easy one! We took a photo of the seven of us who are Wheaton College grads. Then over the washboard home. I managed four catnaps during the ride home, too.
Sweet dreams for me tonight.
She was beautiful—spots and all.