Little tiger

The sun shines, the birds sing, the river flows, as always. As always, a small tiger walks through the fields. The grass wet with morning dew cushions the sounds of your heavy footsteps. The tall vegetation and the closed forest enveloped his large and strong body in the shadows. A rustle of leaves there, broken branches in another direction, the friction of the smooth stone against the body of something big, bigger than a small Tiger. He was never alone, never safe, always alert, his belly growling. Of course, to his enemies, he didn't seem nervous or hungry. He puffed out his chest and walked with his head held high. Something alive moves sharply in one of the bushes. Little tiger advances. He jumps, falls on top, grabs, punctures, and tears the skin, kills, done. The smell of fresh blood fills the forest. The little tiger had a fat, dead mouse between its paws, beheaded. More rustling, food thieves. The Little tiger grabs the mouse and jumps up a tall tree. He returns the rat to its claws and devours it, rips the chain off, rips the bones, breaks, and contorts the rat in an unrecognizable carcass. He swallows, leaves nothing behind. It spits out leather, hair, and some sharp bones. He gets off the tree and walks again.