Snarl

By John Francis Pearring Jr., Timothy Fuller and Xander Redfern

A Catholic writer imagines the answer to one of the most compelling questions people face in this world--and the next. Do animals get rewarded with eternal life? The life and death story of a mountain lion leaving his mother and brother to encounter predators and his next meal parallels the challenges of nearby humans attempting to steward both forest and wildlife. Where do their struggles lead them? When lives are lost, do animals join humans in heaven? Seen through the eyes of creatures great and small, Snarl takes the reader on an unforgettable journey where they have their eyes opened to startling new possibilities. Since the book frames our heaven shared with every willingly redeemed animal, not just those that we know and love, the author is compelled to substantiate his premise with evidence from Scripture and a mix of classic theologians. Follow this story for the possibility of our shared redemption.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Jun 23, 2022
• ISBN: 9781666745580

John Francis Pearring Jr.

John Francis Pearring Jr. authored Snarl, a novel—the premise for A Snarl Theology. Pearring has been a groundbreaking storage firm CEO, Catholic newspaper editor, teacher, and commercial contractor. He is a trained journalist, poet, documentation writer, and apologist for the Catholic Church. Pearring and Joanne, his wife of forty-nine years, live in Manitou Springs, Colorado. They have raised six children and welcomed eleven grandchildren. John hosts homelesscatholic.com with other bloggers from his office in Woodland Park, Colorado.

Book preview

Chapter One

Separation

YZ

Shall I reckon up for you the differences of the other animals, both from us and from each other — differences of nature, and of production, and of region, and of temper, and as it were of social life? How is it that some are gregarious and others solitary, some herbivorous and others carnivorous, some fierce and others tame, some fond of man and domesticated, others untamable and free? And some we might call bordering on reason and power of learning, while others are altogether destitute of reason . . . some strong, others weak, some apt at self-defense, others timid and crafty . . . some attached to one spot, some amphibious; some delight in beauty and others are unadorned . . . Is this not the clearest proof of the majestic working of God?

—St. Gregory Nazianzen, Second Theological Oration (Oration 28), #’s 23-26, A.D. 381

YZ

Stare

S

tare pondered, stretched out

on a resting spot. Legs opened behind her, she lay in an awkward way, spread in resignation more than rest. She’d been there all day, doing nothing requiring effort, remembering, sleeping, and unsure of way too many things. Not typical lion behavior.

Her cubs returned at day’s end, pattered about in silence for a few moments, quick glimpses her way as they circled. They finally settled in front of her. The three mountain lions formed a triangle, heads facing, paws crossed under their chins.

When on all fours, the cubs stood as tall as Stare, except their youthful skin rippled with muscles. Stare was old for a lion in the wild, a mark of successful survival and less time left. Her depleted body sagged under the weight of hanging fir. She no longer swayed as she walked, which seldom happened anymore.

A fly landed on her snout. Too tired to open her mouth and flick at it with her tongue, Stare watched instead. Her eyes crossed as she tried to focus.

She saw beyond the bold fly and noticed her oldest cub, Snarl, looking her way, head still on his forepaws. His long, stiff eyebrows twitched. The senior male in their small family, Snarl could claim inherited advantages not found in any other pack member. Stare wasn’t sure if Snarl realized it yet. He was the dominant species in the dry, dusty green mountains below and a handful of miles north of what the humans called Pikes Peak. Snarl didn’t know that. Neither the name of the mountain nor his dominance among living things.

Stare also had no idea what humans called the mountain that rose above and to the south of where they lived. Names don’t work that way for lions. Human thought, intentions, and motives never crossed her mind. She had always been outstanding, though, at how lions thought about things. Until now. Her mind wandered, shifting from moment to moment, sliding away from present matters. Once certain of almost every detail about her life, her cubs, and their surroundings, Stare now questioned minor decisions, aware less and less of the big ones.

The ridged crevasse where they lay had been her summer home for a dozen years. Winter caves and hidden holes dotted the high ground of her canyon. As for the humans, she hadn’t seen one for some time. Purposely and cleverly, she found this rugged terrain which so far humans had avoided. Her last several broods birthed unseen in this rough, steeply granite-lined chasm with juts of flat spaces to lounge about and scan their tiny empire. All else — encroaching developments, roadways, and cabins — remained distant.

Deer, varmints, the occasional elk, and rabbits filled their bellies.

Snarl would eventually meet humans, Stare assumed. She did not train either cub regarding the ways of humans because had no idea how to do that, other than hide. The two boys would have to figure them out on their own.

Her elder cub found privilege simply by his luck of birth. Snarl moved when and where he wanted, with little concern for interference. Stare wondered where he would go. He would have to go, of course. None of her cubs had stayed, even when they wanted to. She hadn’t let them.

Stare blended into the earth, outright gray with only small tinged patches of the cougar’s orange fur. As a young mother, she sported a thin rake of gray on a bronzed body. Stare’s elders and her cubs carried the same family trait, quadruple strips of light fur between the front shoulders. The pack’s mark was no longer visible on Stare, even in watery reflections. All of her had gone gray.

What brought that up, she asked herself? Her mind shifted from one thing to another. She had forgotten what happens next with the cubs. She resigned some time ago to let the oldest do what he wanted. Thankfully, she had taught him most of what she knew before her body began this current decline. She relinquished control without knowing if Snarl was ready because she had no other choice.

How many kittens had she birthed in her turns at the seasons? She could not remember. Were there always just male cubs? No females came to mind. Her memories had faded along with her instincts. The worry of the night, a typical thought at day’s end, had also lessened. Stare doubted herself, wavered in certainty. Even her steady, consistent drive to care for the cubs evaded Stare’s grasp. She spent her time scratching in the dirt and sleeping.

A worry nagged at her thoughts. The cubs had grown overly large. Less cub, more lion. Maybe she was shrinking. The oldest reached her height and length. Though he came only one full moon later, the youngest, Spit — too late to be called a twin — almost matched his brother’s size.

The boys did not resemble each other in any way. The younger constantly moved, boisterous and spontaneous to a fault. Spit baffled Stare. He was willing to obey like Snarl, yet unable to focus on anything without great effort. Spit’s body squeezed tight from snout to back paws, poised to pounce. He scrunched his lids shut rather than let them fall. Spit knew when to nap, but struggled to even do that.

Stare’s older cub was pensive and reflective, though a lion has no words or concept for such behavior. Snarl looked squarely at his mother in recent months, like he was doing now. Stare compared this look to Snarl’s odd, gnarled pup face. The memory, still there, reminded Stare about Snarl’s natural ability to dominate. As a pup, Snarl searched her eyes for direction or approval. Now, his gaze exhibited confidence, a mix of learning and instinct, the demeanor of a self-aware male. She knew nothing of either learning or instinct as separate kinds of behaviors, other than the result.

Stare shivered. She conjured violent memories of dominant male lions. They were dangerous. She had waited too long, Stare thought. Snarl should be on his own.

She thought about his patterns. Snarl marked his territory without Stare’s urging and assumed control of situations simply with the lock of his head. This was the way with more muscular males when they gazed at both fellow lions and prey. She didn’t teach him this. It came from some primal formation, like the sturdiness of mature trees compared to young saplings.

Snarl looked at Stare longer than she wanted. She turned her head away. The worn mother realized, frightened at her forgetfulness, that this change in Snarl had been going on for a while. She no longer attempted to stare along with him, assuring him, because his assurance had already been confirmed.

With her face down, she returned to pondering.

She named him Snarl, an image of his face rather than a name. That’s how lions recognize each other, a likeness that sticks. Stare wasn’t sure if Snarl fit him now. He rarely needed to be aggressive. His presence was enough. Animal recognition and identification begins with a visage that will morph over time. An original visual picture, added with smells, sounds, and body movements, fix a memory that stays in place. Stare wouldn’t change the visage of her son. Snarl would always be Snarl.

As a very young lion, the fur on Snarl’s face curled as if he had too much skin. The grimace eventually melted away. His face now held one unmoving, non-emotional profile. With a sullen fixed gaze, Snarl established control over everything he could see. Growls seldom came from his lanky, self-controlled frame. He lightly lifted a paw to move something aside, or to stay Spit. Snarl’s movements were easy, flowing, and focused.

Spit . . . well, Spit was not that way.

Her two cubs were the least difficult to mother in her memory. It’s Snarl’s exceptional mood control, she reckoned. He didn’t flinch at Spit’s uncalled-for jumps or swipes. Short tempers burden mother lions and age them quickly as they must match violence with violence. She either did little to raise them or taught them on a fully formed motherly cruise control. Spit no longer required her discipline. Snarl paused Spit’s outbursts with a head movement, effortlessly eliminating further unwelcome behavior.

Snarl and Spit would be her last since no male would find any scent on her worth chasing. Her elderly body showed few signs of life. She scratched at the dirt again because her body tinged in pain that neither licking nor stretching relieved.

The cubs hunted on their own, and she remained here sleeping. Stare didn’t forage food because she went nowhere. They long ago stopped whining at her. Hunting did not interest her. She tried to recall the last hunt where she had led them.

She looked again at Spit and saw meat left in the dust, not far from her. She frowned at the food. Spit, or maybe it was Snarl, seemed to repeatedly leave uneaten, unfinished food whenever they came back.

She wondered how long they had been in this place. They should change their resting spot. She tried to remember where she planned their winter den this year.

She watched Spit pounce on the meat, unleashed by a force she couldn’t see. A leg of a deer. Spit dragged it away. Stare thought Spit must know she disliked meat in the open.

Stare recalled Spit’s noises. The pup ate anytime, even early in the mornings, like a wolf staying near a kill. Lions should return to a hidden kill many times like she had shown them. Spit could eat, but had he actually made the kill?

Stare did not understand Spit. His patterns amused her when he was younger, but this must not continue. On his own, the coyotes, wolves, and bears would overcome him. He was most vulnerable when eating.

Had they shifted resting places, she wondered? The cubs had gotten older, she remembered again. Stare was alarmed because she had an uncontrollable urge to stay put. She couldn’t muster the energy to move. The boys did not look like cubs anymore. No more spots or visible rings on their tails.

She lifted her head. Snarl did the same. She must either leave them or hope they leave her. The cubs no longer played together, certainly not over this past winter, and the last time one cuddled his head upon her neck, the weight had strained too much. She growled him away. Strangely, she remembered, that cub had been Snarl.

What must she do now? Stare’s body had always given her the signs of what was next, like the scent that would attract a male, or the sour sweat from harboring kittens inside her. What was her body saying now?

She lowered her head back onto her forelegs. She sighed into the dirt, and a dust cloud puffed forward.

Snarl peered at her through the mist of dirt. She watched him as he put his head back down on his forelegs, just like her, still staring. He mimicked her sigh, she thought, as dust flew away from the snuff of his nostrils.

Out of courtesy to his increasingly dominant role and her many years of learned fear, she turned away again.

Snarl watched his mother, convinced that she no longer thought about him or wondered what he was doing. The sadness overwhelmed him.

He wanted to see into her and her to see into him. Snarl had fallen asleep most of his life with the eyes of his mother upon him. He would drift off, glancing at her, knowing she was there when he couldn’t keep his eyelids open any longer.

As a cub, he would stride through tall grass and watch for her nod or correction. Am I quiet enough? Are my shoulders below the seedy tips, swaying in the same pattern where I do not walk?

Snarl’s first kill, an effortless drop of his paw upon a rabbit as big as his torso, drew a look from her that he would remember for the rest of his life. She cocked her head in amazement. He recalled it once again with pride.

He climbed a tree as a very young cub, and he checked for her approval at every branch. When he fell, she nudged him back up, and he more carefully took the tree with leaps rather than grasping wildly. Her head reached high as he stood on the most extended branch, masking his fear by watching her closely.

Not recently, though. Stare turned away from him, and nothing he did kept her attention. Something had changed in her, he thought. She ate little, and now nothing.

He brought her leftover food, setting it not too close. He had a deep respect for her keen abilities to provide for him and Spit and did not want to insult her. When she would not eat, he purred lightly to Spit, allowing him to finish it. His mother would not let uneaten food in their den or their resting spots. Left out food happened regularly, now. Not acceptable for either his mother or for Spit.

Spit had a bottomless stomach. He required twice what Snarl considered an average meal. So many wasted movements and high energy. Spit would be a very busy hunter.

When his mother puffed the dirt in front of her head, seemingly burdened by the weight of it, Snarl found himself dropping his head too. He figured she did not want him around anymore and apparently would be better off quiet and alone. Maybe she needed to recover from their constant presence, even though they did not expect anything from her anymore.

On the other hand, perhaps she would regain her appetite and her hearing. Snarl had no reason to think otherwise, until now. He sensed that not only was his mother changing, but everything might be different. He set aside the thought.

Snarl grunted to Spit, a noise that Spit would know. The two had exchanged this semi-growl communication since his first memories. They used an unexplained gruff language that made sense to the two of them. At one time, the grunting purr called out where they were — to watch out for each other. The purpose changed. Now, they knew that the shared noise defined not just where they were but where the other must not