The Lion Lesson
    
Below the vast African sky was a pride of lions. They lay contentedly on the ground, eyes closed, bellies satisfied with the recent kill, their rough yellow pelts shining with good health like gold coins scattered on the savannah. The one male adult lion was dozing away from the pride, his great head tucked neatly on top of his massive paws with his mane framing his peaceful face.
    
Only one of these creatures was awake, and that was Kiato.
    
Kiato was the youngest of them all, a small lion cub who had a lot to learn. He had eaten his fill—more than his fill, actually—but his eyes were still wide and clear without the glaze of someone who has just eaten a lot and is ready to go to sleep. He poked at his mother’s side, and the lioness made a deep, sleepy rumble and batted him away. Kiato danced backward momentarily, then came back. He was attempting to bite her ear, which was waving oh-so-temptingly in the wind, when the lioness rolled over and nearly squished her cub.
    
Kiato gave a squeak and rushed out of the way. Whether the move had been on purpose he would never know, but he decided to go bother someone else anyway. Another less mischievous cub would have settled down to slumber with the rest of his pride, but Kiato was not that cub.
    
He surveyed the surroundings with a playful glint in his gaze; what could he do next? Then something caught his eye, and he bounded over to his father, to the massive killing machine asleep in the shade. This will be fun! he thought.
    
Kiato considered biting the lion’s ear but did not want a repeat of before. Instead he found himself staring at his father’s golden, tufted tail, which twitched on the ground like it was inviting him to play. He didn’t notice the great lion slowly waking up.
    
The lion cub got ready to pounce.
    
Unfortunately, Kiato would learn a new lesson, a moral he would never forget, in three . . . two . . . one . . .