"The Big Z"
©2005 Cashew Lou
Rothlind the tiger was in a hell of a state of mind.
He paced the floor of his den rapidly, his tail twitching behind him. Anyone who has seen a tiger pacing its territory in a zoo would know the look: a quick crossing of the perimeter, a fluid turn and back again—and repeated tirelessly, ad infinitum.
Except, unlike the tigers in any zoo, Rothlind was bipedal and one hundred ten feet tall.
The "den" was fairly well-appointed, considering it was really no more than a cave carved into the cliffside along the lake. The view was beautiful, the cave was roomy and well-lit, and little balconies were mounted to its walls so he could converse in either a standing or sitting position with smaller visitors.
These living arrangements were provided at no cost to Rothlind, provided he followed the rules. Help out around the village when the help of a giant was needed—and don't eat the little ones. Any giant who could abide by those simple rules was fed well, treated well—treated as a useful member of the community, really.
Rothlind knew he had a pretty good thing going; giants weren't treated quite so well in other parts of the world, he knew.
He also knew he was about to blatantly break one of those cardinal rules. It had been arranged long ago, and he had—eventually and reluctantly—agreed to it. The fact that it was illegal wasn't what bothered him, though; that was almost an afterthought.
So he paced and paced, awaiting the inevitable.
After what seemed like a miniature eternity passed, a skunk entered Rothlind's den, carrying a small book bag over his shoulder. This was Phillippe, a shade over six feet tall—and Rothlind's best friend. Phillippe had been the engineer in charge when the cave was fixed up for the big tiger. Whereas most of the little furs in the business of appointing the larger homes kept their distance and only approached the giant in the name of official business, Phillippe had the kind of outgoing, sunny personality that attracted friendship from every direction.
Such was the case with Rothlind, and Phillippe would stick around long after working hours to chat with the great cat while the project was being completed—and two or three nights a week after that, as well.
A strong friendship was forged quickly, one that over the years piled layer upon layer of similarities and contrasts upon itself, comfortably becoming a relationship that enriched, strengthened and delighted both of them. Had Rothlind not been uncomfortable with the physical complexities of such a large size difference, the friendship could have bloomed into something much more. But that, of course, is mere conjecture.
Phillippe padded up the steps to the lower balcony, the one designed for a comfortable conversation with the giant in a sitting position. Smiling up at his friend, the skunk gestured with a paw toward the floor, silently inviting the tiger to sit.
The giant returned his friend's smile, but it was a nervous, feeble half-smile. His huge paws fidgeted, and he remained standing.
"C'mon, Roth," Phillippe coaxed, patting the balcony's railing. "Have a sit-down, whaddaya say?"
"Uhhmm...." Rothlind murmured, his voice quavering. "You sure? I mean, um...." This was punctuated by an audible gulp, the giant's Adam's apple bobbing up and down.
The skunk's tail draped lazily over the railing. "Rothlind, I swear to you on all that is holy that no one in this jurisdiction has ever been put to death for sitting down. Damned independent cats; I should have befriended a big dog!"
Some of the tension that permeated the room before seemed to drain out after that, and both of them chuckled softly. The comment held the color of a long-lived inside joke—familiar, comfortable and private to the two of them.
Rothlind crouched down, easing himself into a cross-legged position on the floor. Extending a paw toward the balcony, he gently rubbed the side of Phillippe's cheek with a fingerpad.
The skunk turned his head to kiss the huge digit, and then took the finger in his paws, softly caressing its length. His eyes widened a bit, his brow furrowed with concern. "Why, Roth, you're shaking like a leaf!"
Blushing hotly, the insides of his round ears flaring a bright pink, the tiger pulled his paw back sharply. The abrupt motion made Phillippe lean forward over the railing a bit.
"Whoa, hey now!" the skunk exclaimed, regaining his balance.
"Sorry," Rothlind mumbled.
Phillippe flashed a thousand-watt smile, and he chuckled again. "No need to be sorry, big guy; we all get nervous."
"Well, aren't you?" the tiger blurted—then cringed a bit, as if having just shouted an obscenity at a nun. "Sorry. God, I'm so sorry, Philly."
Still smiling, the skunk unshouldered his book bag and set on the balcony's floor. "That's three 'sorries' in about three seconds, Roth—and you have nothing to be sorry about."
"Well, I mean, it was stupid," Rothlind rubbed the back of his neck, then reached down to absently play with his striped tail. "Of course you're nervous. "You're going through more than I am."
Phillippe raised an eyebrow, cocking his head slyly. "I am? Have we been measuring that? You're almost twenty times my height, Roth; if we got into a pissing contest, I would be sure to lose."
The towering tiger winced as if slapped, and Phillippe's smile disappeared. "Jesus, Roth. I'm sorry. That was way outta line."
Neither spoke for several seconds, and the tension crept back into the room. After a long while, Rothlind finally said, "I don't wanna do this, Philly."
"It's a little late for that, buddy."
The tiger shook his head emphatically. "No. No, it's not."
Phillippe sighed. "Roth—"
"It...it's been six months. Right? Almost six months."
"What does that have to do with anything, Roth?"
Rothlind stared at the floor, shamefacedly. "I don't know."
Phillippe leaned way over the balcony. "Hey...hey, look up at me." The giant did, and his face was a map of total misery.
"Closer."
The tiger did as he was told, his enormous muzzle right next to the balcony, and his little friend kissed him softly. "It's time, Roth; we both know it is."
"Can't we talk about it?"
Phillippe's paw ruffled his friend's whiskers. "We already have, Roth, for almost a year now. We talked to a team of doctors. We talked to my family. We have talked the subject to dea—"
Rothlind winced again.
"Shit," Phillippe whispered. "Jesus. Shit, I'm sorry, Roth. But we have discussed it. At length."
"Yeah," the tiger said listlessly.
"So...." the skunk said, intentionally letting it hang in the air.
"So it's time," Rothlind answered. He felt a little sickened by how final it sounded.
"It's time," Phillippe echoed. "Just you and me." He was trying to put the tiger at ease; the attempt sounded weak to his own ears.
"Um, so," the big cat's eyes darted around a little helplessly, "so...so you have the stuff?"
"Yup!" Phillippe forced a smile, faking it through a twinge of pain. Once the flicker subsided, the smile felt more genuine; he hoped it looked so, as well. He unzipped his book bag's main compartment, drawing from it a bottle of dark wine. "The Big Z, kitty."
Rothlind smiled in spite of himself. "Oh, Pepe."
The skunk grinned. Being a polecat with a French-sounding name had been no end of torture for Phillippe nearly all his life; Rothlind was one of the very few he allowed to call him "Pepe." Likewise, he got away with calling the thousand-ton tiger "kitty." Brandishing the bottle, he asked, "you got yours?"
With a nod, Rothlind reached behind himself and picked up a thirty-gallon oak cask. On its side was branded in big black letters the word "Zinfandel." The Big Z; they called it; through the years they had both developed a taste for the heavy, sweet wine. It got to the point that neither could drink it without thinking of the other while doing so.
Phillippe fished around in his pack, pulling out a corkscrew and a wine glass. His expert paws pulled the cork and he poured the glass full, swirling the red-black wine around and around in the vessel's bowl. Drawing a big sniff of the fruity scent into his nostrils, he exclaimed, "Oh, that's nice!"
The tiger mimicked his friend, yanking the oversized cork from the cask, smelling the wine. Although he smiled to Phillippe, he felt a little sick. His paw was shaking.
"To us, Rothy," Phillippe offered, holding his glass up, "to the best—" a flash of pain bulleted through his body, cutting off his words.
"Philly?" Rothlind set his cask down, leaning forward over the balcony. "Philly?"
The skunk's eyes were clenched shut for a moment, and he waved a hand in the air, signaling he was all right. "Just a sec," he grunted, "I'm okay, just a sec."
After a long, torturous moment, Phillippe looked back up at Rothlind. He pounded his chest hard, as if trying to get at the horror inside him. "This is why we have to, kitty," he said in a slightly raspy whisper. "We have to."
Rothlind nodded quietly.
Phillippe's eyes were shining and wet; the pain had taken a pretty big bite this time. It was hard work to smile again, but he managed it, lifting his glass. "To us, Rothy—and to you, the best friend a silly little skunk could ever wish for." He drew a long sip from his wine glass.
The tiger quietly held up his cask, and took a baby sip from it; he knew he would need the majority of it later. His eyes felt hot and tight; tears trickled over his cheeks. "You couldn't have been a better friend," he choked.
A soft silence followed. Phillippe nursed his glass of wine slowly, savoring each sweet mouthful. Rothlind simply watched his friend, scooting across the floor on his rump so he could be closer to the balcony. Occasionally he would dab a tear from his eyes with the back of his paw.
Rothlind cleared his throat; it sounded too loud in the somber cave. "Did...did you bring, um, the other, Philly?"
With a solemn nod, the skunk reached into his pack, and in his paw was a rectangular candy tin. This tin, however, contained something considerably stronger than Altoids. He let out a soft, choked chuckle. "I guess these are kinda the Big Z, too."
There was about two fingers of wine left in Phillippe's glass; he poured it to half full and removed four sleeping tablets from the tin. He shrugged a little, staring down at the pills in his paw.
"Philly?"
"Sshh, Roth."
"Okay." The tiger studied the pills, too.
Another endless moment flowed by, and Phillippe unceremoniously dumped the pills into his mouth, washing them down with a large gulp of wine. As if to protest, the black beast ravaging his system gave him another painful jolt. "Fight while you can, you little bastard," he muttered under his breath, thumping his chest again.
Phillippe stood at the balcony's railing, holding his arms up in a pick-me-up gesture much like a child would give their mother. "Hold me, Rothy?"
Rothlind scooped his friend up effortlessly, cradling the little skunk on his open palm. Pressing Phillippe to his furred chest, the tiger began sobbing helplessly, sniffling wetly as his nose began to run, his mind quietly raging against the unfairness of it all.
Tiny, black-furred paws patted the giant's chest. Phillippe was crying, too.
After ten minutes or so, Rothlind felt a little more in control of himself. Lifting his paw to his muzzle, he nuzzled the little skunk, who sprawled into a comfortable prone position. Phillippe softly lapped at the tiger's lips.
"How long now, Philly?"
"Not long, not long at all now, kitty." The skunk's voice sounded slightly slurred. "Gettin' a little sleepy already." The second-to-last word sounded to Rothlind like zhleepy.
The tiger held Phillippe to his lips, puckering them a little...but that felt too much like tasting his friend, so he lowered his paw down a bit. "Love you, little guy," he said, hot tears burning his eyes.
"Love you, too," Phillippe murmured quietly, muddily. "Don' frrget...use lotsa Big Z...I wanna float 'way on a riveruvit...."
"All the Big Z in the world for my little Pepe." Rothlind's voice squeaked a bit, and he was weeping openly, uncontrollably.
His tiny friend's paw lifted up, patting the tiger's muzzle one last time. "Sweet kitty...shoulda been a dog."
Phillippe's arm dropped quietly to his side.
Rothlind softly stroked the little skunk's chest for a long time. After half an hour or so, he whispered, "Philly?" His friend's chest lifted and lowered rhythmically, but there was no response. He was very deeply asleep.
Phillippe had repeatedly promised Rothlind that the dosage was enough to put him out completely, and that he would feel no pain. Rothlind wanted that more than anything in the world—that Phillippe never feel pain again, never, ever again.
The big tiger took a deep, shuddering breath, steeling his resolve. Steadying Phillippe in one paw, he lifted the cask of Zinfandel in the other. Gently, he tilted the paw carrying the skunk upward, sliding the little guy into his muzzle, footpaws first. He consciously cupped his tongue under the skunk's body; he wanted his little Philly to be comfortable.
Once Phillippe was centered on his tongue, Rothlind took a deep breath, his long, warm exhalation ruffling the skunk's fur. The tiger was grateful his friend's sleep was deep.
He then closed his eyes and drank, drawing nearly all the cask's contents with one gigantic gulp. The sharp, fruity taste of Zinfandel filled his senses, and he tried to think of every other foodstuff in the world as he swallowed. A few racks of lamb, a cartload of vegetables—anything but his best friend.
It was no good. But it was done.
"Love you, Philly," he murmured, upending the cask and sending the last of the Zinfandel down to his slumbering little Pepe.
Rothlind reached over to the balcony and snagged Phillippe's empty little book bag. He turned out the lights in his cave and curled up on his side, clutching the tiny bag in one paw. The giant's chest hitched in great spasms as he sobbed himself to sleep.
