Every single breath the animal took was an immense, visible labor. His ribcage strained violently against his hide with every gasp. He wasn’t hunting. He wasn’t even looking toward the blind. His amber eyes, usually burning with an intense, terrifying intelligence, were glazed over with a dull, milky film of shock. The tiger took one more heavy, dragging step toward the open clearing, his massive paws trembling visibly under his own weight. Then, his front legs buckled completely. The 400-pound king of the forest collapsed onto his side in the dirt, mere feet from the canvas wall, releasing a shallow, rattling wheeze.
Inside the tent, Paul’s initial panic vanished. It was replaced by a terrible realization: he was watching the ultimate king of the jungle completely lose its power. The rules of the national park were clear—humans do not interfere with nature. If an animal is wounded by a rival, the canopy must take its course. But looking at that distended belly, Deen’s gut insisted this wasn’t the work of the jungle.