Luna the panther lifted her head, nostrils flaring delicately. There it was—smoke, spice, and the unmistakable promise of meat. Her yellow eyes gleamed. She leapt down from the old oak stump where she’d been sunbathing and padded through the clearing toward the scent, her tail flicking with anticipation.
In the middle of the glade, under a makeshift canopy of stitched-together leaves and colorful cloth scraps, Venya the fox was in his element. A little charcoal grill, a comically large chef’s hat, and a stack of sizzling skewers in every size surrounded him.
“Venya,” Luna purred, appearing like a shadow beside him, “what is this?”
Venya grinned, brandishing a pair of tongs like a sword. “The first annual Meat Party! You’re just in time, my carnivorous queen.”
Luna sniffed the air again. Roast duck. Smoked venison. Spiced lamb ribs. Even—was that grilled quail?
“You did all this?” she asked, mildly impressed.
“Well,” Venya said, fluffing his tail, “Vovochka helped me build the grill. And the hawks dropped off the duck. But the seasoning? All me.”
Luna circled the table slowly, her movements elegant but full of purpose. “Is this… for everyone?”
Venya paused. “Well. It was going to be. But no one else showed up on time. And you know how I feel about cold meat.”
Luna sat down neatly, her eyes narrowing with amusement. “Then it’s a private party.”
Venya’s grin widened. “Exactly.”
With that, the feast began. No forks. No plates. Just claws, teeth, and the joy of tearing into perfectly roasted meat under an open sky.
Luna devoured lamb chops with silent precision. Venya went for the ribs, gnawing with gusto, licking his paws like he was born to barbecue. Between bites, they debated which cut was the best. Luna argued for rawness and rarity, while Venya championed smoky spice and a good sear.
“Don’t even talk to me about steak without garlic,” he declared, holding up a skewer like a flag.
Luna rolled her eyes. “Garlic is for covering mistakes.”
He gasped. “Take that back.”
She didn’t.
As the sun dipped behind the trees, the meat pile shrank, and their bellies grew round with satisfaction. Luna flopped onto her side in the grass, licking a bit of grease from her paw. Venya lay on his back, paws crossed over his belly, eyes closed in bliss.
“This,” he said softly, “was the best idea I’ve ever had.”
“Second-best,” Luna corrected. “The first was inviting me.”
He cracked one eye open. “Fair.”
A gentle breeze passed through the clearing, rustling the makeshift banner that read “MEAT PARTY — No Herbivores Allowed” in crooked paint.
They didn’t move for a long time. Just two friends, full of fire-roasted joy, lying in the aftermath of a meat lover’s dream.
And somewhere in the distance, a jealous raccoon sniffed the wind and sighed.
Too late. The meat was gone.
