One’s Delight, Another’s End

From the boat, I had the unmistakable feeling that the caiman was keeping an eye on me, as though I might somehow interfere with dinner. It held the armored fish in its jaws for what seemed like an unusually long time. I took several photographs as it slowly worked its mouth, almost savoring the meal. Maybe it was putting on a show. Maybe it was trying to scare me off. Or maybe it was simply enjoying its dinner. I’ll never know.

The Pantanal also taught me that wild animals have their habits. They return to familiar spots, follow the same routes, and know exactly where food and shelter are likely to turn up. In a place where so many species live within an intricate ecological balance, those routines can be surprisingly easy to notice.

I was close enough to hear the crunch. The caiman’s teeth snapped through the fish’s spine and armor with a sound that reminded me of an old wooden door dragging along the floor, right before the hinges begin to squeal. Then it was over. A quick twist of the body in the water, a swallow, and the fish was gone. Gute-gute, my mother used to say whenever someone gulped down a drink.

The caiman lifted its head and held my gaze for a few seconds. There was something almost funny about how satisfied it looked. I couldn’t shake the feeling that dinner had gone particularly well, and that perhaps it had enjoyed having an audience. But that could just be me projecting.

A moment later, it slipped beneath the surface, caiman-style, with only its eyes showing above the water.

The fish became dinner.

I got the photograph… and the story.