Thinking about squirrels led me to remember days at the dog park. My boy would laugh at how close I came to nabbing my prey before it scampered up a tree and chattered down at me. After, he’d throw a ball for me and I could always catch one of those, no matter where it bounced. Then he’d snick a leash into my collar to take me home, where he would feed me a t-i-i-iny piece of cheese and I would sleep on my Lucas blanket.…
I watched indulgently as my two cubs crawled toward their would-be prey. In a moment, I would need to bark a warning not to get too close. We would have to move upstream, past all the beasts, before we could drink.
Suddenly I snapped to attention. A shadow in the trees downstream had moved. I turned and faced the woods, aiming my nose in that direction. What had I seen?
There it was again. A flicker of movement, a dash from one tree to the next, furtive and cunning.
Something was hunting.
I concentrated on the hidden figure, ignoring the kittens for the moment. Though the breeze was behind me, it was slack and inconsistent. Now that I was focused, I separated a new odor from the strong aroma of the huge beasts and the clean smell of flowing water.
The scent was familiar. It was not Big Kitten, but it was something like her … a giant, feral cat.
An instinctive wag started and died at the tip of my tail. I loved most cats, and always enjoyed watching them hunt, but the elusive movements of this one felt directed at us. Somehow, I knew that this enormous cat had been stalking the calves of the four-legged animals munching grass by the riverbank … but now it had spotted easier prey.
My kittens.
Girl Kitten and Boy Kitten were so in tune with my thoughts that they both turned to stare at me. They clearly didn’t smell the danger, but they could tell something was wrong.
The cat in the woods made another move and now there was no doubt. If it had been hunting the youngest of the monsters, it would have advanced to a thick stand of trees closer to the giant beasts, but instead it had darted to a new position nearer to us.
The huge, horned animals were seemingly oblivious to our presence, even when I slowly took a few steps in their direction. The cubs, not understanding, rose from their bellies and scampered to join me.
My eyes were on the trees. The big cat was hiding effectively, but my nose was tracking it and could tell it was a male.
I had spent many days wrestling with Big Kitten. When she was young, it was as easy to topple her onto her back as it was to dominate either of my two cubs. When she was grown, though, if I managed to knock her over it was only because she fell down willingly. Without deploying any strength at all, she could send me tumbling with a single thrust of her forepaw. In a fight, claws extended, I would be no match for her.
If this male came out of those trees after us, it would kill me and then kill the cubs.
Not long before, I had been happily remembering Lucas at the dog park. Now, we were in mortal danger. I had never in my life missed Lucas so much as I did in that moment.
Every cat I had ever known was inclined to pounce when something darted away from it, but showed restraint if its prey moved more slowly. With deliberate control, I limited my next steps to careful, easy strides, despite my terror. The cubs fell in line behind me, mimicking my slow pace. We eased toward the water and away from the big cat, as if unaware we were being watched.
Something I knew from roaming the mountains with Big Kitten—predator cats did not like deep water. If we could make it to the opposite bank, my kittens would be safe.
Positioned between us and the waters, however, and blocking our way, were the monsters.
Twenty-seven
I couldn’t tell if the massive creatures along the river were aware of our approach. They were ponderous and impassive and unperturbed by the slow and careful advance of a dog and her two kittens. When one raised a horned head and tossed it, I froze, feeling the cubs behind me pausing as well. They didn’t seem to have the sense to be afraid of the huge animals in front of us, and weren’t alert to the danger at the edge of the woods, but they had learned from their mother to mimic adult behavior.
For a moment, at any rate.
Boy Kitten soon became bored with our slow, creeping advance and dashed a joyous circle around us, his gait the silly, bouncing scamper of a young kitten having fun. It was precisely the sort of darting motion that could lure a hunting cat. Terrified, I glanced back and saw exactly what I dreaded: the male predator eased away from the tree, out in the open now, eyes cold and staring, elongating his body, sinking low. I could feel his muscles gathering themselves for the attack.
I glanced helplessly at the milling giants in front of us. A kick from one of those hooves would kill, as would a gouging from one of those horns. Every instinct within me told me not to risk getting any closer.
I turned and locked eyes with the big cat and it seemed to know we were trapped. It uncoiled and sprang forward, frighteningly fast. I looked at the kittens, still unaware, and knew if I didn’t do something, I’d lose them. So I bolted in the only direction possible, straight at the pack of beasts. The two cubs, confused, tumbled after me, but too slowly.
The male cat was streaking with impossible speed across the grassy flats, cold eyes on his prey. Boy Kitten uncertainly trailed Girl Kitten as I darted for a narrow gap between two of the monsters, but the killer was right behind us, closing in.
He’s going to catch Boy Kitten.
I halted, turning back to face the big cat. Girl Kitten stopped at my feet, looking up at me for guidance.
In that instant, the monsters became aware of the predator, swinging their enormous heads around. Even as Boy Kitten dashed toward me, fearing abandonment and moving as fast as his little legs would take him, the creatures stepped past us to face the approaching hunter. Mindful of their horns and hooves, I led the cubs into their midst until we were in the middle of the milling pack.
The male cat pulled up short as an implacable wall of horns faced him.
I lay down.
It was the only gesture I could think of to let the monsters know that we were not there to hunt or harm; we were friendly, passive, small animals crawling on our stomachs.
I looked anxiously to the cubs. If they darted around in their usual fashion, the enormous beasts surrounding us might well stomp them to death, though for now the herd was focused on the predator, heads lowered.
The male cat turned and retreated ahead of the mass of monsters advancing on him with clear intent. There was something in the panicky speed of the cat that reminded me of Big Kitten frantically trying to escape the fire.
Snorting, the monsters halted after just a few steps. They did not pursue the killer into the trees.
The big creatures were clearly anxious and disturbed by what they had seen. I thought briefly of the way they had charged into the dog park. If the herd bolted now, I knew we’d be trampled.
Fighting my fear, I lay as motionless as I could, panting but otherwise still. I intended to remain that way. Boy Kitten pressed up against me in fright, while Girl Kitten stretched out in the grasses, her eyes tracking calves so many times larger than she. That was my girl: here we were, moments from being crushed under the hooves of these beasts, and she was back to hunting.
When the larger of the creatures lowered its head to continue feeding, the other beasts followed suit, a new calm flowing through them. More than any other animals I had ever encountered, these brutes seemed to think and react as one.
I kept an eye on Girl Kitten, ready to stop her if she began stalking forward. But after a time, she seemed to tire of her vigil—the animals were moving too slowly to entertain a cat—and she relaxed.
I did not relax. They seemed passive now, but I knew what they were capable of if something startled them. And the big male cat was still skulking beyond the tree line—I could smell him, furtively biding his time, waiting for us to lose the protection of our new pack.
The horned beasts continued to ignore us as I watc
hed and waited. The kittens became drowsy, lying there in the sun, while I tracked the herd as it moved slowly upstream. Gradually, there were fewer and fewer of the creatures gathered around. Our accidental guardians were abandoning us.
The male cat had to be very hungry. From what I had learned of Big Kitten’s patterns, they preferred hunting prey during the night. But he had been stalking the beasts in the daylight, and when we came along, he hadn’t hesitated to shift targets.
I rose to my feet. The cubs did the same. Tentatively, I took a few steps toward the river. The beasts ignored us. I moved more boldly, the kittens practically underfoot. Finally, we found ourselves at the banks, and we drank gratefully.
Soon the sun would dip down behind the mountains. I did not want to be out in the open with that cat prowling.
I assessed the river. It was cold, and when I took a few steps forward, I knew that it was deep enough for me to need to swim to make it to the other side.
I looked to the two cubs, who were watching me for an indication of what was coming next.
I plunged into the water. As I suspected, my paws soon lost their purchase, and the current pushed me gently downstream. I swam powerfully, compensating for the flow, aiming for the opposite bank. Behind me, I knew, my cubs would be paddling frantically, determined to keep up with their mother cat.
I pulled myself up onto the shore and turned to check on the pair’s progress.
They were still on the other bank.
Boy Kitten, more anxious than his sister, put a paw in the water and then snatched it back as if burned. He opened his mouth in a silent plea. Girl Kitten simply stared at me as if demanding an explanation for my actions.
I didn’t want to bark, for fear of scaring the monsters or alerting the male cat. But my kittens were clearly not willing to take to the water, not even to stay with me.
Frustrated, I whined, then play-bowed. Could they not understand what was expected of them?
They weren’t moving.
Finally, I resigned myself to going back into the water. It felt even colder on the return trip. When I emerged, dripping, onto the sand, Boy Kitten greeted me by scampering around and jumping on me, swatting me with a playful paw. Girl Kitten was more aloof, disgusted at my behavior. She would be the most problematic.
So, she would go first.
I closed a gentle mouth on the back of her neck, as I had so many times before. She waited passively to see what sort of game I was playing. As I gripped the loose fold of skin, she relaxed and went limp.
She stiffened, though, when I pulled her up off the ground, the way I had once been lifted when I was a puppy. She was heavy, but I kept my head high as I turned and waded back into the water.
Girl Kitten yowled in protest when I began swimming, half her body submerged in the river. Her legs flailed ineffectively at the surface, splashing it.
When I climbed up the opposite bank for the second time and dropped her to the sand, she darted away from me, climbing up higher and then turning to stare down at me with angry eyes. Then she licked her front paw in a way that seemed to be deliberately disdainful.
I looked back across the stream. Boy Kitten was frantic. He was leaping into the water and then scrambling back from it, his ears down and his mouth open in silent distress.
I glanced up at his sister, who seemed entirely unconcerned with her brother’s fate, and waded back into the river.
Boy Kitten seemed to understand what was coming, because when I emerged from the water, he retreated from me anxiously, fleeing up the bank. I caught up to him and the moment I put my mouth on the nape of his neck, he flattened and went still. He was a motionless weight, lighter than his sister, when I picked him up by his scruff. He flinched but otherwise did not protest when the cold waters enveloped us.
When I deposited him on the opposite bank, he ran to his sister in anguish, but she turned from him and padded away, as if prepared to abandon both of us. I got in front of my cat pack, though, and led them into the dark of the night, unwilling to halt until a rock formation rose up in the moonlight, offering deep shadows and crevasses where a hidden den could be made.
Exhausted from the events of the day, we were soon asleep in a pile.
When I roused the kittens the next morning, I realized that sometime during the night I had become confused about my signal. All at once, I wasn’t sure where Lucas was, exactly—my unerring sense of the invisible leash was no longer pulling me in a firm, clear direction. He was out there somewhere, but where?
As if they sensed my disquiet, Boy Kitten and Girl Kitten came to me, seeking comfort and reassurance. They climbed on me, they tried to tussle with me, engaging me with their quick paws and willingness to tumble onto their backs when I nudged them with my nose. We played, briefly, and then I decided it was time to move. I led them away from the den, unsure which direction to take.
Utterly lost and disheartened, I finally found purpose when, after some time, I picked up the smell of food. Since heading toward a meal is never the wrong thing to do, we followed the scent and soon came into a type of area familiar to me from other times in these mountains—a set of tables, some structures, a nearby stream and, most tantalizing, large metal bins that had been set aside with food for dogs.
The cubs were too small to do what I could, which was to leap up and, scrambling with my front paws, pull these cans over to allow their contents to spill out on the ground. They watched, learning this new hunting technique from me, which I was happy to demonstrate.
The first such bin provided little more than paper, but the second one was a bonanza of chicken bones and sandwich meat. Though slightly rancid with age, it was still edible, and we patiently sorted the food out from the rest of the trash and gobbled it. After a drink in the cool stream, I found a place on the bank where the grasses were long and some fallen logs formed a natural den. When I sprawled down in this safe area, the cubs gladly joined me and were soon sound asleep.
Cats, especially predator cats, were not like dogs—that was clear from the way the big male had targeted Boy Kitten and Girl Kitten. A dog might have a surly personality, but I couldn’t imagine one hunting a puppy for food. This meant that, while I could trust Big Kitten, I could not trust any other cat I might encounter. Big cats meant danger.
I slept a little bit myself, and when I woke, the cubs were piled on top of each other and still slumbering. The sun was high, so sleeping now came naturally to them. I followed the stream for a while, watching carefully for fish. Big Kitten could leap into water and grab a fish, something I had never been able to accomplish.
I realized after a time that I was wandering for the sheer joy of it, for the luxury of breathing in unburned grasses and fragrant flowers. It was like taking a walk with Lucas and Olivia off-leash, my nose bringing me all the delightful odors of a late-summer forest. My wanderings took me uphill, following the trees until they thinned. I remembered standing with Big Kitten and looking down into the enormous forest fire. I was thinking of her so intently that when I crested the ridge, it was almost as if I could smell her.
And then I realized, I did—I did smell her.
I ran down the hill, bursting out of shrubbery and racing across a flower-filled field. At the other end of this flat area, I could see some men walking along, struggling to carry something. It was from them that the scent of Big Kitten wafted so strongly, though that made no sense. As I approached, the men, each holding a corner of what looked like a thick sheet, set their burden on the ground, obviously tired.
What I saw in the middle of that sheet shocked me: it was Big Kitten.
Her eyes were half-lidded and sightless.
She wasn’t moving.
Twenty-eight
My reaction to what I was seeing was based on fear and rage—fear that these men had killed Big Kitten, just as other men had killed her mother; and rage that they would do anything to harm her. I rushed across the field, seething but not making a sound, not even a growl. I had no thought e
xcept to get to the men.
I had time, though, to reconsider. I could not attack a group of people, no matter how enraged—I had been raised by human hands and would never bite one. I slowed, less sure, while the people stood and gazed down at my friend on the ground between them. The men did not notice me approaching. I could not hear them yet, but they were talking to one another.
Big Kitten still sprawled insensate in the middle of the sheet.
But my nose told me something: despite appearances, she was not dead. The scent reaching my nose was warm with life. She was sleeping, flopped out loosely in a manner almost ridiculously unnatural.
This should not be happening—she was afraid of people and always ran from them. I could not possibly comprehend what I was seeing—how could Big Kitten be so comfortable among humans that she fell asleep at their feet?
When the men squatted and, grunting with effort, hefted their load back up, I realized I had to act.
I ran straight for them, a warning growl building in my throat. They all seemed to hear me at the same time and turned their heads sharply in alarm.
“Yikes!” one of them shouted.
I reached the two men at Big Kitten’s head and snarled and snapped at them, and they dropped her to the ground. She tumbled lifelessly into the dirt, and the other men dropped their end of the cloth as well.
They all backed away from me, holding out their hands.
“No! No, dog, no!” one man warned.
I did not feel like a bad dog.
Another man reached to his side and pulled something out and pointed it at me. “Should I shoot her?” he asked tensely.
A Dog's Courage--A Dog's Way Home Novel Page 20
