“Not really.”
“Let’s just go.”
“What about the dog?”
“Let’s see if she follows us.”
“What if she doesn’t?”
“Then she’ll go find her owner.”
“I think we should turn the guy in.”
“Okay, sure, we see him, you can make a citizen’s arrest.”
“She sure looks hungry.”
“You want to give her one of those tuna pouches?”
“Yeah, I do.”
The man with the bright shirt knelt by his sack and I gave him my full attention. He pulled out a small wrapper that opened with a slight noise and filled the air with a delicious fragrance of oily fish, the same aroma I’d smelled on Cap-man’s fingers. He placed chunks of fish on a rock for me and I gobbled them up quickly, licking the oil from my lips when I was finished.
“How far to highway one forty-nine, you think?” the man with the hairy face asked.
“Maybe ten miles yet.”
“We better get humping, then.”
The men picked up their sacks and put them on their backs, which suggested to me there would be no more fish. Humans are wonderful and can always find food, but sometimes they discontinue dinner before a good dog is ready to stop eating.
They did not put me on a leash or call me, but the way they looked at me suggested they wanted me to follow. I got in line behind them, and soon we were back on a path. The men, though, were walking in the wrong direction, away from where I needed to go. Away from Lucas.
* * *
I was torn. I needed to do Go Home. But that fish tasted astoundingly good.
We crossed a small stream, and as we did so the air currents skimming the surface of the water brought me the scent of Big Kitten. The men did not react, but people often do not seem to know when something fragrant is nearby, and will walk past some of the most amazing odors without pause. That is why everyone should have a dog with them, because we don’t miss such things, and when we are on the leash we can halt the walk to enjoy whatever it is that needs attention.
In this instance, I knew that Big Kitten had stopped running away and was now shadowing us, far upslope from the trail we were taking. I also knew she would not come any closer.
“I guess maybe what we should do is take the dog with us when we go back to Durango,” one of the men said.
“And turn it in to animal control?”
“Probably.”
“But won’t they put her to sleep?”
“I don’t know, she’s such a pretty dog. Like, shepherd/rottweiler mix, maybe.”
I looked up at the word “dog,” but we were walking and no one dug into their pack for a treat.
“Really? You see rottie? I was thinking more bull terrier. Not the face, but the body.”
“She can sleep in your tent, Mitch,” Cap-man said with a laugh.
When the day began to fade, the men set up little cloth houses and put out a small metal box with flames and cooked some food, which they shared with me. I liked the cheese sauce best but ate everything, even some wet vegetables I didn’t care for, in order to encourage their behavior.
“Will the green beans make her fart?” one of them asked.
“Like I said—your tent.”
While we sat there the evening darkened. I could smell Big Kitten more strongly and knew she was close. What did she think about this change, now that I was lying at the feet of so many humans? This was the time of day when she was most restless—I would want to sleep and she would want to pounce on me and play. If I was too tired, she would ease out into the night so silently that only my nose told me what direction she had taken.
I was drowsily listening to the men talk, hoping to hear words I understood and that had to do with food, when the sharp tang of blood reached me. I instantly realized Big Kitten had successfully hunted something, even though I wasn’t there to help her. I pictured one of the small rodents she had recently managed to catch—that’s what it smelled like.
Big Kitten would want to return to me with the kill, and I would not be there.
I eased to my feet. Wagging, I went to each man in turn, greeting them and letting them pet me. This was what I did when I did Go to Work. People just felt better with a dog, and these men were no exception—they all brightened at the individual attention.
They were nice and they had fed me, but they belonged to the category of helpful people who were leading me away from Lucas. I had walked with them because I felt a powerful urge to do so, to be with people, and to eat dinner, but now I had to leave. I had to do Go Home.
“Good dog,” Cap-man told me, scratching my chest. I licked his face.
While the men were busy getting things out of their sacks, I turned and padded off into the night to find Big Kitten.
Fifteen
Over the next several days Big Kitten and I did not encounter any humans to feed us, though we crossed streams and pools often and were able to prevent thirst. The hunger became a constant pain, and I vainly inhaled, striving to pull in the intoxicating aroma of cooking meat, even though I knew that where there were no people there was no cooking.
Big Kitten followed me, but often wanted to stop and nap in the shade. More and more often, my empty stomach sapping me of strength, I would join her, unable to continue on without sleep.
We hunted, but Big Kitten was terrible at it. She couldn’t seem to sense the obvious scent of a small animal, though she did learn how to identify when I was tracking prey and would follow closely. Whenever I flushed something, though, Big Kitten did not help pursue it. Often she would just crouch, watching me exhaust myself, nearly invisible as she hid in the rocks. It was irritating and not good pack behavior. We needed to work together to catch food, but she did not understand that.
She was also afraid of water. A shallow stream seemed promising to both of us—shadowy fish flickered just beneath the surface—but after lunging at them repeatedly, all we got was wet, which I could tell disgusted Big Kitten. Then when she plunged too far into the flow and was briefly submerged, she retreated in a blind panic, scrambling up the bank and away, and that was the end of the hunt.
I could smell towns, but they felt far away, too far to do us any good. All I could think of was bins of discarded meats and back doors opening so people could hand out bacon and treats in sacks and bowls of food. And much farther away was home—even when its distinctive fragrance was not mingling in my nose, I had so thoroughly marked its direction that I could tell when we were aiming straight at it, or when our path took us on a tangent.
I was getting weak. I took frequent naps and slept through the night, not aware of Big Kitten leaving or returning.
I was so exhausted that when I saw a rabbit hop I almost didn’t react. Then I surged forward and it ran and turned and skittered and fled straight toward Big Kitten, who bounded forward with an outstretched paw and got it!
We fed ravenously, side by side.
The rabbit invigorated me, though the small meal oddly seemed to make my hunger worse, more painful. Early the next morning I awoke with some energy and then was astounded when fresh blood came to me on the breeze, blood mingled with Big Kitten’s scent.
When she returned to our nesting place, she was carrying an odd animal, a large rodent of a kind I had never seen before. The next morning she did the same, and a few mornings after that, she brought another rabbit.
I did not know where she was finding prey or how she was managing to catch it. But I was grateful for the help. I felt sure Lucas would want me to provide meals for Big Kitten, just as he fed the cats in the den. But without people, I was powerless.
When Big Kitten came to wrestle with me she was now larger and heavier than I was, but still deferred to me. I was the leader of our pack. She was so quick and nimble, so able to squirm away and to dart her paws at me, that I sometimes became irritated with her and would put my teeth on her throat while she lay on her back—not biting, but lettin
g her know that, while she might be bigger, I was the dog of the pack. She would lie there submissively until I let her up, and then she would knock me on my back.
Kittens, in my experience, just do not know how to play properly.
Even with the occasional small animal, my hunger was constant and debilitating. Some days it was a struggle just to get to my feet. On one such morning, the air was cold, still, and dry. Big Kitten was shadowing me and abruptly halted in a depression between two fallen trees. I turned back, not to urge her on, but to lie next to her. I settled down with a groan, prepared to sleep the rest of the day.
The sharp bite of blood awoke me, an instantly recognizable spoor on the air. Something nearby was bleeding. I stared at Big Kitten, who sensed my agitation and gave me a drowsy look. I leaped to my feet and raised my snout to the wind. Whatever was producing that scent was coming closer. Big Kitten suddenly lifted her head, alert.
We trailed the blood into a wooded, grassy area. Before long we came upon a large deer lying still in the grass at the base of a tree. From its neck protruded a long stick, and the scent of humans was strong on this odd object. The deer had bled from where the stick pierced her flesh, but was no longer moving or breathing. She was dead—not long so, but when she’d fled to this area she was able to run no farther.
Big Kitten’s reaction was entirely unexpected: instead of feeding, which was what I thought we would do, she seized the deer’s neck in her jaws and began dragging the deer away. Was this some sort of game? I followed, utterly baffled by her actions.
Big Kitten didn’t stop until she came to a patch of sandy soil by a boulder. She dropped the deer and we finally fed, but her strange behavior didn’t end there—after our meal, she scratched and dug at the dirt, eventually covering our kill with sand, leaves, and grasses.
Seeming satisfied with her work, Big Kitten went over to a large boulder and lay down beside it, hidden in the dry grass. Feeling full and lazy myself, I stretched out next to her and fell asleep listening to her purr.
We stayed with that deer for several days, taking nourishment, sleeping, making trips to a small stream to drink, and doing nothing else. I felt restless, wanting to move on to Go Home, but the luxury of having enough to eat was too seductive a lure.
Finally, we did leave. Big Kitten remained away from the path, but I could smell her as surely as I could smell the humans who had hiked along it, though the scents of people were many days old. I always knew when she had stopped, and usually would break from the trail to find her sprawled sleepily in a hiding area. On days when we had not eaten, I often curled up next to her.
Time was measured by hunger. Every few nights my feline companion would bring home an animal large enough to sate us. The next day or two we made good progress, but hunger would go from a nudge to an ache and then to an all-consuming obsession. I would let Big Kitten lead me far off course from Lucas, sometimes even doubling back on our own trail, and then she would have a successful hunt and I would return to my quest.
When I smelled fox, I would veer off to investigate, though we never encountered another one with a rabbit to steal. When I picked up the stench of coyote, I would lead Big Kitten far away to stay safe.
And then one day, something happened that changed everything.
Snow.
* * *
The sky was just the slightest bit lighter than fully dark when I awoke, acutely aware of the cold vacancy where Big Kitten had been lying when I fell asleep. I tried to track her, breathing deeply—her faded scent told me she had left our den some time ago, and was not nearby.
What I smelled instead of my companion was the transformation of the landscape. A heavy white layer of snow, thicker than a dog bed, lay on the ground, and wet flakes continued to pour from the sky in a muffled roar. The rich fragrances of earth and bugs and animals were obliterated by the clear, clean presence of winter. Enhanced by the dampening of the riot of aromas that had so cluttered my nose all summer was my sense of home’s direction, which rose up now as a powerful force on the wind.
When I stepped into this new world, my paws sank, vanishing from view, and to make my way forward I had to break a path with my forelegs. I remembered rolling in the snow with Lucas, chasing a ball with him, but what had once been a sheer joy now felt more like an obstacle. Stepping through the unmarked snow, my progress was slow and tedious. Frustrated, I looked off in the invisible distance, where the hills were smudged into near invisibility by the continued snowfall. That way was Lucas, but how would I get to him through this?
When the sun had fully emerged from the gloom and light was playing on the snowscape, I sensed Big Kitten making her way toward me. Her approach was even more quiet with the sound-deadening effect of the coat of white. I had retreated toward where I had spent the night, and when she finally made her appearance, breaking out into the open from behind a hillock, I was startled. I watched without comprehension as she glided in my direction, her paws barely sinking in the snow. Her gait was strange, her back feet landing in the depressions made by her front paws with graceful exactitude. I had never seen another cat walk like that.
She carefully sniffed me, as if sensing my frustration, before greeting me with the customary rub of her head against my neck. She might not know that we were making our way overland back to Lucas, that someday in the future she would either live with us or with Mother Cat in the den across the street, but she had followed me willingly thus far and must know I was either doing Go Home or had some other reason to track in the direction we were taking.
This day, I did not try to fight against Big Kitten’s inclination to sleep until nightfall, not with the snow coming down. We gave each other warmth as white flakes fell on us and eventually covered us both with a thick cloak.
When Big Kitten yawned, shook the snow out of her fur, and casually left our sleeping spot just as the light was fading from the clouded sky, I followed her for a very short period of time. I could not keep up, even when I walked the trail she was making in the snow. Where she seemed to sink very little, I was in up to my chest.
I felt trapped.
When she returned that night, she smelled of a successful hunt, though she brought nothing back to me. She turned and left in a way that I knew meant she was intending to lead me. Lunging and struggling, I forced myself to follow her, awkwardly forging a path in her tracks to a young elk buried in the snow. Astoundingly, she had taken down a creature larger than both of us. I could not imagine it.
We fed ravenously, and then returned to the temporary den. I would have preferred to remain with the fallen elk, but Big Kitten led me away and I followed because I didn’t know what else to do. It was as if the arrival of snow had reordered the pack, and now she was in charge.
This odd disruption in the established structure continued. Somehow, Big Kitten could find prey at night—not every night, but often enough that we were not starving. We ate deer and elk that she would bury in the snow, or rabbits and other smaller mammals that she would bring back to the den.
My nose told me that Big Kitten was not hunting out in open ground, but was sticking to stretches of forest and places where sun and exposure to wind stripped much of the snow away. When I was in those areas I felt as free as if Lucas had just unsnapped my leash. In the trees, snow was of varying thickness, and I learned how to find the spaces where it lay the thinnest and I could actually move at a run. Big Kitten would often saunter through these areas by stepping daintily along fallen tree trunks, which I found impossible. And, of course, she resisted going very far at all during the day. I did not understand why she wanted to spend all of her energy at night, when it was impossible to see anything.
Our progress toward Lucas was almost nonexistent. Big Kitten’s hunting would pull us in whatever direction she sensed prey, which usually wasn’t where I wanted us to go. Often we would track along a strongly scented deer trail, the snow pounded down and easier to push through—but also meandering and aimless, completely off course. I mi
ssed Lucas, ached to be with him, and was miserable with longing for his touch. I wanted to hear him say “Good dog.” I wanted a Tiny Piece of Cheese. I needed my person so powerfully I could not sleep.
The terrain we trekked across was often slanted. Downhill, I could sometimes smell people and machines, smoke and food. There might be a town on the wind, or just a cluster of a few people near an open fire. Downhill meant humans. Uphill was only the pure, feral smell of rock and ice. Big Kitten always chose up, and I always followed.
I was even more frustrated when I smelled us. Big Kitten and I were crossing our own trail, not doing Go Home but just looking for prey, even if it meant wandering over the same land.
The storms seemed to make hunting easier for her, for some reason. My belly full, I took stock of where we were, which was so high on the mountain that the trees were sparse and the terrain sloped steeply down away from me as far as I could see. Big Kitten had returned to our sleeping spot for the day, but I was out trudging through the unbroken white, sticking to the trees, bent on proving that I could be an equally effective hunter were the situation more favorable.
And then I froze at the barest suggestion of a scent on the cold air.
Dog.
Without hesitation I turned toward it, though this meant struggling uphill. The signs were elusive at first, and while I was searching for them I picked up something else: humans.
This gave me pause. I had not seen a person for a long time, not since before the first snow. Big Kitten’s wariness around even the slightest hint of humans had given me an instinctive sense that I shouldn’t approach them, a sense reinforced by the tendency of even nice people who gave me food to want to lead me away from Lucas.
But to see the dog I would have to move closer to the human, because canine and man’s comingled bouquet was wafting down to me from up high. I could smell two other humans, also male, well off to the side.
When I stepped out of the trees and looked up, I saw a sheer white wall lifting steeply toward the sky. Way, way up there, a dog and a man were trudging through heavy snow just below where the hill ended in a ridge. A wall of snow sat heavily on the top of the ridge, curled over in a massive overhang. The man was wearing very long shoes and clutched poles in his hands, and I could smell that the dog, whose head was above the man’s hips, was a male. I did not know why anyone would lead his dog so far up a mountain, but humans are in charge of dogs and I was sure the faraway canine was happy—in fact, I could see a certain joy in his bounding gait.