EPTThe beginning is difficult to remember. I was sitting in my metal cage when a new two-legged came into the room. This one was not like the others, she did not smell harshly of disinfectants nor growlers. Her scent carried the tantalizing flavors of sausage and spices with the warmth of a scent I can only describe as “home.”
I was small back then, so, when I moved to the bars, my paws stretched through them easily as I tried to pull her closer for a better smell. She noticed me and came towards the cage, cooing over me. Her digits wiggled through the bars to stroke my head and scratch behind my ears. Her scent was as nice as it had originally seemed. I grabbed one of her digits and licked it, hoping for a taste of the sausage I smelled, but finding none.
Eventually, I learned her name was “Mom.” She was shorter than other two-legged with brown curly fur on her head that later fell straight and turned lighter. Her touch was always soft and kind, but her shorter legs made her lap too small for anyone but kittens unless she was lying down. The food room was her favorite place in the house. Every morning, well before the other two-legged rise, she would come into the kitchen and make us our morning meal. While we ate, Mom would prepare herself a bowl of milk and tasteless crunchies. I never understood the oddities that the two-legged eat. When all of the crunchies were gone, however, she would let me finish the last few licks of milk in the bowl.
It was her, Mom, that brought me home. I rode in a brown box in the rumbling room with wheels to the house. The rumbling of the room was an odd cross between a growl and a purr. I did not like the sound, it made me very nervous and scared the room was angry at me for intruding. Rumbling rooms generally only seem to travel to the white rooms with their needles and growlers and sour smells. Luckily, this one took me home instead.
Once Mom carried me inside, the smell of the house washed over me like a warm blanket. It smelled of another cat, spicy food and live plants. All of the scents were subtle and mixed together to be comforting and warm.
Mom took me out of the box and called out, “Renee, come here. There is a surprise for you!”
The call seemed unnecessary, though, as the head of a small two-legged immediately peaked around the corner. A mix of excitement and confusion spread across her face as she saw me.
“The kitten Santa promised!” she exclaimed, though the confusion did not leave her face.
“She was left with a note. It said that she was a white cat like you wanted, but escaped when they were about ready to send her. She ran through the whole factory as they elves chased after her, knocking over paint and spilling dye. That's why she is so many colors! All of that paint and dye splashed on her,” Mom seemed to reply to her in the chaotic language of the two-legged. The words apparently gave comfort to the little one and she smiled happily, the confusion gone, and picked me up from Mom's paws.
Her paws were so much smaller than those of Mom, but they were firm and supporting as she lifted me. Two-legged seem to have an odd compulsion to pick us cats up. The feeling of hanging helpless above the ground is very uncomfortable and can even be slightly painful. My two-legged family generally put one arm under my legs and keep a paw against my chest, which removes the pain, but the lack of control is still unpleasant. The little two-legged picked me up in that manner, though her paws stretched almost the length of my body. It was clear she had been used to picking up cats, but probably ones larger than myself. She hugged me closed and cooed and jabbered the strange noises of their speech softly at me.
It was later on this first day home that the little one decided to call me “Tina.” I did not mind their name for me, though I found it odd that they always seemed to pick names which we cats could not say. The noises the two-legged make are very hard to replicate. I never had a knack for it, but Malam did.
The second I had smelled Mom, I realized they had another cat in the house. He was a big, black beast of a cat, with rippling muscles and a stern attitude. When I first met him he was at his prime. While he never attacked me, he was not very social. I often nipped and swatted at his tail, hoping for a play companion, only for him to pin me down until I got the message to leave him alone. Though he did not play with me, he taught me much about the ways of the household and the two-legged. He was so skilled in their ways, he could even speak to them. The complexity of their sounds were almost impossible to replicate, but he could call to be let into the world which they called “out” and for water.
Malam also taught me how to hunt. Though I loved chasing after the squeakers and small-wings, he showed me that a true hunter does not need to chase at all. When I was just about full grown, I had brought a large squeaker home for my two-legged to play with. It shook loose me just before I reached the door and I chased it around the yard. It was so fast and agile that it avoided my every swipe. I could keep it away from the boards and escape, but I could not catch it.
Stiff and slow, Malam came over to where I was chasing the squeaker. While the cycles had made me stronger, they had worn him down. His glossy black coat was turning brown and his back was always stiff and arched. He sat and patiently watched me as I tried in vain to show off my speed and skills in my chase.
The squeaker kept dodging back and forth, I was beginning to tire when it saw an opening. It shot around me and went straight for the boards, but it passed in front of Malam first. Rather, it tried to pass in front of him. The instant the squeaker was within his reach, he snapped down on it, breaking its neck in one solid chomp. I stopped running and watched him, waiting for him to try to steal my prey, so I could threaten him and fight for it back. He just stood up and went back to the house, giving me a smirk as he passed me, leaving my squeaker on the grass. I was angry at first that he would break my toy, but then I realized what he had taught me. I, too, ignored the broken squeaker and happily followed him back into our house.
Hunting had not always brought me amusement and joy. Near home there were a few packs of very odd small-wings. Unlike other small-wings, they did not fly, but, instead, scurried around like mice. They moved much faster than mice and were much more cautious. I had decided to hunt some of these ground-wings one day, after I had lost the dependency of kittenhood that kept me close to home. The ground-wings disliked two-legged and nested deeper into the forest than I had to travel to find squeakers and small-wings, so I had to travel far from home.
The morning had been damp, with misting rain soaking everything and bringing out the earthy scents of the moss and rotting leaves. The two-legged smells of their rumblings rooms and other devices had been washed into the ground, letting the scents of the wildlife show. I followed a small, worn path through the foliage towards the area where I had saw the ground-wings last. Something was odd about the path, though. I had not recalled following it before when I had come to the area, as I approached from a different direction in my wandering.
I stopped and sniffed at the damp leaves that had been pushed aside by constant use. At first, I noticed nothing but the soft earthy smells of the dirt and the crisp smells of the leaves themselves. With another breath, the rank and harsh scent of growlers tickled my senses.
The rustling of leaves to my side caused a wave of fear to run down my spine that puffed out my fur and tensed my muscles. It only took a second for me to see the brown and grey growler staring at me from the bushes. I took off, running from it as fast as I could. The only trees in the area were tall pine trees with no low branches, so there was not option of climbing to safety.
As the shrubs and branches whipped past my face, stinging my nose and ears, I could hear the growler keeping up with me. Unlike the two-legged slave growlers, this one was wild, skinny and intelligent. The only noises he made other than the snapping of branches and rustling was the pant of his breath as he ran to keep up. Hearing that soft pant behind me was more terrifying than any of the absurd barking other growlers have followed me with.
Every brush I shot under, every log I dodged around seemed like a hurdle between life and death. The dampness of the world no longer gave it a sense of clarity, but made the leaves slippery and the ground sticky, as if the whole environment was working against me. I felt the exhaustion burning up my legs and along my back. The sound of his panting kept me running, it sound getting closer and closer.
Then I saw it. A dark hole barely visible under a rotten tree. I dove straight for it, a renewed vigor powering me with the hope of escape and survival. The hole was narrower than it had seemed when I first spotted it. As I squirmed, my belly flat against the damp ground and the rotten wood scratching at my back, he caught up to me.
The pain shot through my leg as I felt his jaws sink into my leg and start to yank me out of the protection of the burrow. I turned on my side and lashed out at his face with my free paws, ripping and clawing at his exposed nose, eyes and ears. One of my claws caught the corner of his nose, first hooking his nostril, then ripping through it as I finished my extension. He yelped and released my leg, so I quickly scurried the rest of the way into the hole, growling with threat of further harm if he attempted to remove me again. The growler approached cautiously, then dove to snap at my exposed belly. I met his face again with my claws and he retreated without getting so much as a nip of me. Deterred, he turned and sat away a few yards from the tree and laid down, waiting.
I crawled more securely into my little cave, kicking away the bugs that were scurrying around from my disturbance. My leg throbbed painfully and blood was starting to mat my fur against my leg. I tried licking it clean, but it hurt too much to continue, so I moved to cleaning my paws. The waiting game was a simple one, at least. Growlers lack patience. Certainly, they have more patience than two-legged, but most growlers give up after a few hours.
This growler must have been especially hungry, it was well after the sun had set and darkness swept over the sky that he got up and left. While I felt more relieved, I did not dare to leave my safety yet. The other predators of the night would find me easy prey, it would be much safer to move around in the day. I closed my eyes and attempted to rest as much as I could, my muscles complaining and my leg aching for rest.
The grey light of dawn began stretching across the sky when I decided to start my trek back home. I must have traveled far as the normal call for the evening meal did not reach my ears. My two-legged have a curious signal of making a loud piercing noise and varying the tone up and down to call for meals. It started high, swung low, then went high again as it ended. They would call our names and “dinner time” between these noises to summon us for our food. The noise could be heard from almost to the furthest reaches of my normal travels from the house.
I did not know how far I had run, but the direction of home was clear to me. The smell of the endless stretch of salty water and knowledge of my initial direction gave me a rough location. I started on my way home. Each step burned up my leg and I found myself unable to jump over even the smallest of obstacles. My progress was slow and painful, but I knew that the warmth and comfort of home would greet me when I arrived.
The first day I made very little progress and hid in another small hole I found before the sun started to sink below the horizon. I was able to clean the blood off of my leg and it throbbed less as I waited for the sun to rise. The next day I made better progress, my leg and muscles were much less stiff, though my way was constantly blocked with thick thorn bushes and small creeks. I had enough strength to climb up a few branches into a tree to sleep at night, though the jump back to the ground made me regret my decision the next morning.
On the third day, I began to recognize the area again. My pace quickened as I drew closer to my house. The injury kept me from moving much faster than a trot, but, when I heard the call for dinner, I had just reached the boards surrounding the yard.
“Dinner ti... Tina? Tina! Mom! Dad! Tina is back,” the little one's meal call was interrupted and I heard my name.
She rushed outside to meet me and scoped me up, causing my hip to throb painfully. I winced a little and complained softly at the pain. Immediately, Dad was handling me with his firm hands, poking and prodding at me until he found my injury.
Aside from Mom, there was Dad and the little one, Renee. Dad was the dominant leader of the household, not even Malam would challenge his position. He was very tall for a two-legged, with legs so long they seemed to make up most of him. His voice was calm, deep and loud, though it would swing up to a higher-pitched cooing when he was happy with us or burst out in harsh and commanding tones. Mom and Renee would often leave the house, but Dad would stay at home, digging at the plants in the backyard and moving around dirt. The short, grey fur on his head would become damp with sweat from heat and the sun pounded down on him. There was no doubt he cared for us, he was always happy to provide a lap to rest on and a paw to stroke me with, but he was clearly the alpha of the house. Crossing him would release a burst of anger that made his words crash down like black-wings around my ears. The two-legged word he taught me was “NO,” which means what you are doing is upsetting him and to stop and run away.
After Dad found my injury, they put me in the rumbling room and took me to the white place. I wondered if I was being punished for missing so many meals. The white man with his awful smells was murmuring at me as usual, but only quickly did his normal routine of sticking objects in all sorts of uncomfortable places.
Eventually, after much poking, prodding and sticking, we rode in the rumble room back home. I was given a fresh meal, which was the best I had ever tasted. Two-legged always have the best food, despite their awful hunting skills. After I ate, Renee prompted me to sit on her boney little lap and pet me until I fell asleep.
Renee was much less threatening than Dad, when she had first picked me up she was less than half of his size. Over the sun cycles she grew larger and larger, until she was taller than Mom, but still lean like myself. She spent every moment she could with me, petting me, carrying me, even just laying next to me. Whenever I wanted a string to chase, she was happy to pull it for me. She was full of energy, unlike other two-legged, happy to run and crawl around with me. Even her head fur was long and wild. Sometimes it skittered across the ground when she was laying by me like a pack of little creatures that would compel me to try to catch and bite it.
The next few days, I found that I was fed better food and given more attention, but forced to eat odd little white crunchies that tasted bitter. After that, the days returned to normal. The household had a fairly regular pattern. Both of the bigger two-legged would leave for the day in clothing that made swishing noises against their legs and soft tops. Renee never wore the same clothing, every day it was a different feel and shape and smell. Mom and Dad would come home smelling of sweat of many two-legged. Renee also would smell like other two-legged, but not of their sweat, and mostly she would smell of dirt and wood bits. When she grew bigger, she would leave in her random clothes, but return home in the swishy and soft clothes of the other two-legged, smelling of her own sweat. It must be a part of the transition from infant to adult in the two-legged life.
Some days the two-legged would not follow their normal routine. They would rise later than usual and eat together after our morning meal. After that, they did all sorts of oddities. If they left, they would come back smelling of strange people and places. Often they would bring back food, however, so Malam and I did not mind. Dad rarely left unless he was wearing swishy clothes and I spent most of these odd days following him around as he played in the dirt.
Everyday, though, Renee gave me her attention more than any other two-legged. I gave her my affection in return. When she would sit at the bright screen, making clicking noises on the board next to it, I would lay in her lap and rest my head and paws on her arm. When she would go to sleep, I would sleep next to her. We developed a bond of sorts I did not have with the other two-legged. While I could not learn her language, she tried to learn mine. Though her sad mutated ears and lack of a tail made some communication hard, she readily tried copying mews and other noises. Perhaps the other two-legged were too old to learn. After all, you can't teach an old cat new tricks.
Renee had been growing for a long time, though. I had reached the prime of my life when she just barely reached her full size. Her maturity caused her to fight for a higher standing in the household. While she never seemed to question Dad's position, she fought often with Mom. Their fights for dominance were more like the growlers than us felines, with sharp barks and huffs. Renee often lost and would retreat, tail between her legs, to her den.
Malam was too old to participate in the struggle for ranking, but I had enough respect for him that I never attempted to exert dominance. He walked around stiffly and smelled sour. One day, he fell after drinking from the controlled stream in a bowl and lost his ability to walk. It deteriorated until all he could do was lay on his side and be feed liquid food squirted into his mouth by the two-legged. Despite the way he used to attack me when I tried to show him affection when I was younger, I took the time to clean his coat. I would sit next to him and keep him company when the two-legged were away, he never acknowledged me, but I knew he appreciated it. He was strong through his suffering, he never complained or yowled, he would just lie there as death slowly squeezed him. Then, one day, he was gone. Mom cried a lot that day and Renee hugged me close throughout the night.
I grew even closer to Renee after Malam disappeared. Her fights with Mom also stopped, though she would occasionally still bark back at her. I was unsure of who was more dominate, they now seemed to be on equal standing. Mom and Dad were as full grown as Renee when I was a kitten, yet Malam was already gone. The two-legged must have more cycles to enjoy than us, yet, they seem to learn so much less in that time.
My attempts to teach Renee hunting in the past went rather poorly. I found good squeakers and brought them home to spark her interest in them, but Dad generally found them first and disposed of them before she could see them. Squeakers were rather boring prey, to be honest, but they seemed to be the easiest to catch. Small-wings and flying-squeakers were much more interesting to me. Though black-wings were large and terrifying, small-wings were very fragile once they were caught. The ones I brought home generally lost their play before I could show them off. Flying-squeakers, however, were much more resilient. I found them hiding under the tree slices on top of houses. Digging a paw in to the crack quickly could snag one and another smack could make it still long enough to carry home. Watching Dad and Renee prance around the house, swinging and batting at a flying-squeaker, was well worth the effort of bringing it home.
I was tracking down a particularly elusive group of squeakers. Renee had grown tall, taller than Mom and I felt she no longer had much hope for becoming a good hunter. A few cycles ago, I had broken into a small nest of a squeaker. The mother had foolishly led me back to it when I had first found and chased her. Over the next few days, I went and brought back home the small, pink squeakers that were inside and left them near the house door. After the nest was cleared, I was hoping to find new play toys and gifts. I had searched deep into the forest all day, but only found small traces of squeaker scent here and there. The day was warm, though, so I settled down on a rock among the trees where some light sifted down.
Many cycles had passed me by. I could no longer jump nor run as I used to and the nap in the sun was a nice rest. Small-wings chirped lightly in the distance, hopping from branch to branch in their wild and excited ways. I closed my eyes and enjoyed how the light pleasantly warmed my coat and relaxed my muscles. The wind rustled the leaves and ruffled my fur, blowing harshly considering how warm the day was. It was probably the wind that masked the sound of his approach as the sun began to droop towards the horizon.
I heard a sound and opened my eyes, but it was too late, he was already in mid-jump. A grey growler with a chunk missing from his nose was coming straight for me. I made to jump, but I could not get my slow feet under me before his jaws collided with my neck. Panic flooded through me as I tried to fight for an escape, but he yanked his head sharply to the side.
My vision dimmed, the warmth of the sun on my coat faded from my senses, and, off in the distance, I heard a whistle starting high, dropping low and ending as the pitch swung up again.
![[image loading]](http://i116.photobucket.com/albums/o4/GinRyuChan/Pets/IMG_0216-1.jpg)
![[image loading]](http://images.quickblogcast.com/115671-107959/Plasic_slide_whistle_w_Cat_Playing_a_Violin.jpg)
Now he can have the best of both worlds.
