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,