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 missed 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.