I saw my daughter the other day.
She sat on the fence of her garden, watching the humans do as they pleased to the forest that usedto be there.
And I asked her if she had seen any of her littermates since they left.
She stared sadly, ignoring the rapid calls from her owners. Normally she would have gone in, especially since it was cold out, but tonight she just felt like sitting. Staring. Wishing.
I was told that she had seen Rusty.
Never once had she thought about wanting to go in the forest. But now she wondered: Why not? Now she didn't have a chance to. She never would.
'Firestar' she called him, and said he had been living in the forest.
She didn't want to.
But a mother had a right. A right to worry about her kits.
I asked her 'Have you seen him recently?'
She had had more than one litter of kits, but she wondered mostly about her oldest. She didn't see them as often as she saw others. She saw Princess last.
And she shook her head.
And she feared she'd never see Rusty again.
So I started to believe that he died.
No, she knew.
Even so, it didn't stop her from worrying. There was a possibility he still was alive, no matter how slim that may be. So she prayed, wished, hoped for some sign.
And my daughter seemed to believe just the same.
And until that day came, she'd worry.
I'm not entirely happy with this...
I used the word 'worry' waaaaaaay too much. But oh well.