Teresa was sobbing when Spock arrived home. As he walked through the door, his four-year-old daughter flung herself at him and loosed a flurry of incoherent words. It was an unusual state of affairs for this very human child whose smile normally brightened the entire household.

"Oh, Daddy…Daddy…Daddy…"

That much he plainly heard, and now the fact that her brother James was nowhere in sight also registered—little James, whose health was always so tenuous. Clamping down on a surge of fear, he lifted Teresa into his arms, simultaneously glancing toward his wife Lauren, who had just emerged from her laboratory.

His eyes questioned her, and not far from tears herself, she said, "It's Mosha."

The cat.

"She…she's dead," wailed Teresa.

There was relief. Not James then—not this time. Such an outpouring of sorrow for an aged feline, one small calico cat that had done little this past year but grace a corner of the sofa. Mosha—the word itself meant "cat" in his native Vulcan language.

Turning, he looked at Mosha's favorite spot where her blanket still lay, tufted with bits of fur. Once in a dream he had actually played with her, tossing a toy on a string, watching her pounce as he pulled it along the carpet. In the dream he had enjoyed the foolish activity, but somehow it did not seem quite so foolish now.

Regret over a cat? Most illogical. He was still holding Teresa. That was it. He was experiencing emotional leakage from the child's pain.

Lauren said to him, "That cat loved you."

If not for Teresa, he would have replied, "Come now. A cat is not capable of love or any other emotion." On those occasions when Mosha had jumped onto his lap, she was only seeking physical heat. Her loud purr had been a natural response to that same pleasing warmth when he stroked her. And of course she had followed him around the house, actively seeking more of it. That was all.

Then why did a small cat-sized place in his heart seem as empty as that worn blanket on the sofa? As he looked upon it, the years rolled back to a similar loss in his own childhood. It had seemed very important then, and even now as those old ashes stirred, he found embers of pain still burning.

In his arms, Teresa was quieting. Perhaps she would benefit from the story of his own boyhood experience. Going over to the sofa, he settled her beside him and said, "I once had a pet named I-Chaya…"

oooOOooo