[ WP ] You are the cat from that other writing prompt where the dog 's owner will die soon .

The gleeful one has finally noticed, it seems. I almost wish his mother were the one to bear this burden; she was far more intuitive, in her prime. Then again, we never got along, and my girl's state would have been worsened by our arguments. As unaware as the big kit may be, he has, at least, been a comfort to my girl. And so, I only almost-wish. Keeping silent has been unusually difficult; my own grief, surely, driving me to distraction. 
 
 You see, my girl has grown old. The loud ones -- doggies, she calls them -- do not seem to understand this very easily. I saw it with Amelia, the doggy of my girl's brother; she still bounded around him as if mere encouragement could revitalize him. Though, in fairness to Amelia, my girl's brother passed too soon; he passed when his sixth doggy, Amelia, lived under his paw, smelling of sorrow and illness. Amelia struggled so hard to understand what was wrong; I think it is simply not in the doggy understanding of the world to realize that our girls and boys have lives that end just as bitterly as ours. 
 
 My girl's brother was a good one. His death hurt my girl as well as Amelia. 
 
 But now is not the time to mourn my girl's kin. Now is the time to mourn my girl. And mourn her I must, for I have not long left to do so, myself. I almost worry for the loud-kit, who will be left alone so soon. But he is not mine, and thus not my concern. My girl has arranged for him already, I can see it in her sad little smiles. Probably given to a sibling or scentsibling, the ones who come around every so often often with little treats for my girl. I was jealous at first, but they make my girl so happy -- now trying to get to them is just a little game, for I do not really need them, so long as I have my girl! 
 
 Or, it was a game. I do n't do that so much now; my girl is too tired, too slow. It is better to rest by her side and let her hand touch my fur. Not grooming, just touching. Gentle, as always, my girl. 
 
 I will miss her in the time I have left. She has been mine ever since I can remember; born small and helpless into a world I did not understand, her scentsibling baring too-big too-bright teeth as she held me up, my new eyes blinking in fear. The warmth and sharp smell of my girl the first time we met; I will not forget it. I will never forget the scent that became mine. 
 
 Certainly, as my Guiding One quickly taught me in the nest, my girl had lived long before me; but that made her no less mine.'She is yours,' Guiding One taught me,'She is yours and she will always be yours, no matter who else steps into her den. Never fear the loss of your girl, kit; she will always be yours, as mine will always be mine. Nothing can take from a cat, not even death.' Guiding One was right; nothing can take my girl from me. She is mine, as her doggies are hers. 
 
 Guiding One did not name me, simply called me by the color of my fur until I was given, for good, to my girl. Despite myself, I was frightened, uncertain; terribly behaved, in sum. But my girl never lost her patience; I suppose she had dealt with kits before she became mine. She was gentle, serene. When I finally mustered the courage to step towards her and let her accept her place as mine, she was so happy, so quietly joyful. If her kind could purr for joy, I am certain she would have. 
 
 Time has grown long, my fur grown grey. My girl is old, the loud-kit is young, and soon he will be alone. He senses it without even knowing that he does. His anxiety whispers through the halls, brushes over my whiskers, keens into the night -- 
 
 No, that is the kit himself, calling aloud in fear and anguish. No. No, I could not have missed my girl going, I could taste her time in the air, she *had time* -- 
 
 I race past the loud-kit, yowling and whining outside her door. I can not hear anything over the sound of his cries; I leap, catch the knob as I learned to ( my girl's smile, the shake of her head and sound of her voice, pleased but tired as she realized it was how I kept spilling the loud-kit's food ), fall forward into the room and dash onto her bed, my breaths whistling sharp through my nose. 
 
 She jolts, lets out a questioning sound. She lives. I collapse against her long foreleg, weak with relief. I have to be here when she goes. I can not let my girl go alone; she is mine, and my responsibility. She eases when she feels me against her arm, soothes my ruffled fur with the paw I do not lie on as the leg under me shifts, her other paw going to pet loud-kit, who whines anxiously, even though he knows my girl can not hear him any longer. I purr against her arm, for whose sake I do not know, and let my grief and relief settle under it in my chest. 
 
 She murmurs sounds I recognize without understanding, and pats the bed. I tense as the loud-kit jumps to join us, but do not protest. I relax as the shaking stops, and nudge her arm with my head. She returns to grooming my fur, gentle, gentle as always. My girl murmurs something else, and this time I do not protest as her hand falls still, her breathing even and slow. Her scentsibling shut the door when they left; she must have fallen asleep before she could open it once more. It is easier to sleep this way, easier than the worry loud-kit and I share outside her room. 
 
 He turns over, and I raise my head to look at him, slow, careful not to disturb my girl. For the first time, I call him by name: `` Shadow.'' He jolts, raises his head, and I wait, ensuring that my girl does not stir. When I am certain, Shadow looks confused, as if he wonders if he imagined my voice. I have spoken to him before, but never by name. `` You love my girl.'' It is not a question, but Shadow gives me an affirmation anyway; I blink slowly at him, though he does not understand its meaning, and continue. My words were hard to choose; what do you say to someone when you know that the one they love and the one they respect will soon leave them behind, alone, uncertain, when they do not even understand death? I toyed with reassurances, with lies, with promises, for days -- but eventually, I chose a very simple form of goodbye. `` Be good for my girl, Shadow. She needs it this week.'' 
 
 I did not watch for his reply; I lowered my head, and slept. 
 
 * 
 
 **Mortuaries: Miss Margaret Hart passed away last week, leaving only her estate, her cat, and her dog to survive her. Tragically, her cat, Copper Hart, joined her soon after... As per Miss Hart's wishes, she will be cremated, and her dog, Shadow Hart, inherited by her nephew. As Copper Hart also passed recently, and was very dear to the elderly woman, his ashes will be kept alongside Miss Hart's until an appropriate place for scattering has been determined... If you knew Miss Hart, her estate has issued a public statement that the best way to honor Miss Hart's life is to donate to your local animal shelters, rather than to the family. **
