Page 72 of Beasts of Mine

I kept the feather.

The rock somehow ended up in the side pocket of my field bag too.

I blamed exhaustion.

When the amber-eyed leopard caught me putting it there, his tail lifted so high that I briefly considered taking it back out on principle.

I didn't.

Cat brought nothing I could hold. Instead, he checked everything—the trails, the perimeter around the platform, the blind, and the route to the stream. If I mentioned wanting to work somewhere the next day, he disappeared in that direction and eventually came back smelling of wet earth and crushed vegetation. He never explained what he'd been doing, and after the third time, I stopped pretending it was coincidence.

It was in the evening of the second day now and I sat on the platform steps cleaning dust from one of my lenses while Cat lay several feet away.

“You're checking where I go before I go there,” I told Cat, carefully circling the glass with the edge of a clean cloth as I finally said what I'd been thinking all day.

Yes, Cat replied, his front paws crossed while his golden-brown eyes moved briefly toward the trail.

“Why?” I asked Cat, rotating the lens in my hand as the fading light caught along the edge.

Because you go places without knowing what is there, Cat told me, watching with the patient expression of someone explaining an obvious problem.

“That's called exploring,” I informed Cat, setting the cleaned lens beside me and reaching for the cap.

That is what you call it, Cat replied, lowering his chin onto his paws as though he'd won the argument. I studied him for a second.

“You're impossible,” I told Cat, snapping the cap into place with slightly more force than necessary.

You keep coming back, Cat reminded me, closing his eyes while the tip of his tail moved once against the ground.

I paused.

That wasn't fair.

Mostly because I didn't have a particularly good answer. Before I could come up with one, something landed on the platform beside my foot with a wooden clack.

I looked down.

A stick.

Not a small twig. An actual stick, nearly the length of my forearm and almost perfectly straight. The amber-eyed leopard stood at the bottom of the steps looking immensely pleased with himself.

“No,” I told the amber-eyed leopard, staring at the branch before slowly lifting my gaze to his face.

His ears tipped forward.

Why not? the amber-eyed leopard asked me, glancing between me and his offering with genuine confusion.

“Because it's a stick,” I told the amber-eyed leopard, pointing toward it as though the problem should have been self-evident. He stepped closer and nudged it with one paw.

Good stick, the amber-eyed leopard insisted, examining the branch before looking back at me.

“I have access to many sticks,” I replied to the amber-eyed leopard, sweeping one hand toward the rainforest surrounding us. The amber-eyed leopard turned his head and surveyed the trees. For several seconds, he seemed to consider that before looking back down at his offering.

This one is straight, the amber-eyed leopard told me, sounding as though he'd finally identified the critical detail I'd somehow failed to appreciate.

I pressed my lips together and looked toward Cat.

His eyes were closed. His body was moving.