I do not understand what I am. When I was old enough to leave my mother and find my own territory, I was bigger than all the other cougars I had met---even the big male that was probably my father. Besides my size, I wasn’t like my mother, brother, or sister. I don’t know how I knew this, but they were simple. Their world was confined to hunting, eating, and sleeping, but I wanted more than that.

The origin of my longing was a mystery to me. I wanted conversation, poetry, music, and companionship. As I grew from a kitten to an adult cougar, more strange knowledge blossomed in my mind. I became aware that the things I wanted were all two-footed things. They were the inexplicable creations of the creatures called humans.

At first, I couldn’t understand what purpose these things served. The noise they called singing did not attract any prey. Instead, it caused most birds and four-footed creatures to flee. I couldn’t make any sense of it at all. And this thing called dancing: was it some kind of mating ritual? If it was, why did they do it all the time but only birth their young one to two years apart?

It bothered me that I knew these names when cougars have no speech. I even knew that speech was the name the two-footeds gave to the system of noise they used to pass information, like the mews, meows, purrs, screams, and caterwauls that cougars use to pass information.

I found a village at the foot of the escarpment between the human kingdom of Nordweg and the territory of the Green Elf tribes, and there I settled down. The sign over the gate on the main road read Herman’s Close even though I knew that no cougar could read. My life was full of questions about myself I couldn’t answer and it bothered me.

I was not bothered enough that it stopped me from the primary purpose of all cougars: hunting, eating, and sleeping. The area around Herman’s Close was full of game, especially deer and even some elk. There were no other cougars in the immediate vicinity. The only problems were the bears and the wolves, but it was easy to avoid those.

Then I found the boy. He was a pathetic thing. Looking at him made me sad, which is a human emotion, not a cougar one. I found him in the walled garden of the local lord’s manor. He looked like he was maybe 10 human years in age. He sat in a chair with wheels with a blanket over his legs, reading a book. His left hand was in a glove, and he couldn’t use it much. He wore a mask on the left side of his face, and there was no hole for his left eye. He wore his copper-red hair long over his ears. Was he perhaps hiding a scarred left ear?

On days when I had nothing to do, I started watching him every afternoon. He first noticed me on my usual tree branch after spring became summer. I heard his gasp. Then, he sat very still. Well, it wasn’t as if he could get up and run away since he was missing his left foot.

His notice startled me. In fact, it scared me. We cougars are solitary creatures, and we seldom move around in the daylight. We move by stealth and hunt by ambush. Being noticed is not a good thing. He noticed me and I ran away.

I stayed away for many days. Then I came back. Watching the boy felt right to me. It was as if I was meant to be there. I changed trees often and never used the same branch twice. After a few days, he began to spot me again. This time I did not run away. I just relaxed and watched him. Sometimes I even fell asleep. Well, cougars do tend to sleep during the day.

It was past midsummer’s day when I noticed someone else was watching the boy. Looking through the second-floor window, either a well-dressed man or a well-dressed woman watched the boy every day. After a while, they were watching me too. I thought it suspicious that no one came out to remove the boy from the garden when they knew that a predator like me was stalking him. The disregard for this lonely boy with no friends bothered me. I don’t know why I found it offensive, but I did.

I decided to force the issue. One afternoon I jumped from my branch into the garden. I heard the boy’s gasp as I landed without a sound and started walking toward his wheelchair. The lady watching today left her post when she saw me in the garden. I half expected human guards or hunters to appear to protect the boy, but I was disappointed. The lady reappeared in the window with the well-dressed man. They took up their station at the window to watch what came next.

I got close enough to see that his one eye was a beautiful deep green. I could smell the fear on him, yet he made no defensive or offensive moves. He sat without moving. I circled his chair, noting that the couple watching from the second-story windows made no moves. What was this boy to them? A prisoner? An imposition? A burden? If they were his parents, then they did not deserve to be called moral.

I could only conclude that they wanted him conveniently dead at the claws of a wild beast. I resolved to disappoint them. I came up from behind the boy, rubbing my snout along the right-side armrest of the wheelchair. I wiggled my nose under his right hand and started purring. He didn’t move. The smell of fear was still strong on him.

In a tiny little voice, he squeaked, “is it permissible to pet you?”

In answer, I planted my chin on the armrest, licked his hand, and continued to purr. He slowly moved his hand to my head and started to scratch.

Oh! The Bliss! Mere words can not express what a glorious feeling it was to have someone scratch my head and behind my ears. I never imagined how wonderful a simple scratch could be. When I cracked open an eye to check on the watching couple, I was pleased to see their jaws gaping wide enough for a moth to fly in.

After that, I visited as often as I could if I was not hunting.