Now,

you’ll remember

I’ve told you

that Patches,

while grown,

was a small cat.

And you’ll remember,

too,

that Gus was a very large dog.

But Patches was also a mother,

and mothers

across the world

have a way about them

when their babies

are threatened.

So Patches didn’t think once

about size.

A hiss rose in her throat,

and her claws pressed

beyond the soft pink-and-black pads

of her paws.

She pulled the curving claws in

and let them slip out again,

feeling how sharp they were,

how they could cut,

how they could slash,

how they could tear.

Her fine imagination

could see

an enormous black nose,

the one right in front of her,

for instance,

decorated

with bright-red lines.

But while being a mother

can make a creature

fierce,

it can also make her wise.

Even a small cat.

So Patches tucked the hiss

away

and slowly retracted her claws.

Who knew

what might happen

to her babies

if she hurt Gus?

So she said

very reasonably,

“You know you can’t keep them,

Gus.”

Gus,

however,

was too busy

licking her babies,

one at a time,

as thoroughly

and lovingly

as a child might lick

a lollipop,

to seem to hear.

“Babies must have milk,”

Patches explained.

“They can’t live

without it.

And you have

no

milk.”

“I know,”

Gus replied.

And Patches

breathed easier.

He understands,

she told herself.

He’ll let the kittens

come home with me,

because

he understands.

But then Gus said,

“That’s why you have to stay

too.”

And he reached a great gray paw

and laid it on Patches’s back,

pressing her

flat to the grass.

“MINE!”

he said,

a single, sharp bark.

And he smiled

a huge doggy smile

that showed every one

of his long

yellow

teeth.