Tales of Nostalgia: Soft Fur
Patty grew thinner as the seasons changed.
The days passed by quicker, as the nights lengthened. The slight October chill progressed into an almost freezing December winter, and yet, no one came back for him.
He had seen it happen before and had turned his face away from those who mourned the loss of their families but hadn’t expected it to happen to him. If his analysis was correct, it should’ve taken several more years for everything to happen. They should’ve at least waited until he was old and frail, to even come close to justify their actions.
Nevertheless, after one year spent with them, they had decided to pack up the little family and leave him behind.
He couldn’t go through the front door anymore, nor did the windows welcome him.
Instead, he spent his days on the porch, often pacing back and forth, sleeping on an old cushion that had been left for him. Patty didn’t want to overestimate his importance; the lady of the house hated that set of cushions, and this had been the last piece.
Despite his nature, hunting held no appeal for Patty, and why would it? So used to being fed and served all this time, what could provoke him to prey on small creatures?
So used was he to the luxuries his humans provided him that even when necessity hit, he could barely scrape together a meal every now and then. He missed the soft, delicious food in that pretty little bowl, and the fresh, crisp water he enjoyed. There weren’t any bowls on the porch, and he had taken to drinking when the neighbors watered their lawn. Lately, he hadn’t been able to muster the energy to trot towards the water.
The days were spent watching people pass by, no one acknowledging his presence. The sadness inside of him was almost unbearable for the moments when he would wake up from dreams of his humans scratching him between his ears. He liked Wednesdays the most. Those were the days when he was brushed from head to toe, for as long as he pleased.
Sometimes, as they would exceed the limits, he would playfully bite them and they would laugh. He was still recovering from the kick to his ribs from the time he’d nipped at a child’s hand a day ago. Moreover, his fur started to matte as his attention towards the lush mane dwindled.
Too weak to move anymore, he lay with his head on his hands, quietly watching the sun go down.
As his eyes began to close shut, he could almost recall the soft lullaby the human used to sing.
The smell of her damp hair invaded his senses, and he let the feeling of being loved flow over him. It was a privilege to have been held in her warm embrace as she hummed, and ran her fingers through his fur.
It was a good memory to recall, as he froze to his demise that last December night.
