CHAPTER 15
The Granthor cub was too cute. He loved exploring my small cottage and frequently found himself stuck behind or under the furnishings, calling for help in my mind.
He loved chasing my feet as I walked and stalking the fabric at the end of the cat toy.
His squished-in face was adorable, and it took every bit of self-control not to pick him up and squeeze him every second of the day.
I was fascinated by our telepathic connection.
He knew that his “original mother” called him M’Pak, and that she was killed by another Granthor, although he didn’t fully understand why.
He was rescued by a “gray-skin,” as he called the Ptexari.
Overall, he seemed uninterested in the Ptexari, convinced that they were not as smart as “we” were, since they couldn’t “speak” to him.
He didn’t understand anything I said out loud, but could understand my thoughts very well and speak back to me.
He chattered mostly about food, playtime, and sleeping in the sunlight.
Not so different from dogs or cats on Earth, just with much sharper, bigger teeth.
For the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel so alone.
I’d always loved animals. To my mother’s dismay, I was always bringing home snails, frogs, and even snakes as a child.
Stray dogs and cats followed me home. I grew up in a rural area, and there were always strays around, so we never purchased a pet.
Any animal that showed up was simply adopted into the family.
I was an only child, so I suspect that’s one reason my parents indulged me and my many animals.
They always expected me to go into veterinary medicine myself, but I was born to perform.
My pets were forced to listen to me belt out Broadway tunes as a child.
I had a dog, Daisy, who wagged her tail and loved prancing around as I showed her the new steps I learned in tap or ballet class.
My cat Gizmo was much less impressed, staring at me unblinking as I serenaded her with “Mr. Mistoffelees” or “Rum Tug Tugger.” She never fully appreciated Andrew Lloyd Webber.
I hadn’t sung a note since arriving on Ptekennan.
I had been so overwhelmed by my kidnapping and assault that it felt like the music in me had simply dried up.
But a few days later, as M’Pak chased the rag I waved around, I found myself humming, “Tomorrow” from Annie. Better days were ahead, I told myself.
I couldn’t change what had happened, so I had to put the past behind me and focus on making a new life for myself here.
M’Pak snuggled up to me at night on my pallet, and although he didn’t completely chase away my nightmares, he was a comfort to me when I woke from a night terror.
“No fear, Mother Andie,” he would say. “M’Pak protects. ”