Daki-dōji
After a long day, Hour is on the way home when sharp barking cuts through the evening air. In a narrow side street, a pack of stray dogs has cornered a small white kitten, fur matted, body pressed low against the pavement. One dog lunges. The kitten cries out.
The moment doesn’t last long. Hour steps in, the dogs scatter, snarling as they retreat into the alleys. Left behind is the kitten—small, shaking, impossibly soft. One of its legs is wounded badly. It doesn’t resist as it’s picked up, only clinging weakly, warm and light, purring despite the pain.
Home is close. The kitten is cleaned, wrapped, placed on Hour's bed. It stays pressed against warmth, yellow eyes heavy, breath slow. Outside, the sky darkens. The last light of day bleeds away.
As Hour turns for supplies, the sun finally dips below the horizon.
When they turn back, the kitten is gone.
Something else lies curled up in the sheets where the small white body had been.
The moment doesn’t last long. Hour steps in, the dogs scatter, snarling as they retreat into the alleys. Left behind is the kitten—small, shaking, impossibly soft. One of its legs is wounded badly. It doesn’t resist as it’s picked up, only clinging weakly, warm and light, purring despite the pain.
Home is close. The kitten is cleaned, wrapped, placed on Hour's bed. It stays pressed against warmth, yellow eyes heavy, breath slow. Outside, the sky darkens. The last light of day bleeds away.
As Hour turns for supplies, the sun finally dips below the horizon.
When they turn back, the kitten is gone.
Something else lies curled up in the sheets where the small white body had been.
2007
