snow-covered funerals . lucrezia/euley

I can't do this.

At sunrise, when the sun chased away the dark and painted the sky lavender, Pire, one of my snow leopards, gave birth to a kitten. Only one, just one, a rare occurrence for large cats. But the cold must have snuffed it out before it could even begin to make it in this world, or perhaps it was some other biological reason, because it stopped breathing shortly after being born.

Pire, with great, worried amber eyes, nudged her kitten, desperately trying to wake it up. She's an animal — she doesn't fully comprehend death, but that doesn't mean she doesn't feel the weight of its impact.

I know I do.

I begin to cry in the walkway of the Sarasin castle, and soon I'm wailing, frantically, not knowing what to do with a dead kitten. Pire is draped in warm blankets that I had for backup, in case we didn't make it inside — and we didn't before she gave birth.

"Someone help! Someone please help! Euley, Calanthia, Mom — !" I cry in my panic and grief.