In the kitchen, the desperation reached a fever pitch. Fiona had quickly sliced small, tender chunks of raw beef, offering them to the three kittens on the floor. For a fleeting second, the smallest one’s nose twitched, but the energy to eat was gone. It was too tired to even lift its head, its mouth hanging slightly open as it labored for every breath. The meat sat untouched as the kittens lay like grey stones on the linoleum. Things were looking horrible; the transition from the fierce hunter in the basement to this frail, breaking pile of fur happened in minutes.
Horrified by the decline, Fiona grabbed the phone to call Miller. “Something is wrong,” she told him, her voice trembling. “He was trying to hunt—he’s starving, but he can’t even swallow now. They aren’t acting like cats, Miller. I think we’re losing them.” Miller, sensing the panic, promised to be there in minutes. He arrived just as the sun began to dip, bringing his veteran terrier, Toby. But as they stepped into the kitchen, the atmosphere shifted. Toby, who had spent a decade fearlessly clearing barns of predators, suddenly balked. He let out a thin, pathetic whine and pressed his belly to the floor, refusing to move an inch closer to the living room.