Its life became directionless.

It lived only to wander.

Sometimes it saw things that were like it, and sometimes it knew itself to be alone. Once it had gone deep enough into the mountains, it became quiet all around, and it saw only other animals- for it had realized men were not quite the same as animals.

Could it have been content to live like this?

The spring passed, and then the summer. When the leaves began to fall, it retreated further still, following its dwindling supply of prey.

Once all the leaves were gone, snow fell again.

Then there was spring, then there was summer.

One day, as it sipped from the cold running water of a creek, a hand rose from the surface of the water, beckoning to it. It was a thin and small hand, much like its master had had, and it seemed to promise warmth.

But the little thing was still yet an animal, and had retained its animal instincts; it knew the hand had bad intentions, that it moved with the languidity of a predator, and so the little thing backed away from the water, and picked up into a run, sprinting away. Never again did it drink from that stream.

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