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. It was a combination of odors,
woven together to send a fearful message of disparate
creatures banded for some common purpose. Dog, he
smelled - and fox. Pytr lifted his head and caught the scent
of a bird, large and bold and bright: a deadly raptor. Over
them all rode the thick, musky scent of a far-removed
cousin; a mountain panther prowled near. They hunted,
their scents told him, but they were not hungry.
In the cage on the table the squirrel roused and sniffed
the air.
CAT! PYTR! DO YOU SMELL IT?
I DO. THE SCENT OF ENEMIES.
Enemies? The squirrel's tail danced. Yes, these were the
scents of enemies. And yet the dream from which he'd just
woken was not one of enemies.
CAT - PYTR, I THOUGHT WHEN I WAS DREAMING
THAT I SCENTED FRIENDS.
Pytr's tail switched impatiently, then slowed to a
considering wave. FRIENDS?
WELL, IT'S HARD TO EXPLAIN. IT'S . . . I SMELL
THE DOG AND THE FOX, THE FALCON AND THE
PANTHER. AND MY NOSE TELLS ME TO BE AFRAID.
BUT . . . IN MY MIND I DON'T SEE THE BEASTS THE
SMELLS ARE SUPPOSED TO SHOW ME. I ... I DON'T
KNOW HOW ELSE TO EXPLAIN IT.
Pytr wondered then if maybe the squirrel WAS CRAZY.
He sighed and left his place by the window. He gave Rieve
wide berth and leaped to the table
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