Mama always told me not to feed it.

“Don’t even look at it,” she’d say. “It’ll attach itself to the first thing that shows it a lick of kindness. Don’t leave food out for it, and for God’s sake, never let it into the house. You’ll never get rid of it.”

I felt bad for it, though. I always have. It sounded pitifully lonely in the wood behind our house, wailing for a response that never came. In the winter its cries echoed softly from somewhere far off, and in the summer—well. In the summer it got bold, but never so bold as it’s been this year.

It’s never set foot in the yard before.

And what was I supposed to do? I’d like to see anyone sleep knowing that a poor creature is sitting mere feet away from their back door just begging for a scrap of mercy. I couldn’t take it anymore. It was there, constantly, gnawing at the corners of my mind. Besides, Mama isn’t here anymore to tell me what not to do.

I put out a little plate for it last week. Just a few scraps from dinner, leftover chicken bones and overcooked string beans. It barely counts as kindness if all you’re giving is the worst of everything. That’s what I told myself, anyway, only when I caught its yellow eyes in the grass I had a feeling that it was the kindest thing anyone had ever done for it. I should’ve taken my kindness back right then. I know that now.

It started coming closer after that. Every night I’d do the washing up and glance through the backyard window to see those yellow eyes eight, seven, six feet from the house. I didn’t want to keep giving it scraps, but as it got later, it would howl like a kicked puppy until I gave in. I left plates of bones and burnt food, less and less each night as if it would somehow get the message that this wasn’t a permanent arrangement. It always seemed satisfied with what it got. Even last night, when all I gave was a shred of gristle, it snapped it up and went back to waiting in the grass without so much as a whimper.

Tonight, I gave it nothing at all. The plate is out there, perfectly clean and empty.

It’s pacing the doorstep. I can hear its claws tapping on the wood. Every once in a while, it stops to scratch at the door with a little whine, then goes back to pacing. I’m sitting in the hallway watching its shadow in the gap between the door and sill. I want it to go away. I think it knows I’m sitting here.

Now it’s stopped. It’s heaving big, heavy breaths like an angry child. It’s—oh, God—

It’s screaming.

High-pitched, low-pitched, a sadangryhurtlonelybetrayed cacophony of voices, it has too many voices for one body. It’s in my ears, my brain, my mouth, it’s screaming with my mouth please so hungry so cold food shelter love wantwantwant—

Please. (I’m sorry, Mama.) Stop. (I’m sorry.)

What am I supposed to do? I’m opening the door.