I could read his thoughts, poor dear. He longed to go back to his own kin. He loved me, but the call of freedom and home outweighed the affection he felt for me.
I love him and I was selfish, so I determined to keep him. I wanted the pleasure of his presence, the touch of his soft, furry little body against my breast, the joy of feeding and caring for him. One day I suddenly realised how selfish I was. I loved him, yet I had deliberately resolved to prevent him from going back to the life he loved and yearned for. With a wrench I tore that unworthy resolve out by the very roots.
After my mental battle I dragged myself wearily to bed; but I did not close the kitchen window. When all was quiet and the soft stillness was broken only by the singing of wind through the maple trees, I heard the scratch of his little feet on the window sill. A pause. Then the soft thud of his little body striking the ground. In the quiet of the night I turned on my pillow and cried my heart out. But somehow, out of somewhere, I found peace, the great, comforting peace that comes when love breaks loose from the toils
