Bowser stretched and sighed contentedly. He wasn't sleepy--no one really needed to sleep here--but it was wonderful to lie in the sun-warm grass and watch the squirrels play among the trees. Maybe later he'd go chase them a bit, for the pure joy of running, but for now it felt like enough to just bark at them a few times and leave it at that.

Beside him, Rosie the calico woke, yawned, and arched her back to get out the kinks. Whether they needed to sleep or not, cats took so much pleasure in the act that it was, for them, an essential part of paradise.

"Good nap, Rosie?"

She started washing her face. "Adequate."

Bowser chuckled and rested his head on his paws. In all the years he'd known her--or was it ages, now?--she'd never admitted to being enthusiastic about anything.

Rosie was washing between the toes of one hind paw when she stopped suddenly, leg still held out at an angle, staring at something in the distance.

"Butterfly?" Bowser asked idly.

"No." Her voice sounded odd. "Look."

He raised his head. Someone was coming.

It happened every so often. A hazy gray figure would appear, and some of the animals would gather around it. Then the figure would disappear, and the animals would go their separate ways again. None of them ever spoke about it.

This time, things were different. The figure came closer, and as it did, Bowser realized it was a man. A man with a very familiar scent.

"Matthew," Bowser whispered.

Rosie hissed, and her tail fluffed. "Don't. Don't--want to--remember--"

But they did. The pain came back to them. The trap that had left Rosie without the last few inches of her tail. The well-aimed rock that had left Bowser limping for the rest of that life. The empty dishes. The chain yanked tight--

And the laughter.

He had been in-between then--not a boy, not a man--but he was a man now, old enough to be a father, or perhaps even a grandfather, judging by those lines in his face.

Other animals slowly gathered around him: a Labrador puppy, a chestnut pony, a flock of songbirds, a pair of hamsters, a litter of kittens, a gray mouse. Bowser knew, just by looking at their hard eyes, that they, too, carried old memories of suffering at this man's hands.

And Bowser understood, now, what they had to do.

Rosie was the first to speak, spitting the word out. "No."

The pony's nostrils flared. "No."

The mouse's voice was a rustling whisper. "No. Bar the way."

"Bar the way." The birds took up the chorus, remembering shotguns and tattered wings. One by one, all judged, and the verdict came back the same, until only Bowser was left.

He looked back at the man. "Matthew."

"No," Rosie yowled. "You remember!"

He did remember. But he took one step forward, and then another. Part of him wanted to cringe, to crawl forward, whining, but there was healing in this place for more than just the body, and he kept his head and tail high.

Matthew knelt and studied him. The two stood silently for several moments, and then Matthew reached out a hand, palm up. "Bowser." His voice broke on the name.

Bowser sniffed Matthew's hand. It had calluses now, and around it hung scents that he somehow could understand even though he'd never known them before. Metal cuffs. The sourness of anger. Loneliness, loss, and the salt tang of regret. And underneath all that, something sweet and fresh, like the earth on the first warm day after winter.

Matthew looked beyond him then and saw the others. "Rosie... oh, God, Rosie..."

The cat skittered back and hissed again.

Matthew closed his eyes a moment, then sighed and nodded. Bowser came closer, putting a paw on Matthew's knee, then another on his chest, until they were eye-to-eye.

Stupid mutt, he remembered, and the kick in the side that followed.

Matthew rested a hand on Bowser's head. Gently.

"Bowser, say no!" Rosie's voice again.

Bowser turned and looked over his shoulder at them. They were all so certain. Perhaps they were right.

There was more in those memories, though, farther back, like a dream of a dream. Shouting, and things breaking, and Matthew puppy-small himself.

Still, that wasn't an excuse.

Bowser swallowed and looked back at Matthew once more.

"It's okay," Matthew said. "I understand."

Bowser turned away, walking back to the others. The animals all watched him silently, waiting.

"Yes," Bowser said. "Let him pass."

At his words, the bridge shimmered into the air behind them, crystalline light of every color washing over them all. Bowser watched Matthew step onto it. Halfway across, he was a hazy gray figure again, and then he was gone, and the bridge dissolved into the blue sky.

The other animals wandered away again. For a moment, Bowser gazed at the sky where the bridge had been, then trotted off to find Rosie.

She was busily washing her tail in quick strokes. Her gaze flicked to his. "So," she said. "He was... different?"

Bowser scratched behind one ear. He wasn't sure why itches existed here, but he thought it was because it felt so good to scratch them. "Yes," he said finally, lying down in the grass again. "He was."

"Well." Rosie went back to her bath and did not speak for several moments. "Good."

Bowser closed his eyes, savoring the sunlight, the warmth, and the smell of fresh earth and new growth. "Yes," he said at last. "Very good."

This work and all characters (c) 2010 Renee Carter Hall ("Poetigress"). May not be reprinted or redistributed without written permission.