The snow was deep, but not too deep for Grendel. He pranced ahead of me through the drifts, a kitten again.

People often question the wisdom of naming a large, orange, tiger-striped cat Grendel, especially one as boisterous as he. To that I say, do you think I had a choice? He came with that name, man. I never had much say in the matter.

The two of us had just reached the stream when Grendel’s ears perked forward, and he paused mid-leap, balanced on his hind legs. I jogged the last few steps to catch up and squatted beside him, our eyes practically level. “Did you find it?”

The twitching of his left ear was like a raised eyebrow, with all the implications. “Sorry,” I amended, to which he huffed and rested a paw against my leg. In a moment he was perched on my shoulder; snow showered down my open collar. He purred, contented.

“You’re in a good mood,” I said with a smile, straightening up. Grendel rubbed his cheek against mine, latching his claws into my jacket in preparation for the ride. “Hang on, now.”