Just as they killed out of necessity, I was reminded of the stories whereupon a cat was killed out of necessity. There have been times when a dangerous creature, the worst being human of course, would be chasing after you, but only truly dangerous if they knew how to travel worlds. It was actually fairly common for even the barbaric of humans to at some instinctual level know how to travel. Those were the times that people would hop to another world to escape, and to kill the cat that lead them there and snuff out the door like a light puff against a candle. I myself have never done it, and gave a silent vow to myself long ago that I never would. I carry a pack tranquilizer darts on me if such instances come up, figuring that I would be long gone by the time the cat wakes up to let the portal become active. Not all travelers had access to such a luxury, however, and some might have been unprepared or perhaps lost their materials in a skirmish or quick escape. Nevertheless, killing a cat disgusted me to the core of my soul.

Further past the polar bears and into the regular bears. They were sleeping. Moving along and
purposely avoiding the tiger cage, I admired the peacocks that roamed the street freely. I bought the one dollar cup of juice and entered the cage of birds, holding up the juice to let the colorful feathers descend upon me in a flurry of beautiful greed. I've seen more creatures than perhaps all of my peers my age. It would be arrogant of me to claim to have seen the most ever, but I certainly have put in a lot of travel time. It's common among young or early travelers to love doing it until they have a near death encounter, whereupon the first world that seems like heaven is the world they settle down in for the rest of their lives. They were good people, I'd met many before, and they often provided me with shelter once they realized who, or rather what, I was and they remembered what it used to be like. My father, however, almost never held back information and experiences, giving me the both the wondrous and delightful experiences along with the grisly illustrations so as to give no illusions of grandeur. He wanted me prepared, as much as he loathed himself for bringing his daughter into the same dangerous life as he, and he prepared me well. As a father, he was aware that traveling to new worlds held a tantalizing fantasy in the minds of young children, and to deny me such a natural right would only lead me to rebellion. Instead of chancing my running off to explore on my own, he let me in on everything from the very beginning. I worshiped him for being so kind, honorable and knowledgeable. My mother was always concerned for our wellbeing, carefully packing supplies every time he prepared for an outing. I loved my mother just as much as my father, her kind and gentle ways a fond memory. I felt terribly sorry for the children who were born under men broken by traveling too long, their memories too vivid, their anger misdirected. My parents were good to me, and I appreciated it to the fullest.