Little one, come on out.  It’s dinner time.  I think of your small figure racing across the edge of the garden, close against the fence, and alert to the smell of fish dropping from my fingers onto the terrace tile.  You usually dart forward as you see your siblings hungrily attacking their share.  I crouch down, smiling, and lean towards you but you always scamper back, shy and fearful; even as you have seen your mother build trust in me over the past four days.

Your brother was bold enough to follow me yesterday, uninvited, into our rented villa.  This is the brother with black markings on white, including a black chin that makes him seem older than his baby body.  You and your siblings have started rocking yourselves to sleep on the terrace chairs, while I peer out at you from inside the pool, sliding the wet strands of hair away from my eyes.

Please come to me and eat this, special order from the resort restaurant.  You see, if you don’t, I will run out of time.

Until you come, I won’t be able to watch and shout enraged at referees, and stomp and sulk at the thought of a country’s loss.  Or bawl elatedly when that same country is able to turn penalty kicks into a win.  But I can’t indulge in any of this unless you receive your bit.  The sight of your orange-streaked face and your snow-white paws have become more important than the beautiful game.  Because when the sticky flakes fall off my fingers in your direction, I tell myself you will grow strong and survive, despite the fact that I will be heading home.  That even in this distant, unprotected world you will be all right – because the world is kind to tiny, tiny cats.