Redhawk Caldera when there's nothing left to burn,

"History doesn't repeat itself, but it often rhymes." Mark Twain wrote that. Not as if Killdeer would know who that was, anyway, or even grasp the meaning of written words to begin with.

But could he read and comprehend, he would find himself very much in agreement with Mr. Twain as he ambled hesitantly home.

It had started with a damn cat, too close to the Caldera for his liking. He had only intended to distract it, lead it away by sound. Alas, he'd misjudged his position, and the creature had pounced—literally.

He shuddered as he remembered, the moment of impact coming to him as the shadow of the mountain began to fall over his patchwork pelt. Teeth set in his nape; an inch on either side, and he'd perhaps have been dead just then, or at least crippled for life (however long it lasted). Claws striking, again and again, cutting deep gorges into his flesh. 

It was human intervention that had saved him, and Killdeer would never even know the heated arguments that took place on the matter of his mortality. 

Was it their place, after all, to intervene in the delicate balance of nature? (More sentimental voices won out.)

None of that mattered to him now. He lived, thanks to modern medicine and sheer dumb luck. And yet, he found even a near-death experience lacking as an explanation for his abandonment of his wife, his newborn children, and his ancient grandmother. 

How did Bronco deal with it? he wondered out loud, as he pondered the moment of his own father's return—one he himself had been too young to save to memory. 

Ironic, one could say. A rhyme, indeed. 

With a sigh that fell to the bottom of his soul and the soles of his paws, he lifted his muzzle and called for @Amalia and for someone to summon @Towhee—and prayed they could be as forgiving as the gods who had found reason to give him another chance.