Edgar Degas Song of the Dog

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Granny concentrated harder, until her mind was full of the tiny chittering of the insects in the thatch and the woodworm in the beams. Nothing of interest there.
She snuggled down and let herself drift out into the forest, which was silent except for the occasional muffled forlorn. Something lost. And . . .
Feelings were never simple, Granny knew. Strip them away and there were others underneath . . .
Something that, if it didn't stop feeling lost and forlorn very soon, was going to get angry.
And still she couldn't find it. She could feel the tiny minds of chrysalises down under the frozen leafmould. She thump as snow slid off a tree. Even in midwinter the forest was full of life, usually dozing in burrows or hibernating in the middle of trees.All as usual. She spread herself further, to the high moors and secret passes where the wolves ran silently over the frozen crust; she touched their minds, sharp as knives. Higher still, and there was nothing in the snowfields but packs of was as it should be, with the exception that nothing was right. There was something – yes, there was something alive out there, something young and ancient and . . .Granny turned over the feeling in her mind. Yes. That was it. Something