Pilotte liked cats, they just never seemed to like him back. Perhaps it was his giant teeth? His size? The way he smelled? He liked the way they smelled, why wouldn't they reciprocate?
The first cat Pilotte had ever met had lived aboard the ship of the poachers who stole the wulf when he was a pup from his island, Kilne. She was a smart creature, the cat, and Pilotte appreciated how good she was at catching the pitos that ran all around the decks of the ship. The pintos chewed on Pilotte in his sleep and made painful sores on his skin, and so he was always very thankful that the cat was so efficient in her killing of the little nuisances. But when Pilotte tried to offer his thanks to the cat, a soft paw on her head and a little congratulatory lick, he learned his first lesson about felines: they can be very jumpy. The brown furball had answered Pilotte's kiss with a quick one-two punch-and-scratch, which left a scar on the wulf's nose to remind him of his place in the animal world.
The next cat, or rather cats, that Pilotte had met had been a gang of strays. After he had broken free from his captivity, the wulf was fortunate to be taken in by the motley crew of strays that ran the streets of Whatevercityhewasin at night. The cats brought him food, cleaned him, and fought off other cats that came to attack the powerful but cowardly baby wulf. And they taught him to stand up for himself, to fight back against the bullies of the world.
Why he had never met another such group of friendly cats after his time with the stray posse, Pilotte could never quite understand. He grew fast, bigger than an average dog, then bigger than a massive dog, then bigger than most bears. He wished he hadn't sometimes, that he could still run with the little cats he was curious about. But that wasn't to be; Pilotte slowly came to realize he didn't fit in anywhere, really. He was the only creature like him he had ever known, apart from the family he had been torn from. And so he stayed in the woods, mostly, chasing after butterflies and enjoying other solitary thrills of living.
The huge snarlingwulf was passing close to Onecityoranother (they all smelled the same to him) when he heard a tiny mew, a desperate cry for help. Pilotte immediately wanted to run towards the call, but he stopped short at the edge of the city when he saw a human on their back porch. For all the nastiness cats could inflict, humans were far more terrible. The wulf had never suffered any indignities as great as those inflicted on him by humankind. As the wulf stood apprehensively at the threshold to the city, he felt torn between his fear of the human and his instinct to help the little voice crying out to him. His better instinct won out, and so he slunk past the human, undetected. Of course the human was too busy to notice, anyways.
Pilotte found the source of the crying, a kitten who couldn't have been more than three or four weeks old, that had fallen into a gutter. The little thing must have been there for some time, or at least out on the street: it was filthy and emaciated, and obviously scared beyond all belief.
Pilotte sank down to the street and stuck his nose into the sewer grate, but he couldn't quit reach the kitten. He stuck out his tongue and gave the kitten a lick, which had the unintended effect of sending the creature into a mad frenzy. It began swinging and swatting at Pilotte's nose, inflicting impressive damage for a creature so small. Pilotte pulled his nose back out of the grate and noticed that the kitten had drawn blood on his snout. Why was his face such a constant target for kitten wrath? Though his new wound smarted, it was nothing the wulf couldn't handle. He was going to rescue the kitten, whether the kitten wanted it or not.
The wulf sank down again, as close and flat to the curb as he could, and then dipped his nose again into the sewer. He pressed as far as he could, against the sewer grate and the powerful defense systems of the trapped kitten. The sewer grate pulled the flesh on the top of Pilotte's head back, which made his eyes bulge out as he nudged closer and closer to the kitten. And then, biting ever-so-gently, Pilotte managed to secure the tail of the kitten in his front teeth. With a delicate smile, he pulled the cat out of the sewer and gingerly put it down on the ground. The kitten stood on its hind legs swatting furiously for a few more seconds, before suddenly tearing off without so much as a thank-you to the wulf that had save its life. Pilotte shrugged and huffed. Another kitten scared and gone, he thought, as he slunk back into the woods. Another lonely day.
The next morning, Pilotte awoke to something disturbing his back haunches. It immediately called to memory the pintos that had attacked him relentlessly as a child, and so leapt up, ready to kill. As he rose angrily, the little kitten from the sewer fell out of his fur onto the ground, where it swayed woozily for a second and then began to clean itself. It then stumbled on its tiny legs over to the wulf and brushed against his leg, over and again, mewing little hellos all the while. What what this?! At last! It seemed that Pilotte had finally made a friend.