(Written for Dana)

PIPPIN'S DUMPLING

 “Well, hullo, Dumpling.” Pippin put down the letter he had been reading to stroke the ginger cat, who had come to rub her head insistently against his elbow. She gave a soft mewl of pleasure, and flopped over to expose her belly for more petting. He chuckled and obliged. It was a pleasant Afterlithe morning, not yet too warm. He had come out to the front step of Crickhollow to finish his tea from elevenses, enjoy a pipe, and read his letter from Faramir.

Merry wasn’t home today. He had gone out early, right after first breakfast, and wouldn’t be home until the next day, to pay a visit to Estella at Budgeford.

Pippin and Merry had only just returned from Bree the day before, taking messages from their fathers and from Frodo to the King’s Messenger who awaited there, and receiving dispatches in return. When the hobbit delegation returned from the South, Pippin hoped the two of them would be able to cut the message runs from once a month to every other month. He had never thought that riding out like that could get old--but it had, and even the excellence of the beer at The Prancing Pony did not make up for having to go away from home every month.

Still, it had been very pleasant to get a personal letter from Faramir, and he had saved it to read until they had arrived home.

It was good to hear from his friend. Faramir said he and Éowyn had begun to establish their new home in Ithilien, Emyn Arnen, and were quite pleased with it. Beregond was doing well as the Captain of his Guard, though he missed his son Bergil. They had received a letter from Bergil, penned in Tharbad, and he had waxed enthusiastically over his visit to the Shire, and had told them much about Pippin’s home and family.

Pippin had to admit to himself that he greatly missed his good friends, though he was happy with his life here in Crickhollow with Merry. What a shame that they were all so far away. Well, Strider had promised to come North one day and establish Arnor--maybe he would be able to see more of them when that happened.

He had stopped stroking the cat. Dumpling rolled over, and began to knead his leg, and then to climb into his lap.

He bent his head and buried his face in her warm fur, as she purred. Not all his friends were in the South. And some of them had four legs, a tail, and a lovely soft purr.