Cabbit

The doctor frowned down at the small, softly breathing newborn cradled against its mother’s side.

“Well, it is quite short, but I’m sure it will grow.”

“His brothers and sisters all had such long, lovely tails when they were born…” Mrs. Cat trailed off anxiously. The little stub at the base of her child’s back quivered slightly, like a boll of cotton in a breeze, and the infant gave a tiny squeak of a cry before settling again.

“Keep an eye on it. You can call me if there is anything else unusual or alarming.” The doctor’s eyes did not once meet Mrs. Cat’s as he said this, packing up his tools. His thoughts must have shown on his face, for as he turned to leave, Mrs. Cat blurted out:

“Doctor, you mustn’t think—I never—Mr. Cat and I—”

But the doctor just waved his paw dismissively. “Mrs. Cat, I would never presume to speculate about such matters. It is quite outside the lines of my work here, which is simply to see the child safely delivered.” Still his eyes did not meet hers.

After he left, Mrs. Cat gazed down at the child now resting in the crib besides her own bed. His new fur was a creamy white all over—just like hers, she thought with pleasure. All his siblings had been dark and mottled, taking more after their father. At the tops of his ears were tiny tufts, sticking out. His little whiskers were transparent, his eyes not yet open. Too beautiful to be real.

Some of the glow surrounding the two of them seemed to recede as she thought of Mr. Cat. What would he think?

The newborn stirred but did not wake. Mrs. Cat rocked the cradle oh-so gently, and the child’s whimpering subsided, though his rear legs kicked at nothing for several seconds more.

—

Marble grew quickly and healthily; there was nothing for Mrs. Cat to report to the doctor in that regard. He was a good child, sweet and obedient and earnest. He could run just as fast as any of the neighborhood kittens, and his reflexes were razor sharp. When a Labrador retriever squeezed through a hole in the neighbor’s fence one day and began to bound, jolly and gigantic, toward the place where Marble and the other children were playing, it was Marble who reacted first and led them all to safety under the porch step. The memory of this incident filled Mrs. Cat’s chest with pride.

But there were things that concerned her. Marble’s hind legs were oddly muscular, and bent in a way her other children’s had never been. His run, as a result, had a certain bounding quality that always stood out in a group. His balance was unusually poor, and twice she saw him fail to land on his feet after slipping off the garden wall. His tail did not grow any longer.

Mrs. Cat did consider calling the doctor about Marble’s claws. His rear claws, in particular, did not seem to be coming in as they ought. There they were, on his unusually long feet, but they were not quite sharp enough, thicker and less curved than one would expect. Perhaps the doctor could help…? But no. Better not to raise doubts. Mrs. Cat had no room for doubts, even in her most private of thoughts. It was only the rear claws, anyway. Probably nothing at all.

Most of all she worried about Mr. Cat. Initially he had been quick to look past Marble’s tiny tail. He even joked that it was surely the result of eating too many sparrows while pregnant. Hardy har. So what if she had sparrow cravings? He’d never have to deal with being pregnant. Besides, Marble’s tiny tail and overlarge legs might just as well be Mr. Cat’s fault. Hadn’t he said there was a Manx somewhere on his father’s side?

As time went on, however, Mrs. Cat’s concerns did not abate, however hard she tried to put them from her mind. She sometimes thought she saw something distant, something cool and weighing in the way Mr. Cat looked at their youngest. Or in the way his long, dark, glossy tail jerked sometimes when Marble turned around and showed his backside. Of course, she was surely just imagining things. He loved Marble, obviously. Just look at them rubbing their cheeks together. But sometimes she thought she saw that coolness, that questioning, in the way he looked at her, too, and she had to stop and think about something else.

—

One day Mrs. Cat woke from where she’d been napping in a sunbeam to find Marble, who had been next to her, gone. She looked around outside, and soon spotted him, hunched over in the neighbor’s vegetable garden. She started across the yard toward him. Was he eating something?

Just then, Mr. Cat came slinking around the corner of the house. Mrs. Cat looked back at Marble and saw that something green was poking out of his mouth. Mrs. Cat’s stomach suddenly dropped. No, not—

She moved in a flash, into the garden and between Mr. Cat and Marble before she could think about what she was doing. A morsel of lettuce fell out of Marble’s mouth as he looked up at her, surprised. Had Mr. Cat seen? She didn’t think so. But he was staring at her, confused. Mrs. Cat turned to Marble.

“Come, dear, leave that alone. You don’t want leaves. Let’s see if there’s any tunafish.”

Mr. Cat looked away and walked on without a word, his round orange eyes unreadable.

—

“Mom, am I different from the other kittens?” The question took Mrs. Cat by surprise one day as they were lying under the car.

“What? Of course not, sweetie.” Her voice sounded unnatural and high-pitched, even to herself. Marble’s short, fluffy tail twitched once, twice.

“Is this about your tail?”

“Not just my tail.”

“It’s because your father has some Manx in him, you know. You have a Manx tail.”

“Are you sure?”

A tiny pause.

“Of course I’m sure, sweetie.” She smiled at him. He lowered his chin to the pavement.

“None of my brothers and sisters have Manx tails.”

“None of them are beautiful white all over like you, either.”

“None of my cousins or dad’s siblings have short tails, either.”

Mrs. Cat thought for a moment. “Well, honey, these things often skip entire generations. You’re just very special.”

Marble was silent.

—

Marble could tell that he was different. Not just his tail. He liked the fish and meats that the kittens around the block liked, but he also secretly liked to eat grasses and spinach, turnip greens and dandelions. Carrots. He did not like chasing mice. When a kitten named Tabatha invited him to sharpen his claws on a tree stump with her, he declined.

“I don’t really like to sharpen my claws.”

“What? Really? Why?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t.”

And there were many other things that he did not understand. What was a “cabbit?” He heard these and other words of unclear significance (“the father,” “coney”) whispered between old tabby cats in the neighborhood as he walked by. While he did not know what they were talking about, the disdain and the soft malice with which the cats said these words were clear.

He tried to ask Mrs. Cat.

“Mom, what’s a ‘cottontail?’”

Her green, lamplike eyes widened. “Where did you hear that word?”

“I dunno. Somewhere. What does it mean?”

“It’s an animal. What would you like for supper?” She would say no more.

He tried to ask Mr. Cat.

“What does “infatality” mean?

Mr. Cat looked down at him for a moment, unspeaking.

“Infatality isn’t a word, Marble.”

Wasn’t it? Perhaps Marble had heard not heard or remembered it correctly. Mr. Cat’s gaze was questioning but did not seem deceitful. Not for the first time, Marble had the odd feeling that his father was looking at his eyes rather than into them. Examining from a distance, despite being nearly nose to nose, the eyes’ outer edges, their shape, the pupils. Mr. Cat turned swiftly, with a swish of his tail, leaped up onto a ledge above them and strode off.

—

“Wake up.” Mr. Cat’s voice jolted Marble from his sleep. “We’re going to hunt sparrows.”

“What? But I don’t like–”

“We’re hunting them for your mother.”

Marble had been going to say “hunting,” not “sparrows.”

“Do we have to–?”

“Yes.”

A few minutes later they were on the edge of the field that sat on the outskirts of the neighborhood. It was still quite early, and the sun was bright but low over the grasses and shrubs. They sat, crouched low and waiting, Mr. Cat apparently looking for something.

“Marble, look,” whispered Mr. Cat.

Marble had been gazing at some enticing green grass covered in dew. He redirected his attention to follow Mr. Cat’s gaze.

“Is that a sparrow?”

“Yes. Look at the color of its wings.” It was at least twenty feet away. “Now, watch.”

Mr. Cat crouched even lower for a moment, then sprang. He darted forward in one smooth, fluid line, graceful and deadly. The bird noticed the movement and began to take flight, but too late. Mr. Cat caught it easily in mid-leap and brought it down.

He brought it over to Marble, who looked down at the feathered creature. It had been living just moments before. Now it lay by him in the grass, a bloody, crumpled ball of feathers, its beak hanging open stupidly as if to shout at him. He inched his paws slightly away from it.

“The next one is yours.”

They waited. Patience is the greatest skill of the hunter, Mr. Cat instructed Marble. You must hold perfectly still for the prey to arrive, unsuspecting. Then you pounce. You will wait for the perfect moment, but you will only have a moment. Don’t give away your location until it’s too late; give no time to escape. The sun climbed into the sky.

Finally, a bird appeared.

“Remember, Marble. Wait… Don’t let it see you.”

The tiny sparrow hopped toward them, picking at the ground occasionally. Marble’s heart raced, his muscles tense. When the bird was about fifteen feet away it turned and began moving away.

“Now! Go!”

Marble leaped forward. But it was his usual leap—fast, but bounding, bouncing, not smooth like his father’s. He moved in quickly, but the sparrow had spotted him springing above the grass and taken to flight almost immediately. He could not catch the bird before it flew out of reach.

Mr. Cat’s face was stiff.

“Alright. We’ll try again.”

They settled down in the grass again to wait. The sun had passed its noontime peak by the time Marble missed his second sparrow. Once again, his hopping, un-catlike movement gave him away. After he watched it flap away in front of him, he ambled back to Mr. Cat, head down.

“Sorry.”

Mr. Cat said nothing, but just stared at Marble, wondering. It seemed to go on for minutes. Finally he nodded to himself, closed his eyes and turned away.

“I see.” Mr. Cat set off in his slow, slinking walk, toward the house. What it was he had seen, Marble did not know. There was a knot in the pit of his stomach that kept him from asking.

—

After that, things were not quite the same. Mr. Cat was still around, still brought food, but he didn’t talk to Marble much more than necessary. It was as it something, somewhere inside Mr. Cat had shut, completely and seamlessly.

Marble would approach him, with his bouncing gait, and Mr. Cat would merely twitch his whiskers, passively tolerating Marble’s affectionate rubbing for a few moments before speeding off with a swish of his long tail, often scampering up onto some ledge where it would be difficult for Marble, who had never been good at climbing, to follow.

Sensing that their failed hunting expedition had been the turning point that led to this altered state of affairs, Marble began going out to the field alone to practice stalking birds. Sparrows, pidgins, ducks— they all eluded him. He practiced waiting, holding perfectly still and melting into the vegetation. Every day he went out, waited, and came back hours later, empty-pawed. Mrs. Cat would ask where he had been, and Marble would give vague, non-committal answers. Mr. Cat would not ask, and Marble would hold back his yearning to tell him.

One clear morning, more than a month after he began practicing on his own, Marble awoke early. It was still dark, everything still and quiet except the furtive singing of the earliest birds. Marble headed toward the field. Perhaps this, at last, would be the day. He had caught, or almost caught, his first bird the day before: the buffoonish robin had panicked at seeing him and taken off only to crash directly into the side of a fallen log, giving Marble enough time to catch it in his paws. The bird, seeing it was trapped, screamed, a shockingly loud, high-pitched chirp, and Marble, startled, reflexively withdrew his paws. The robin flew away immediately.

Marble would not make the same mistake again. He reached the edge of the field and crept in, listening with his tufted ears for the flutter of wings or patter of tiny forked feet. The sky in the east was slowly growing brighter, the stars fading out. He waited.

Something moved on the far side of the field. It was a creamy color, lighter than the sparrows he usually saw there, and bigger, too. A dove, perhaps? The grass rippled slightly as Marble crept closer. The pale shape was making its leisurely way along a row of trees that bordered the field, stopping every few feet to nibble at something.

Around twenty feet away, Marble stopped and hid behind a stand of grass. The white thing was big, not a bird at all. It was almost the size of a cat, though its ears were longer and rounder than a cat’s. Its fur was delicate and white all over, not unlike his own.

The creature appeared to be nibbling a dandelion, its dark, beady eyes watching alertly. It straightened up and hopped a little further, pushing off with its large rear legs. Marble had the odd sensation that he’d seen someone hopping that way somewhere, but couldn’t think of who or when.

Then he saw the tail. Just a tuft, really, a fluffy little stub. Marble looked down at his own, identical tail in wonder. He had to ask this thing about it.

“Excuse me.”

The thing jumped in alarm and scampered back. Marble hastily added, “Sorry! Wait!”

It stopped and looked back at him, its solid black eyes wary. They were so small.

“I… What are you?”

“What?”

Marble fumbled for the right question to ask. “Are you a cat?”

The creature watched him warily a moment longer, apparently looking him over. “No. I’m not. And neither are you, looks like.”

Not a cat? Marble was stunned.

“Then what are you?”

“I’m a rabbit.”

“A rabbit?”

“We don’t usually come around here much, since there are so many cats.”

“How come? Why wouldn’t you like Cats?” Even as he said this, Marble thought of the smug whispering tabbies.

The animal’s eyes looked Marble up and down again. “Cats aren’t too friendly toward rabbits,” he said, his gaze falling on Marble’s tail, “usually.”

Not a cat. A rabbit. Marble’s kept looking from the creature’s long feet to the half-eaten dandelion leaf he had abandoned and back again. The creature certainly looked different from the cats Marble knew in many ways: the narrow head, the large front teeth. That tail.

“Am I a rabbit too?”

The rabbit looked at him for a moment, as if considering something, but then said simply. “No.” Then, “I should probably go. It wouldn’t be good for anyone to see you with me.”

After one final look at Marble, who was lost for words, the rabbit began to bound away.

“Wait!” Marble called after him, but the rabbit was already disappearing into the brush.

Marble walked through the neighborhood, unable to remain in the field and not wanting to go home. It was still early, and he didn’t meet anyone on the street. Had that rabbit been right about him? If not a cat, what was he? Why shouldn’t they be seen together?

A hulking SUV sat parked on the side of the road. Marble stopped in front of one of its mirrored hubcaps. There, on the creature distorted by the hubcap’s curve, was the tail. The same as the rabbit’s. The long feet. The too-big legs. For the first time, Marble really looked at his eyes. Not into, but at. He saw how dark they were. How they seemed just one size too small, somehow. And then, he knew.

The sun was high and hot when Marble came home. He found his mother out back, stretched out across the cool cement in the shade. She flicked her ear in greeting as he approached. Marble sat down in front of her. She seemed to sense his tenseness and pulled herself up.

“What is it?”

Marble took a deep breath. “Mom, I need to know where I come from.” Immediately he saw the wall come up behind his mother’s eyes. She pulled back from him slightly.

“What do you mean? You’re not–”

“Mom. I need you to tell me the truth.”

Mrs. Cat stared for a moment, then dropped her eyes. She could feel Marble’s gaze on her, still and focused. She looked up at him again.

“Honey, it’s just a Manx thing that–“

“Mom, stop.” Their eyes locked. Marble’s throat was tight, but he continued, “Stop. The truth. I need the truth.”

“Marble,” she said. Her bottom lip trembled and she began to cry. “Marble.”

Marble waiting, his own eyes getting hot.

“Ok, Marble. Yes. Listen.”