Rabbits and Cats

In the rear courtyard of our residence, the Third Mistress, during the summer season, acquired a pair of purebred white rabbits as a delightful spectacle for her children.

These rabbits, not long separated from their mother, radiated an innocence that, despite the species barrier, was palpable. Their tiny, bright red ears perked up, they sniffed the air, and their eyes betrayed a flicker of apprehension, likely sensing the unfamiliarity of their new environment compared to the comfort of their original home. Ordinarily, one could purchase such creatures for a mere two coins apiece at a temple fair, but the Third Mistress had paid a premium of one silver dollar, having had a servant fetch them from a shop.

The children, naturally, were overjoyed, clamoring and clustering around to watch; adults too were drawn to the sight; even a small dog named S joined in, sniffing and sneezing before retreating a few steps. The Third Mistress admonished, “S, listen well, you are forbidden to harm them!” She then playfully tapped him on the head, and S obediently withdrew, never again showing aggression.

The rabbits were typically kept in a small enclosure behind the rear window, a decision influenced by their tendency to shred wallpaper and nibble on wooden furniture legs. Within this enclosure stood a wild mulberry tree, whose fallen berries the rabbits relished, even forsaking the spinach provided for them. When crows and magpies ventured near, the rabbits would tuck their bodies and spring up with their hind legs, creating a flurry of white that sent the birds scurrying away, never to return. The Third Mistress remarked that while the birds were a minor nuisance, the real threat was a menacing black cat that often glared from the low wall, a threat that required vigilance. Fortunately, S and the cat were at odds, offering some semblance of protection.

The children would often catch the rabbits for play, and the rabbits, amiable creatures, would stand docile within the circle of small hands, their ears erect and noses twitching. Yet, given the chance, they would slip away. At night, they rested on a bed of straw in a small wooden box beneath the eaves of the rear window.

After several months, the rabbits began to dig, swiftly creating a deep burrow. Upon closer inspection, it was evident that one rabbit’s belly had grown significantly larger than the other’s, and the following day, they were seen carrying dry grass and leaves into the burrow, a task that occupied them for most of the day.

The household was filled with anticipation, expecting a new litter of baby rabbits. The Third Mistress then issued a strict command to the children, forbidding them from disturbing the rabbits. My own mother, pleased with the burgeoning rabbit family, expressed a desire to raise a pair of the newborns outside her window once they were weaned.

The rabbits then took up residence in their self-dug lair, occasionally emerging to forage for food. Eventually, they disappeared, and it remained a mystery whether they had stockpiled provisions or had ceased eating altogether. Over ten days later, the Third Mistress informed me that the two rabbits had reemerged, suggesting that the baby rabbits had been born and subsequently perished, as the female’s milk was abundant with no sign of her nursing her offspring. She spoke with a hint of anger but was resigned to the situation.

One warm, windless day, the sound of laughter drew my attention to the Third Mistress’s courtyard, where a tiny rabbit was seen frolicking. This rabbit was even smaller than its parents had been upon arrival, yet it could already spring into the air with its hind legs. The children excitedly told me that another baby rabbit had briefly peeked out of the burrow before retreating, likely its sibling.

The little one nibbled on some grass leaves, but the larger rabbit seemed to forbid this, often snatching the leaves away without consuming them. The children’s laughter startled the young rabbit, causing it to leap back into the burrow, followed by the larger rabbit, who used its front paws to guide the young one inside before sealing the entrance with soil.

The small courtyard became even more lively, with curious onlookers frequently peering in through the window.

However, the little and large rabbits suddenly vanished without a trace. With the days being overcast, the Third Mistress feared that the black cat might have harmed them. I reassured her that they were likely hiding due to the cold and would reappear once the sun returned. When the sun did shine, the rabbits were still absent, and they were gradually forgotten.

Only the Third Mistress, who regularly fed them spinach, continued to think of them. One day, while entering the courtyard, she discovered a new hole in the corner of the wall and noticed numerous claw marks around the old burrow’s entrance. The size of the claws suggested they belonged to the large black cat, prompting her to decide on an excavation. Armed with a hoe, she dug, hoping to find the little white rabbits, but all she uncovered was a pile of decaying grass and rabbit fur, possibly from the time of their birth. There was no sign of the snow-white baby rabbits or the one that had never ventured out of the burrow.

Her anger, disappointment, and desolation compelled her to dig at the new hole in the corner. As she began, the two large rabbits emerged from the burrow. Assuming they had moved, she was pleased but continued digging. At the bottom, she found more grass and rabbit fur, and resting on top were seven very small rabbits, their bodies a fleshy pink and their eyes not yet open.

The truth was revealed; the Third Mistress’s earlier suspicions were confirmed. To protect them from harm, she placed the seven tiny rabbits in a wooden box and brought them into her room, also encouraging the larger rabbit to nurse them.

From that point on, the Third Mistress harbored a deep resentment for the black cat and a growing disapproval of the adult rabbits. It was believed that more had perished before the two that were known to have been harmed, as it was unlikely they would have only produced two offspring in a single birth. The uneven nursing and competition for food likely led to the premature deaths of the weaker ones. This seemed accurate, as two of the seven were particularly frail. Consequently, whenever she had a moment, the Third Mistress would hold the mother rabbit and carefully position each baby to nurse, ensuring they received an equal share.

My mother remarked that she had never heard of such a meticulous approach to raising rabbits and thought it might be worthy of inclusion in the “Peerless List.”

The white rabbit family continued to thrive, bringing joy to everyone.

Yet, I couldn’t shake a sense of desolation. Sitting under the lamp at night, I pondered the silent loss of those two small lives, their existence leaving no mark on the annals of life, unnoticed even by S. This led me to recall past incidents: the scattered pigeon feathers under the locust tree at the guild hall, a clear sign of a predator’s feast, quickly swept away by the morning cleaning crew, erasing any evidence of a life ended there. The sight of a small dog, nearly crushed by a carriage at the West Fourth Archway, disappeared upon my return, its fate unknown to the bustling passersby. The distant buzzing of flies on a summer night, a telltale sign of a trapped insect, went unnoticed and unheard by all but a few.

If one could hold the Creator accountable, it would be said that life was granted and extinguished with reckless abandon.

A sudden howl interrupted my thoughts, signaling another skirmish between two cats outside the window.

“Xun’er, are you hitting the cats again?”

“No, they’re fighting amongst themselves. They wouldn’t let me hit them.”

My mother, who had always disapproved of my harsh treatment of cats, likely suspected that I was seeking retribution for the rabbits and might resort to harsh measures. She rose to investigate, but in the family’s eyes, I was indeed an adversary of cats. I had caused harm to them in the past and often struck them, particularly during their mating season. However, my actions were not motivated by their mating but by the disturbance they caused, their loud noises keeping me awake. I believed there was no need for such a commotion during mating.

Furthermore, with the black cat’s harm to the young rabbits, my actions were justified. I found my mother’s kindness excessive and couldn’t help but reply with a response that was ambiguous and almost dismissive.

The Creator’s capriciousness had compelled me to resist, even if it might inadvertently aid in His work…

That black cat wouldn’t be able to strut so confidently on the low wall for much longer. With determination, I couldn’t help but cast a glance at the bottle of potassium cyanide concealed within the bookshelf.

(October 1922.)