First, you notice the ears, the soft, unwieldy ears, as she drags herself beneath the glass end table. The legs, you see now, are flat and broken, but the moist nose, still wiggling, is sweet and hopeful, and how could your cat, your awful fucking cat, a cat who eats turkey right out of your hand, have done this cruel and vicious thing, especially when there are mice, for Christ's sakes, eating right out of your cereal boxes, when a giant bowl of cat foot sits not ten feet away? Even as you call her, as you hiss and scream Get away from there!, she stays, rump raised, growling with pleasure, refusing to leave this treasure she's found.
Somehow, despite her protests, you get the cat inside, as your husband prepares a dish-towel shroud and carries the rabbit, still vaguely alive, down to the brush beside the stream. Your daughter, wailing pitifully, sputtering about how much she hates the cat, refuses to stand with you at the window, refuses to even stand with you in the room. And when your husband returns, his eyes sad from this ordeal, as well as from a long, difficult day at work, he tells you what your cat already knew: that the brush, down there, was already swarming with other cats, that your cat was only one of many, everyone waiting, slavering for their piece of the rabbit.