GABLE

Gable looks at the sandburs and seeds from beggarweed that adhere to his blue fur. He knows better now to not even bother trying to remove them, as they will just stick to his paw, so he leaves them alone.

They aren’t causing him any discomfort really, he simply doesn’t like the look of them stuck all over him. They’ll naturally be discarded with time as they dry out in the sun and wash away in the afternoon storms, though Gable doesn’t particularly like the feeling of wet, matted fur, and the squishing and squashing of his sopping insides when it rains.

He frowns at how thin and dull his fur looks, though it hasn’t looked like the brilliant icy blue it once was in a long time. Gable recalls images of seeing himself in a mirror, but even he isn’t sure exactly what he is. His features are both mildly simian and lizard, though he decides it best to not dwell on that too much.

It has been two days since he began his journey, and, while he focuses on returning home, other thoughts make their way inside.

Was I discarded?

No. It was an accident.

Was I forgotten?

Maybe. Not intentionally. It couldn’t be.

He thinks about that morning when he had been placed in a seated position on the back of the couch as the child sat and watched bright colors and shrill sounds from the rectangle.

The mother announced it was time to leave for their destination that day, the child stood to run to the door, and Gable fell backward.

And down he fell

Gable’s folded body fit into the gap between the couch and wall, letting him slide down into the dark chasm until he hit the ground.

I don’t like it here. He thought. It’s dark and strange and lonely. I don’t think I’ve felt like this before. Wait. Have I ever even felt or thought before? I’ve had to have. I have memories of love and joy and being wanted. So why can't I remember thinking about that before now? Maybe I’ve just never had the time to think on such things. Doesn’t matter. I just know I don’t like being here. But it’s okay. They’ll find me when they get back.

Gable’s heart leapt when he eventually heard the opening of the door, the patter of feet, and the voices of the child, the mother, and the father.

But still he remained in the chasm.

They must be tired from their day. They’ll think of me. Remember me.

Night turned to day to night to day again.

Gable heard their voices and footsteps mixed with the harsh noise of spinning, rolling hardened plastic.

The door opened then shut, and an uncomfortable silence replaced the cacophony from before.

Gable frowned, confused and uncertain. There was something different about this quiet, but he couldn’t quite put his paw on it.

A few hours passed, and the door opened again.

Gable heard footsteps and the moving of furniture.

They are looking for me!

The couch moved and his heart sang.

Gable looked up at the face of an unfamiliar woman, who frowned, shrugged, and yanked Gable off the floor by his leg.

Gable spun as he was flung out the door.

He was not unfamiliar with the feeling of tossing and turning in flight, but this time it made him sick.

The world spun around him in violent and horrendous circles until he landed in an unceremonious heap in the dirt.

He listened to the screeching whine of shvooooo and crackling that came from inside Cottage 12.

I don't… A mistake. That’s all.

He pushed himself up off the ground and stood.

I’ve never been able to do that before! He marveled at what he had just done. Have I? He shook his head. It doesn’t matter. I’ve got to find my way back. Think, Gable. Think!

He visualized the journey in the metal box that brought them all here. He remembers a number on a house and name on a green sign. Between that, and the internal inkling of where to go, he was certain he could make it.

Gable took a deep breath, and took his first step in his journey.

***

Gable sinks down against a rock to rest for a moment, though the tired he feels is not physical. He listens to the vrooming of the metal boxes some distance away, and wishes he could move as fast as they did.

The moment of contemplation replaced with determination, Gable rises to his feet and heads into the forest that stands before him.

As Gable enters the forest, the sun begins to set, casting long, jagged shadows over the blanket of pine needles and leaves.

Rustling and creaking from unseen sources stir up worry in Gable, who jumps and shouts “oh!” as a pinecone narrowly misses him, and falls harmlessly to the ground.

Gable presses onward and wraps anxious arms around himself as he is becoming certain he is being watched from somewhere above.

“H… hello?” Gable calls out. “Is someone there?”

There is no response but the creaking of branches and the scrunching of the dry debris beneath his feet.

Gable’s pace quickens proportionally to his growing anxiousness.

A deep fwoosh ripples out behind him, and Gable breaks into a run, not daring to look back.

“No. No. Noooo!”

Gable’s little legs continue their running motion as he watches the earth below him zoom out as he rises into the air. He continues up and forward, and occasionally hears and feels an additional fwoosh vibrating through him to his core. He takes his eyes off the blurry ground and looks up at the approaching black hole beneath the crook of a mighty tree.

He is released just in front of the hole, and his momentum carries him inside. He tumbles then rights himself enough to scramble to the far side of the alcove.

Gable stares at three gray creatures, their yellow saucer eyes staring back.

They shift slightly and silently, the gray dancing in downy softness as they continue to stare in what Gable hopes is simple curiosity.

Gable, not wanting to find out any different, begins to ease his way toward the entrance.

He is barely able to move a few inches before the large head and body of the one who took him sticks into the hole.

“You are not food,” the owl cocks her head as she leans in to inspect Gable over.

“No. Definitely not food,” Gable nervously affirms. “No meat on these bones. I don’t even have bones. See?” He bends his arms into impossible positions. “Nothing but stuffing.”

“Why are you in the woods?” The owl’s breathy speech adds an “h” sound to every w.

“I’m trying to get home.”

“Where is home?”

“Carson Street. On the other side of downtown which is on the other side of these woods.”

“A long way to walk.”

“Yeah. If only I could fly. Heh.”

“I will carry you to the edge of the wood,” the owl says.

“Oh. You will?” Gable stutters is surprise.

“Since you are not food, I have no use for you.”

“Well, who am I to argue with your wisdom? Heh heh.”

Gable is the only one that laughs at his emphasis on “who”, glances at the three baby owls who continue their silent, alien stare, and, unnerved, quickly looks away.

“Okay. Well. Let’s go.” Gable stands and heads toward the entrance, not wanting the owl to change her mind and decide to use his stuffing as an addition to her nest.

The owl takes Gable in one of her talons, and they fly through the evening air.

The forest doesn’t seem so scary now, and Gable puts all other thoughts aside and lets himself enjoy the cool air rushing over him. He smiles at the experience of being truly airborne, which he doubts he will ever experience again.

The strange pair launch out of the treeline, the owl spreads her wings, and glides down to a landing.

“Thank you,” Gable turns to the owl.

“Be safe, not food.”

With a mighty fwap and fwoosh, the owl ascends and disappears again into the forest.

“Onward then, I guess,” Gable says to himself and begins walking toward the bright lights of downtown.

He runs through the drain tunnel that runs under the road, and finds himself in Downtown.

Gable takes a moment to get his bearings, and decides on a direction.

“If I just keep going… that way, I’ll make it to the Field. Once I cross the Field, I’ll be in the neighborhood.”

Gable passes under neon lights and past the clouds of steam that rise from underground. He slips into a long, dark, dingy alley, and he soon wishes for the comfort of the creepy forest.

“You there.” A whiny, nasally voice calls out to Gable from the gloom.

“Who… who said that?” Gable looks around nervously.

“Oh, just us.” The voice responds as several rats slowly emerge from the black.

Their wet, dripping noses twitch as their greedy tongues run over yellowish, protruding incisors, and their fat, fleshly tails slap against the concrete.

“I’m… I’m just passing through.” Gable slowly continues to sidestep to his left. “I don’t want any trouble.”

“It’s no trouble,” says the larger rat that seems to be in charge. “It’s no trouble at all.”

The other rats sneer and snicker.

“We just want to tear into your soft, furry flesh and gnaw at your insides.”

“Just leave me alone!” Gable cries out.

Like an answer to a prayer, a nimble creature of orange and cream fur lands silently and gracefully in between the rats and Gable.

“Back off, Fink,” Gable’s tabby savior hisses. “Or I’ll show you the color of your insides.”

“Sheila,” Fink whines. “What gives you the right to interfere? What makes you think you can just impose your will on us?”

“What makes you think I can’t?” Sheila grins as a chorus of meowing and hissing echoes from all around. “Now,” Sheila continues. “Slink back into the gutter where you belong.”

“You got lucky, little morsel,” Fink snaps his teeth at Gable before he and his rats turn and scurry back into the gloom.

“Thank you,” a relieved Gable says.

Sheila turns to Gable and nods.

“Cal!” Sheila calls out, and a grizzled and scarred calico drops down from some unknown height. “Gather everyone. When I’m done here, we need to discuss ending this once and for all.”

“On it,” Cal answers before leaping up and away from sight.

“Come with me, and stick close.” Sheila motions for Gable to follow her. “You got a name, stranger?”

“Gable.”

“And just what are you doing out here, Gable? Hmm? This is a dangerous place. Especially as someone who looks as soft as you.” She looks him up and down. “No offense.”

“None taken. And I’m trying to get home.”

“Home?”

Gable recounts his plight to Sheila, who listens in pondering silence.

“I know of this street and home of which you speak,” she says.

“You do?” Gable looks at her in excitement. “Can you take me there?”

“I could.” Sheila sniffs and twitches her whiskers in thought.

“What is it?” The initial excitement fades from Gable’s voice.

“Have you ever heard the saying ‘hope for the best, but prepare for the worst’?”

“No.”

“Perhaps my thoughts are such because my clowder is made of the abandoned, the discarded, and the descendents thereof, but have you considered any possibilities other than a simple, happy reunion?”

“No. Why would I?”

“You haven’t pondered as to why it wasn’t until after you fell that you started to remember things? That after you knew they were gone, that you were able to walk?”

“Because I am meant to be home? I was made to love and be loved? So of course I would want to return to my purpose.”

“Perhaps. I think we all desire the things of which you speak. To be petted and fed. Naps on the sill in the sunlight. But I have seen too much. Seen my kind tossed like trash from their metal boxes. Bottles of glass thrown at us. Shot at. And worse.” Sheila pauses. “I’m sorry. I do not wish to discourage you from your path if it is the one you choose to take. I just do not wish to see you fall to hurt, my soft and hopeful new friend.”

“I…” Gable rubs his chin in thought as they walk. “I’m not so good at this thinking thing.” He hangs his head.

“Don’t be so hard on yourself,” Sheila says. “You only became self aware a few days ago.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

The pair walk in silence until they arrive at the edge of the Field.

“This is where we part ways,” Sheila says.

“Thank you for walking with me.”

“The pleasure was mine, Gable. I smell rain coming soon, so you should hurry. And should you need me, the street cats know my name. They’ll get the message to me.” Sheila smiles and bounds off into the night.

Gable takes a deep breath, heads across the Field and into the neighborhood.

His pace quickens when he sees the sign for Carter Street and he sees the light in the window.

Drops of rain begin to fall, but Gable pays them no mind as he sprints to the house and climbs up to look into the window.

He sees the Child happily playing with an anthropomorphic tiger with pristine orange fur with green stripes, and dragonfly wings.

Gable feels as if his stuffing has been ripped out through his stomach.

He knows he has been replaced.

Forgotten.

For a moment, Gable considers still finding his way back in, but quickly abandons the thought.

Who am I to interfere? And who would want me over that?

He looks again at the bright and immaculate new toy, and then down at his matted fur. The loosened stitching. The beggarweed seeds that still cling to him. .

He slides back down from the window, and walks into the now downpouring rain.

For once, he is grateful for the rain. He welcomes and focuses on the squishing and squashing of his sopping insides instead of the scraped out void he feels reverberating through his essence.

Gable trudges to the curb, and slinks down with his back to the large black plastic bags.

He pulls his knees up to his chest and wonders where the extra drops of water that splash on his fur are coming from.