Spots Before Stripes

By Jonathan Kumar

“Shortcuts only take us further from our destination. Therefore, the only way to live without regret is to do your best.”

Epicello is a leopard who appears to have everything – a supportive family, friends throughout the animal kingdom, and a lioness who is in love with him. He has been given all that he needs withou

• Language: English
• Publisher: Atmosphere Press
• Release date: Feb 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781644672099

Book preview

Chapter 1:

Let’s Get One Thing Straight

Beneath the unrelenting heat of the Indian sun, there stood a mighty tree in defiance of its arid environment. In between the sun and this tree, the clouds had scattered throughout the pale blue sky to avoid being scorched by the star that hung directly above them. Without their interference to preclude the sun’s intent, the air was thick and dry, making the task of breathing seemingly impossible for the animals that relied on it. They had adapted, become used to the short supply of oxygen, or as used to it as one could become, and realized that controlled and brief breaths were the trick to survival in these parts; deep inhalations would only fill their lungs with steam.

This tree was unique in more ways than one: first, it distinguished itself by its sheer size. The way this tree’s branches extended endlessly upwards gave it the appearance of a peculiar, foreign winged giant hunched over with its head buried beneath the ground, resting and ready to take flight to some distant planet. Second, at the end of each branch were thousands of healthy and hydrated leaves colored in verdant splendor by a constant replenishment from a secret water supply. Their greenery was in stark contrast to the yellow, torched grass all around it that had turned to hay under their habitat’s brutality. There was death and decay along the ground, the passing of foliage and creatures who had succumbed to the heat. There were rocks lining this exposed graveyard; there were boulders present since time began, standing boisterously to act as milestones to unseen travelers. There was the occasional burning bush, charred to crisps, the accustomed tumbleweeds passing through to kinder terrain. Lastly, this tree was different than the others because it was more than just a tree, at least from the perspective of one animal, an animal who viewed the world through his perspective exclusively. To this animal, this tree was more than just bark, branches, and leaves. It was a home, sanctuary, and refuge chosen painstakingly for the shade and anonymity its foliage provided and the cool breeze it shared with its inhabitant whenever it flapped its wings.

It may seem logical to assume the animal in question was a fledged one who in its travels along the skyway sought a safe and comfortable place to rest its weary wings or one who had claimed this territory for its height so the bird may build its nest away from those who meant it harm. It may seem logical to assume the true animal who lived here was a member of the monkey family who had sought these strong branches to swing from and play within the community to which it belonged, yet the animal who resided here neither flew nor swung. He was a part of a separate species altogether. Logic is not obvious in this situation. The animal who spent the majority of his days and nights sleeping loftily here shunned logic restlessly because of the weight it carried. Accepting logic meant he would have to accept personal responsibility and work like all the rest, and that was to be avoided at any costs. The animal who slept here was a lazy leopard, as most who knew him would agree, though he begged to differ. Not so much lazy as he was troubled, he would tell you—misunderstood and all alone on his island of suffering. Indolence is only a symptom, not a diagnosis. The blame for his inability to rise above his reputation fell on the shoulders of those around him who held him there, not on his own shortcomings, but you will have to decide for yourself which is the truer adjective.

I can tell you without ambiguity what his name was, yet there is some discrepancy about how it is pronounced. It is spelled Epicello. If he were here beside me as I write, he would undoubtedly tug on my shirt and urge me to explain to you in detail how the syllables that make up his moniker should roll off the tongue so there is no confusion as to how it is said. If you were conversing with him in person and happened to mispronounce it by accident or carelessness, he would stop you in the middle of your sentence, give you an agitated look of the eye, tap his foot, cross his paws, and snobbishly correct you: Ep-A-Chell-O, he would say slowly and sternly so you would not make the same mistake twice. To further guide you, he would say, Ep as in ‘episode,’ an ‘A’ in between, and ‘cello,’ like the musical instrument. That’s how he demanded he was addressed, not Ep-A-Cell-O or Ep-A-Kell-O, and certainly no abbreviations of letters, not E, Ep, or Epi. Ep-A-Chell-O, thank you very much. His parents chose that appellation for him and only him after much thought. He imagined the happiness on their faces when they decided on the name and called their son by it for the first time. To misspeak of it would be to directly insult his mother and father, an offense he did not take lightly. He could mistreat and take them for granted so much as he pleased, but no other animal must even dream of it. Don’t mispronounce his name, don’t question how he lived out his days, and don’t burden him with reminders of the obligations he had neglected, and you’d get along swimmingly.

Epicello was sprawled snuggly across the widest and strongest branch in his beloved tree, his torso straddling the bark, his paws and tail dangling in the air on either side. His right cheek rested against the branch, his chin perched up, proudly outlining the semblance of a smile as though he had petted and proclaimed his love and gratitude to the tree just before sleep had overtaken him. He raised his eyebrows and creased his whiskers as he drifted through the magical adventures in dreamland, journeys aided by a full stomach and rested bones. Epicello’s body was long and lean from play, not work. He was of that awkward age between childhood and adolescence where we cling to the ease and forgiveness of our youth while navigating through the treacherous waters of self-reliance, a transition that increases exceedingly in difficulty when we resist the change. We will return to this scene of serenity shortly, so we may explore an austerely different picture that was unfolding only hundreds of yards away to meet the one who made Epicello’s repose possible.

Two other leopards were busy toiling for a kill, endangering their lives anytime this necessity called. They could be impaled by the horn of a wild deer or thrashed by the hindlegs of resistant prey, but the leopards hunted so they may feed the hungry stomachs of a village, a certain able-bodied cat in particular. The elder of the two was Leopold. His fur was majestic, reflecting the wisdom and care of old age. His eyes no longer opened as wide as the younger generation’s, a casualty of the long years he had lived. Leopold in these days seemed to glide more than he walked or ran, pulling his legs together with a single effort to minimize any further damage. His joints were painfully inflamed and stiff; his bones fared no better. Leopold had moved from soldier to commander and in his army of one was his other son and brother to Epicello, Kipp, a brash and ornery prodigy, caught between his desire to assert his dominance over his father and to a servitude for the man who had raised him. He was three years his brother’s senior (which is an eternity of a difference in a leopard’s lifetime), vastly different in temperament yet similar in appearance to Epicello. However, Kipp was the victor in every comparative category: bigger, faster, quicker, and significantly stronger by virtue of his tireless industry.

Leopold and Kipp laid their bellies atop a hill, stalking a herd of gazelle in the near distance. Kipp twitched his tail and opened his eyes wide in eager anticipation, ready to pounce. Now’s the time, Pa, he whispered to his father, then pointed to a large member of the group. That one is the pack leader. When he turns his attention, I say we sprint full force and attack!

But his excitement was halted by reason. Easy, son, Leopold said. If we run at them with all we’ve got, we’ll create enough hysteria to give them enough time to react. Then we’ll come away with nothing, or worse, risk injury if they decide to retaliate. The first rule of hunting is to never jeopardize the safety or well-being of your fellow pack members, even if you don’t come away with a kill, he said more sternly. Never compromise the safety of those you care for. Understand?

Yes, I understand, Kipp said impatiently. What do you suggest we do, then?

I’ll slowly walk out there so they can see me, Leopold explained. When they do, their natural reaction will be to run. In doing so, they will scatter. Once they have separated, I want you to use all of that stored-up energy you have inside of you and chase one. He locked eyes with Kipp. Pick only one and stick with it. Got it?

Got it, Kipp said, nodding restlessly.

Good. Let’s go.

Leopold and Kipp diverged, the father walking gently towards the herd while Kipp moved into position, taking coverage behind a straggly bush. Leopold grew ever closer to the hunt; his silent movements did not initially alert the gazelles of impending danger until one of the steeds perked up his ears to hear the leopard’s foot inadvertently snap a branch on the ground. Leopold cringed, hoping the crack was not audible. The gazelle froze in horror, its head bowed in suspension above the puddle it was drinking from. Time stopped in that moment. The rest of the herd saw the terror in their leader’s expression and, without shifting their heads, moved only their eyes to locate where the attack would come from. Leopold ducked his head beneath the grass, his body hugging the ground as he stealthily inched closer to the herd, then suddenly predator and prey were face to face. In that split second of calm before the storm, the gazelle’s mouth opened wide, the grass he was chewing spilled outwards, then as prophesized, the pack panicked and ran for their lives in every direction.

Now, Kipp! Now! Leopold yelled to his son. Like a trapdoor