This story isn’t about a child’s bunny book, although, there are some very nice books about bunnies. It’s not about The Runaway Bunny by Margaret Wise Brown, not Pat the Bunny by Dorothy Kunhardt, and not The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams.
This story is about a little bunny and a little girl. The bunny had snow white fur sprinkled with black coal speckles, long silky whiskers, and eyes like a deep, dark pool. This little bunny had a large puffy tail, a wrinkle of a nose, and a kick in his heels. He had a comical little hop, a delightful disposition, and recognized his name was Frisky.
He and I had some happy times together. I would often take him from his cage, and the two of us would lie on a carpet of clover. Frisky would stay by my side, quietly nibbling his favorite meal, while I gently scratched his head and tickled his long, soft ears.
My Dad raised rabbits, and my brother helped with the feeding and cleaning of cages. I liked all the bunnies, but Frisky was mine. I took care of him all by myself.
Occasionally, Dad was the hunter, forging the cages to provide for his hungry family. For the sake of my sanity and general well being, I chose to ignore this aspect of raising rabbits. You see, rabbit tastes just like chicken, especially in casseroles, stew, or dumplings. I couldn’t tell the difference, and I didn’t want to know the difference.
One bright, sunny Saturday morning, I skipped out to the rabbit cages to take out Frisky. He especially enjoyed nibbling clover dipped in dew, and I enjoyed watching him. I stopped at Frisky’s cage, flung open the door, and excitedly called for him. The cage was empty.
My Mom had fixed a stew for Friday’s dinner. As Paul Harvey would say, “and that’s the rest of the story”.
2 comments:
That is so sad.
I bet you felt worse than I did when I found out Santa was a lie...No hard feelings.
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