The Thanksgiving Bunny
"There's a bunch of bunny tracks in the snow," my husband said this morning, as he carried in an armload of firewood. The girls were still sleeping, and I should have been. My husband is an early riser. (About 4:30. This was closer to 6.) I hadn't had coffee yet, and was thinking about starting the pies for tomorrow. I need the girls to make the crusts though. Mine are like play-dough. The rabbit my husband is referring to is a domestic bunny. He looks like a siamese cat, with a beautiful coat. He sits under the bird feeder and nibbles seeds. I leave carrots and apples for him. He is too quick for the dogs, who are not that interested. My big old black flat-coated retriever who is hobbled up pretty good these days lies on the porch and looks at him. There were two bunnies like this one a few miles away, up near the lumberyard and Fireweed restaurant all summer that everyone fed until Little Dave caught them and brought them out to his place in the bushes where they'd be safer, and away from dogs, cats or cars. I have seen other rabbit relatives near the firehall, hopping down the sidewalk. I know of one home in town that had a family of bunnies living underneath it. No doubt it is the natal home of "my" bunny. The elderly couple that lived there wanted a Hospice volunteer who was visiting with them to kill them. Of course that was out of the question. Hospice volunteers do not kill anything, ever. (And never would support bunny death panels. But we did suggest a call to Fish&Game, who apparently didn't see the bunnies as a priority.) It is funny that in a town with moose, bears and eagles a familiar sight, a pet bunny hopping down the sidewalk will stop traffic and make everyone smile. And that my husband, who just returned from hunting deer, would notice the bunny tracks, and tell me about them, knowing that I would like that, and that he would not be surprised that I have been feeding it.