Wicked Wabbits

As a child I loved spending Saturday mornings watching Looney Tunes, especially Elmer and Bugs. “What’s up, doc?” was the mantra around the house for many years. However, as the saying goes, I saw life through the eyes of a child. I was greatly repulsed each fall as I watched my dad and brother hoist their rifles to hunt jack rabbits. How proud they were to return with their catch. My poor heart was with Bugs, not with Elmer. That said, and with all sentiments aside, mom’s rabbit stew was so very very good, especially with polenta, and many an evening I ate heartily but with great guilt, like eating cheesecake in the middle of a diet. So good, so wrong; a little more sauce please. 

And so it came to pass that I no longer saw life through the eyes of a child. The hard lessons of life must be experienced to be learned. Now, all grown up, I see those sweet little cotton tail bunny rabbits, so soft and cute, for what they really are: insidious vegans. Oh Elmer, where are thou? If only our lovely little strawberry patch could be viewed by the masses. I nursed it, talked to it, fed it, loved it, watered it, treated it with gentle kindness, watched maternally while the darling little strawberries grew from a pale whitish yellow to a soft green color, then turned pink and finally a bright red. Another day or two and the red would deepen to the mature color that would let us know that they were ready to be picked and eaten. I had such delicious plans for those tasty strawberries. The day arrived. I awoke to a warm morning sun and happily ambled to the little strawberry patch only to find that, horrors, no, it couldn’t be -- they were half eaten, just little dried patches of fruit left on the ground. How did this happen? I stared, unbelieving, heartbroken. And then I spotted the little rabbit brushing the tell tale red juice from its whiskers. It did some fast hopping when we made eye contact. I promised that wicked wabbit there would be no west or wewaxation until that wabbit was stew.