Hopping Mad

(some mild swearing and sexual references)

It was her fault. Don’t get me wrong – I did the deed, but after you hear my story, I hope you’ll agree with me that she had it coming to her.

We had history. I thought it was mutual love – the proof being that in the colony, we were the mates with the most kits: 478 and counting. At least, we were counting.

Barbara was always up for it, and I should have known something would happen. I mean, even though I’m a healthy, hot-blooded buck, I can only manage so much rumpy-pumpy. And apparently, it wasn’t enough for her insatiable urges.

I caught her one evening, behind the haystack, with that bastard Bobby, the dirty rabbit. They didn’t see me, transported as they were on a surging wave of bunny passion – the kind I’d enjoyed with Barbara myself on many occasions.

When I next spoke to Barbara, I didn’t let on that I knew what she’d been up to, but I already had a plan brewing; hell hath no fury like an Oryctolagus cuniculus scorned, as they say.

It was early April and preparations were under way for the annual Easter bash. As usual, there was to be dandelion wine a-plenty, chocolate children, and snacks of various kinds. I volunteered to prepare toasted sandwiches, my speciality. The Chief Rabbit took me to one side.

“It’s a big responsibility, you know,” he said. “You must take great care at all times.”

I knew well enough; it’s common knowledge both that rabbits love toasted sandwiches, and that they can only eat one kind at a time. Consuming a variety – for example, a cheese toastie followed by a ham toastie (with apologies to our porcine friends), means certain, instant death. Don’t ask me why this should be; I’m not a scientist.

Come the fateful day, I got up early to prepare the toasties, which meant a trip first to the baker’s (Hot Cross Bunny is the name of the shop) for the bread and the supermarket (Sainsbunny’s) for the filling. To digress slightly, perhaps you’d like to know how I make my toasties? This is by no means the only way to do it, but it works for me.

I spread butter on one side of two slices of bread. I lay one slice, buttered-side down, in a small frying pan, then on the unbuttered side I lay the filling (on this day cheese, and I know, there are questions about using that, and butter in fact, what with the ethical problems of dairy farming, but what’s a rabbit to put in a toastie otherwise?) Then I add any extras, for example ketchup, pepper, oregano … whatever. I put the other slice of bread on top of that, buttered-side up, press gently with a spatula, cover the pan, and fry the toastie slowly, flipping it regularly to make sure it doesn’t burn. When it’s nicely browned, I cut it into two triangles and it’s ready to serve.

Now, at this point you may be wondering how a rabbit is able to manipulate a knife, frying pan, spatula, etc. if he doesn’t have opposable thumbs. Good question. Suffice it to say that as well as being outrageously cuddly, we bunnies are highly resourceful creatures and get by somehow.

Anyway, the toasties as described come out dead delicious, which has given me a bit of a reputation, even though I say so myself. The Easter party had hardly got under way before there was a long queue at my stall. I had my work cut out for me, so I focussed on that, but when I did look up, I saw Barbara and Bobby at the end of the queue, laughing like deranged March hares.

It was all I could do to resist laughing myself. If I had done, though, it would have come out all demonic, and that might have given the game away.

Eventually, Barbara and bollocks – I mean Bobby – reached the stall.

“Do you know Bobby?” Barbara said, introducing us. “He’s my personal trainer.”

Yeah – specialising in push-ups! I thought to myself.

“No, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” I said, though of course I knew him, and it was with intense ‘displeasure’, more like.

We shook feet (rabbits don’t have paws, as you know). I made sure my furry grip was firm. Anything less would have shown him I was weak, and it also emboldened me for what was to come.

Barbara’s words were slurred. I could tell she’d been at the dandelion wine already, and not just a bit. She liked a tipple at the best of times, but on special occasions … well, let’s just say she really came out of her hutch.

I served Bobby. Normally it’s ladies first, of course, but then Barbara was no lady. She didn’t seem to mind, possibly because she was a bit tipsy. Bobby didn’t mind either – in fact, he’d almost finished his toastie before I served Barbara. I gave her only a half.

“Where’s my other half?” she mumbled, her mouth already full.

I was about to say I’m here, perfidious doe!, but I didn’t want to complicate matters.

“Sorry, sorry!” I gushed. “Where’s my head?”

“Idiot!” she muttered. I actually welcomed this burst of animosity; it blew away the last vestiges of affection I had for her and made what I was going to do that much easier.

I reached under the stall for the other half of her toastie, only … yes, you’ve probably guessed it.

It was tuna (with apologies to our piscine friends).

Barbara stuffed the second half into her maw, chewed, smiled at how delicious it was, stopped chewing, opened her eyes wide, let out a groan, and fell over, stone dead. As you might expect, chaos ensued and that was the end of the event.

As we don’t have forensic investigators in the colony (we’re just rabbits, after all!), no one suspected anything untoward and put Barbara’s sudden demise down to her being overweight and overcome with the ol’ vino. But naturally, I knew what had befallen once-dear Barbara.

She was simply a victim of mixing my toasties.