The Day the Rabbit Died

Mom and Dad:

I have been thinking about what you said and I want to present my argument to you in writing so I don’t miss any of the points I think are really important. I know I’m only 12 but I believe what I’m arguing is right and I hope you see that.

I am the youngest in this family and I’ve only had 12 years of Easter baskets. That means that Rob and Scott will have more years of Easter baskets than I will. It’s not fair to just cut off Easter baskets and I get gypped because Dad thinks we’re too old. I’m not. No one asked me what I thought. Why can’t I have two or three more? I haven’t heard a good argument for that yet.

It’s not my fault nobody ever told me there was no real Easter Bunny until you decided to just say it’s time to stop. Who makes up these rules? I’m sorry, Dad, I hope you’re not mad but how do you think I feel? I think this makes sense and it’s like my thoughts don’t mean anything. Why do Rob and Scott get to win and I lose? And I’m the only one making any sense.

I hope you can see my reasoning and change your mind.

Sincerely,

Your Only Daughter

* * *

It took me an entire day to write that. I was so angry and frustrated, it took me a long time to get my thoughts straight. How would you feel if, one day, your mom told you not to expect any more Easter baskets because Dad decided we were too old for them. What kind of place is this?

Okay, first I’d better explain what’s been going on around here.

It all started when Scott broke the butter dish. That was the first time our sitter, Mrs. Wohrman, had something to report when mom and dad got back from their night out. We were all supposed to be in bed and Mrs. Wohrman was downstairs watching TV. I could hear Rob and Scott talking in their room and then I heard someone get out of bed.

Rob told me later that he bet Scott he was too chicken to sneak cookies from the kitchen behind Mrs. Wohrman’s back. I guess she’d fallen asleep and Scott almost got away with it until he knocked over the butter dish. Then there was a lot of noise. I covered my head with sheets and blankets and didn’t budge until morning.

Boy, did Scott get it the next day. I guess the butter dish was more important than I thought. I mean it only came out on holidays and we kids were forbidden to touch it, but I never found out exactly what the big deal was. I wasn’t about to bring it up.

And I didn’t do anything.

Anyway, so then the next thing was we were out in the cow field playing Combat. It’s a stupid boys’ game, but we didn’t have any close neighbors and, living with two older brothers, I had to join in if I wanted to do something other than read, which I would do all day in my room if they let me. But, no, “the fresh air will do you good.” Well, the only thing fresh in this air was the manure. Mom always said, “To me, it’s like perfume,” but I happen to know Mom really liked to wear Taboo. I stole a spritz from her makeup table one time, but at this point I’m really not sure about any of it. I thought they both stank.

So, anyway, the boys were in their homemade uniforms with paper stripes taped to their shirt sleeves and cardboard medals pinned to their shirts. They had drawn flags and mottos like “Don’t give up the ship” with red permanent marker on some old football helmets. My role was medic so I didn’t have to do much. I carried some band-aids in my pocket and mostly tried staying out of the way.

So, the guys are pointing sticks at each other and dodging pretend bullets. I still think it’s stupid but they’re giving it plenty of gusto. They take cover behind either end of the trough where the cows eat. It smells like spoiled molasses and mold and I don’t usually go near it. I like to visit where the cows are laying around and chewing crud. I keep my distance from the calves, even though they’re so cute I could die, but I know better. The mothers get really mean and mom, dad, and even Mr. O’Connell, the owner of the cattle farm next door, tell us all the time not to go near the baby cows.

Anyway, so now I can see that Rob and Scott have stopped shooting each other and, to me, they look up to no good. I run over to see and I can’t believe my eyes. I already know what it is but I ask anyway.

“What is that?”

“Nothing.” Scott doesn’t even look up.

“You should probably go back to the house,” Rob adds.

“I’m not going anywhere, ‘less you want me to tell.”

Rob and Scott look at each other. “All right, just stay out of the way.”

“Where’d you get that?” I ask.

“You mean this?” Rob holds up the firecracker.

Just then Scott pulls a book of matches out of his pocket.

“Where’d you get those?” I gasp.

Scott grins my way. “Just stand back and observe.”

So, I watch as the two of them inspect a cow pie that appears, and smells, recent. My disgust turns to fascination as they huddle around it. I want to see what’s happening, and was about to inch closer, when I hear, “Take cover!” We run behind the trough.

BOOM!

When I open my eyes, I look at Rob. There’s cow pie in his hair! Scott’s got some, too! I then realize, as I try running a hand through my tangled mess of . . . ugh, gross!

“What kind of firecracker was that?” I yell.

Rob brought out the firecracker he’d had before.

“This is a firecracker. That was a cherry bomb.”

“I’m telling!”

Scott had prepared a handful of cow feed and manure.

“No, you’re not.”

And that marked the beginning of my first, and only, cow feed pie fight.

And I wish to have it noted that I did not start it.

Now, I should probably mention that my mother used to say when I was born a girl, and not a third boy, my father had said something like it was a good thing because otherwise they were going to send me back.

But just being a girl apparently wasn’t enough; I had to look like one. Even though I climbed trees and wore my brothers’ hand-me-downs and rarely any shoes, I had long girly hair that hung loose that my mother spent most of my childhood trying to tame.

Now, picture me coming in through the back door covered in smelly cow feed. Then picture two boys in crewcuts and cheesy grins.

For a while after that, I sported a short haircut and was allowed to read in my room for as long as I liked. I thought it all worked out pretty well.

* * *

Now, this next thing really, truly, wasn’t my fault. We had always raised animals of all sorts, and I especially loved the rabbits. They’re adorable and they breed all by themselves with very little fuss. My introduction to the bunny biz were a couple of adoptees named Whitey and Smokey. They were given to we three kids to care for, but I was smitten from the first look and, from then on I was never without a rabbit in my life until . . . well, I’ll get to that.

Then I had Belvedere, a Dutch bunny Easter present. It didn’t take long before we were witnessing the miracle of birth, again and again, in bulk. We had built a pen with hutches for each new litter and we either sold or found new homes for some of the babies. We had to. I showed the very special ones at our state fair. My mother loved the bounty of fertilizer, as did her rock garden. It was all good until the night the neighbor’s dogs got loose.

I’m glad none of us kids were around when it happened, but it was still terrible hearing about it from my parents. My dad was especially upset and ended the family meeting with, “No more rabbits!”

Well, I didn’t think that was really fair. I hadn’t done anything to be punished for. It took time for my heart to heal and I cried buckets, sure, but then I began wanting rabbits again. I just wasn’t me without a rabbit.

Besides, I’d already found one. A friend of mine had a new litter and the babies were almost ready to leave their mother. Mine was white with black ears and blue eyes. She was an absolute dream. I’d named her Ringa-ding, partially after my favorite Beatle.

I set up a litter box in my closet with a cage to house Ringa when I wasn’t home. I had towels and food and water dishes all together in a nice, cozy space. And I was convinced I could pull it off. Ringa was small enough then to fit in my pocket so it was easy to sneak her up to my room. Rabbits are notoriously quiet and I made a sign that warned KEEP OUT, complete with skull and cross-bones. I would read my books on the floor with Ringa nestled in the small of my back. She was a perfect fit.

And it was perfect, for just shy of two months. Two things ultimately gave us away. One, the odor. It got so that I didn’t notice anymore. I cleaned the litter box but I hadn’t given my mother enough credit for having such a keen nose. And then, you couple that with all the vegetables disappearing, and me, the pizza and ice cream princess, claiming responsibility? Once again, I had misjudged my parents’ ability to put two and two together.

So, the evening my father called me to his den, I glanced at my brothers. Had something happened? They both shrugged and turned back to television. I glanced around, looking for clues as to what this could be about. Coming up empty, following a gulp and a, “yes, Dad,” I poked my head in the doorway.

My father was in after-work mode: evening paper spread before him, before-dinner drink sweating on a coaster, smoldering cigar resting on the pottery ashtray I’d made him for Fathers Day. My dad did not farm, he was a utilities executive. We lived on the surface of rural life, and it was what he wanted to come home to each day. He probably thought it would be idyllic.

“Have a seat.”

Uh oh. He had his stern “listen up because what I have to say is important” face. He had barely started his first drink so that was not good. He usually had two. I knew if I timed it just right, approximately midway into the second Manhattan, I could ask for practically anything. The dad in front of me was not yet safe to approach. I braced myself as he began to speak.

“It’s come to your mother’s attention that you may be harboring a rabbit in your bedroom closet. Is there any truth to that?”

Oh no! What’s my best tact here? I tried on my sheepish “well, kind of” expression.

My father’s eyebrows shot up. He quieted, appeared to be thinking, then nodded.

“I’m impressed. Now, get that thing in the garage and I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

I hightailed it out of there. Maybe I saw a grin but I could have imagined it.

* * *

So, Ringa-ding was relegated to the garage but that was fine. Life resumed pretty much as it had been. My hair had grown long again, so I vowed to stay out of the cow trough and my enterprising mother took it upon herself to keep me in braids and perhaps some control.

Then came the basket fiasco. Bam! Out of nowhere, baseless and severe punishment, blatant favoritism. I placed my campaign letter on my parents’ bed, and spent the rest of the evening in my room, awaiting the verdict. Just prior to dinnertime, there was a knock at my door.

“Come in.”

It was my mother. Not a good sign. She was the peacemaker. My dad was more the executioner, but he also acted as Chief Judge, Grand Poobah, the King of No. At that time there were no children’s rights and we all knew where the buck stopped.

She sat on my bed.

“What are you reading?”

“The answer is no, isn’t it.”

My mother did what she always did when the answer was no. She brushed hair away from my face.

I began to cry. Why was I crying? It was just a basket of candy. No, it wasn’t! I’d used my best logic and I’d failed!

“But that’s not fair!” I cried.

My mom then looked at me and said something, calmly and pointedly, that changed everything, then and forever after.

“Sometimes life isn’t fair.”

* * *

I was different after that day. I remember being less inclined to trust certain things that I’d always taken for granted. Santa Claus was certainly out of the picture. I’d lived a secluded rural existence, but it was time to get on with it, whatever "it" was.

Everything was changing.

This probably had something to do with why my dad hadn’t allowed me to sit in his lap the other evening.

For the first time, he hadn’t welcomed me onto his lap when we were enjoying an evening outside to watch fireflies. My mom and dad would have after-dinner drinks on the back patio and the boys and I would toss a baseball or football around. When I got tired of that, I’d join the grownups and sit on my dad’s lap like I did when I was little. This time he said, “Why don’t you go sit over there,” and pointed to an empty lawn chair. I did but I was confused, and hurt.

All of this meant something, but I didn’t know what it was. The foundation I hadn’t realized I counted on was gone. I knew I was no longer a little girl, but that didn’t mean much by itself. If tradition, such as Easter baskets, were over and I couldn’t be like I used to be, what was there?

So, I kept quiet and hung back, until the next thing happened.

* * *

I was in class, sixth grade music. I was sitting next to my friend Sandi. We both played clarinet. We’d known each other since Kindergarten so we were comfortable together and super silly. We giggled a lot more than we ever talked.

At one point, I leaned over to grab a fresh reed out of my clarinet case on the floor next to my chair.

“Um, I think you might want to go to the nurse.”

I straightened and looked at my friend. “Why?”

Sandi glanced at my seat and then at me.

“Oh.”

“Go ahead. I’ll take care of your things.”

I grabbed my sweater and wrapped it around my waist. I whispered thanks to Sandi and snuck out while the teacher’s back was turned.

I had some notion of what was happening but I was still stunned. I had visions of one girl who’d started screaming and ran out of class convinced she was dying. Another poor girl was afraid to move, just burst into tears, and everyone had to leave the classroom so the teacher could deal with it.

At least I knew “it” was going to happen eventually, so I wasn’t scared, just stunned.

The school nurse, Mrs. Hoyt, promptly gave me what I needed to “fix” the issue.

“I’ll call your mother to come get you. Just rest now.”

* * *

On the ride home, my mother was acting so strange, I didn’t understand her at all. She didn’t appear in the least concerned. Nothing. My mom was grinning, smiling even.

“So, how does it feel?”

Yep, there it is. Smiling!

“Ugh. I know you told me about it and I’m glad you told me before it happened, but you didn’t tell me how it would feel.”

“And how does it feel?”

I thought this was the strangest conversation I’d ever had in my life, next to the Easter . . . oh, forget it.

“How does it feel to be growing up?”

Oh, so that was what she was getting at.

“Is this really, seriously, I mean honestly and truthfully, necessary?”

“You won’t always mind so much. It takes some getting used to.”

I looked out the window.

“You’re not going to school tomorrow.”

“Am I that sick?”

“No, I’m taking you shopping and then we’re having lunch. This is something we are going to celebrate.”

I stared at my mother.

“Really?”

“Really.”

And that’s what we did. My mother bought whatever I asked for and spent most of the lunch expressing her delight with my blooming independence and all I had to look forward to. It was when we toasted my most recent development with lemonade that I felt ready to accept what had already happened. I began to look ahead to whatever might be around the corner. Maybe it was all going to work out after all. At least I knew I had someone in my corner who would give it to me straight. I could live without the Easter baskets.