I wrote this story back in 2011. It's about the pet rabbit I had in the 1980's
Thumper, My Pet Rabbit.
Thumper, a gray fluffy sausage of a rabbit, liked to sit on my head when we were both younger. Thumper, a mixed checker and Californian, got too fat to sit on my head, let a lone hop up on top. But as a young bunny, Thumper scurried up my arm, shoulder, and head to get away from our German Sheppard. Most of the time Thumper would sit in a wood and chicken wire hutch, but sometimes got to hop around the living room. After being in the hutch for a week it would take a few minutes of slow walking before Thumper could hop again. The dog's instincts were held in check while Thumper slowly stretched. At the first tentative twitchy hops one hundred thousand years of instinct would flush any domestication from the beasts. Thumper darted down the wall's edge toward the small space under an easy chair. The dog, about two heartbeats behind, focusing only on the furry gray blur, shoulder wedged into the opening. Thumper, changing directions faster than a blink, headed right at me. Sitting cross legged on the carpet, gray dart homing in, I froze, palms on my knees. It was so quick, Thumper had barely touched my hand, arm and shoulder. The dog backed up and turned in time to see me with a bunny sitting on top of my head. The sudden halt to the chase and head tilt seamed to ask, “Master with gray fur laurels, where did bunny go?” From then on the two pets were kept apart just to be safe.
Thumper started spending more time in the hutch. Caged rabbits spend all their time eating and sleeping. So to make the increasingly larger bunny more comfortable we made a new bigger hutch. One half was wire frame, the other wood. A solid hinged and shingled roof sat on top. A water dish and a rabbit pellet dish were set on the wire side on the cage. Caged rabbits eat a lot, and poop a lot. The wire side of the hutch was intended as the potty side. A tray underneath the wire half's floor was lined with newspaper for easy clean up of droppings. [A side effect of the newspaper tray was that Thumper ended up house broken. In the winter when Thumper got back in the house, any newspaper became the potty spot. The carpet and the hardwood floor were safe as long as the Sunday paper was accessible.] The wooden side of the hutch is very important for an outdoor bunny. They like to have openings that are just big enough to fit though. Thumper would pile up cedar bedding, and droppings, near the opening between the two halves of the hutch. One summer night I found out why.
I had forgotten to feed Thumper that day, so a few hours after the sun went down I carried the food and water out to the backyard. The yard was lit by a single light bulb by the back door. Its 3000K degree tungsten thread pushed back the night, but not quite to the perimeter of the yard. As I headed to the hutch, my shadow preceded, connecting me to the ink of darkness spilling out of the undergrowth. The hutch sat just under the lowest branches of a big old gnarled hickory tree. This wasn't the first time I had done this, forgotten to feed Thumper, and went out around midnight. But it was the first time I opened the lid of the hutch to see Thumper cowering in the furthest corner from the small opening.
Thanks to a common evolutionary ancestor and the strength of muscle fiber, all mammals on this planet get about the same number of heartbeats in a lifetime. Small animals like rabbits and mice live shortened lives because their heart rates are so quick. That night, Thumper was burning through weeks of leporidae life.
Thumper sat stone still in the corner, only the gray furry sides fluttering with each beat and breath. I thought a caress might calm the bunny, but it had no effect. I went about my business, refiling the food and water. One last stroke to try to help, but the same stiff reaction. I lowered the heavy hutch lid on the black night air, leaving Thumper in the darkest part of the hutch. I turned toward the house. A soft swoosh and a ghostly form as wide as a man is tall passed over my head. An owl, wings fully spread, the natural pursuer of rabbits, had taken flight from a branch a foot above my head. In two silent beats of his wings he faded beyond the incandescent gradient.
When my fright subsided I came to recognize the natural drama I had stumbled into. From the owl's point of view, a plump meal was waiting just inside the box... If only it could use its weapons. For Thumper, silence was the natural defense. “Don't draw attention to yourself, it might not know your here. Listen and don't move, hide until the daylight chases the monster away.” Then I come in an do the last thing a rabbit wants. I open the roof, reveal the pray to the predator. Every second they see each other is a week off the small ones life. The stress unimaginable to me from my position outside of the food chain. Then in an instant, the threat is gone, the lid pushes safety into the darkest corners of the hutch. The monster moved on.
Thumper lived to be eight years old. That's a pretty long life for a pet rabbit. Thumper is buried under an apple tree not far from the spot where the hutch once stood.
By Lowell Cady – 2011, edited 20200107
