Tamar supposed that rabbits always looked sad. In fact, he had a hard time imagining what a rabbit would look like if it was predisposed to smile. So, to the extent that Mister Rabbit looked sad, Tamar had no way of knowing if this was merely his nature, or the result of a life of sorrow, of being stalked and chased and hungered after.
Perhaps they were one in the same, the rabbit’s nature and it’s sorrowful plight as a hunted animal. He could not help but think how off-track his thesis for the rabbit as a successful animal had been. Just this morning he was thinking that this humble species had been most successful, overrunning Australia and North America. But, upon making the acquaintance of this individual of the species, he began to doubt his working hypothesis. For Mister Rabbit, as he sat back on his haunches—ears slicked back and whiskers drooping—did not appear successful.
Mister Rabbit prefaced his story with a shaking of his head and a flapping of ears. His narrative then proceeded at a melancholy pace.
Yeah, I liked to get high. But can you blame me?
I had this thing, this muscle disease. It sucked, but what do you do. You push on, get on with life. It wasn’t like I was going to be a NASCAR driver so I got my thrill with beer, with pot.
Is that what killed you Mister Rabbit, the pot?
Eleven years old and you’ve already bought into the Nazi propaganda kid. It would be easier to overdose on carrots than pot. That’s just bullshit. Don’t give me that wagging finger kid; shit and derivations of shit thereof are no longer considered profane, and not included in the telepathic censorship clause of our sacred pact!
So, as you may have guessed, I’m a reincarnated person. I used to be Joey Watkins. Now I don’t know what I am. I don’t have a name; rabbits don’t have names. And I appear to be an escaped or abandoned—probably abandoned with my luck—domesticated rabbit. Great! If the life of a rabbit doesn’t suck enough already, I was actually raised to be eaten!
They said you overdosed on the news Joey, and everybody knew you were a stoner. How did you die?
Yeah that. Excuse me for not getting right to my painful end. I mean, did you ever get so sick you didn’t want to talk about it later? Imagine how it feels getting killed?
Okay, Otis Simpson is supposed to meet me down here to sell me some weed. Now I’ve been selling some on the side, but I buy from him first. I mean I dressed it up a little, called it Coocoocachoo Brew and made some money. So Otis is shitty about it, brings his brothers Marcus and Titus, and makes me eat a bunch of hillbilly heroin and I stroke out here in the park while they take my money. I never messed with pills.
So the next thing I know, I’m crawling through the weeds and some lady with a wicker basket and a bonnet on her head like she is the chick on the box of margarine is running back down the trail screaming about a body. And there I am, in this rabbit, looking at my dead fat ass, rotting in the shade. Talk about a downer.
I tell you, I haven’t gone far from here. I spied on the pigs from the riverbank—I know it’s just a stream to you, but to me it’s a river—and got all muddy, scuffed up the fur. I guess that was like two weeks ago. I don’t know. Time gets away from you when you’re an animal.
I tell you, cats scare the shit out of me, basically serial killers. And foxes, even though this is technically an urban area, there are some pretty big foxes around here. Foxes are like dogs on crack. And raccoons: yeah raccoons are vegetarians right? Bullshit kid! Raccoons are like meth-heads, and big as I don’t know what around here. And dogs! Are you kidding me! Who invented dogs? Somebody that doesn’t like rabbits, that’s who. And don’t even think about going out into the field over there. There are two hawks in this park. Now imagine kid, even though you’re a dumbass, try to imagine this: every time you try to cross the street there are two F-18s prowling through the sky above ready to light your dumbass up with a dumbass-seeking missile.
Okay you say; rabbits have it bad; bad deal, bad luck, bad situation; lots of ass-ripping meat-munching gut-clawing critters out to get the rabbit. Okay, I can deal with that—if I’m Bugs Freakin’ Bunny! I mean Bugs is smart, smarter than the dumbass with the shotgun. But me, I can’t even count the days. What’s worse is I have no arboreal skill set. You see that skanky piece-of-shit up there, gnawing on his acorn—yo you squirrel!—his thieving ass can at least climb. Shit, I couldn’t climb even if you strapped me into a harness.
It sure would be nice to fly too—but no, God hates rabbits. Let my ass rot on the ground while that ugly old crow flies around like he owns the park!
Check this out kid, I can’t even run that good. Sure, you figure with big-ass back legs like this I can jack rabbit all around. Well I’m no freakin’ jack-rabbit! I’m not a hare dude. Now a hare was designed to outrun foxes and shit. That’s Bugs Bunny. You see, the crime behind that misrepresentative cartoon is the disinformation it puts out to children in the form of equating a bunny with the athletic ability of a hare. Shit, I run fifty yards and I’m out of gas—time to hide—but I’m white!
Dude I’m not living long around here. I do not even have hands, not even claw-like approximations of an opposable thumb and dexterous digit arrangement. Now, I was just going to say that it sucks because I couldn’t wipe my ass. But that actually brings up the best part about being a rabbit. Look, it just comes out in solid pellets, like this one—oops six—that I laid on your yellow shirt right here, just like laying eggs, no fuss no muss.
Tamar was up shaking off his shirt.
That’s gross you mad little pooper!
The rabbit changed the subject, like Dad did when he got in trouble with Mom, Let’s go now. No time to waste dumbass.
Tamar was still afraid, Are you sure?
The rabbit looked up at him, swiveled his ears all around, and twitched his whiskers, All clear kid, let’s rock and roll.
They were both running back the way Tamar and the Simpson Boys had come. Tamar saw his book-bag and went to pick it up and the rabbit admonished him, Dude, my fat ass is already gassed out. You’re going to need to carry me. Leave that. Besides, if they see your bag is gone they will head right for your house. Leave it here and they’ll keep looking for you.
Okay Mister Rabbit—or is it Joey? Do you want me to call you Joey?
I don’t give a shit kid. Just get me out of here.
Tamar snapped up Mister Joey Rabbit and sprinted up the path and out onto Beadle Street, and headed home at a fast walk as soon as they were out from underneath the looming trees of Stoner Park.
The rabbit, despite having just been liberated from an ecosystem seemingly designed to kill him, was still not apparently pleased, Hey kid, watch out for the groin. No copping a feel alright.
