The Rabbit... uh, half rabbit.

 by

 Bill MacWithey

We live in what I suppose might be Any-neighborhood, USA, but it sure seems we have some strange neighbors.  I mean, really strange. I wouldn’t say our neighbors are all totally weird, but let me tell you a story about one neighbor, then you decide about their sanity. For the sake of not embarrassing this family’s son or daughter, I’ll call them the Joneses. When you’ve heard the story, you’ll understand.

One morning, Tim Jones, the son, heard a commotion in the back yard. His dog, Indiscretion, was growling and snarling something fierce. By the time he slid the patio door open, his mother had come from the bathroom to the kitchen. As Tim ran pell-mell toward Indiscretion in an effort to save the rabbit he had in his mouth, his mother screamed the most God awful, blood curdling scream you have ever heard.

I sat on my patio having my third cup, reading the newspaper and smoking a butt. It was a Saturday and, even though I didn’t have to go to work, I always awakened early during the week and was unable to break the habit on weekends. At the crack of dawn, I had seen the little cottontail in my back yard, happily munching away at my wife’s flowers. If Maggie had seen the critter having her favorite petunias and geraniums for breakfast, the dog would never have had the chance at the bunny. Her scream alone would have given the poor creature a heart attack.

Anyway, it seemed little Peter Rabbit had satisfied his appetite, at my wife’s loss of several large plants, and hopped happily to the fence, scooting under the bottom board. About ten seconds later, the growling and barking began, then the scream of a dying rabbit filled the air. If you’ve never heard a rabbit trying to escape from the jaws of a dog, well, consider yourself lucky. Me, I’m an animal lover. I love all kinds of animals. Nothing sweeter than a newborn puppy, kitten or a little cottontail eating Maggie’s flowers. Which, by the way, I felt no loss at them being eaten.

You see, Maggie’s one of them "lady" gardeners. Bet you wanta ask, "What’s a lady gardener?" Let me explain. I do all the digging, raking, leveling, planting, fertilizing, weed pulling, thinning, watering, insecticiding, hoeing, trimming … I think you get the picture. Yeah, Maggie acts as foreman, bully and Lord God Superior, while directing me to do all the dirty work.

Her part in the process? She invites all her friends over to view "her" garden. And, she gives them small starts of plants and some of last year’s seeds. All of which, I might add were dutifully furnished by you know who.

Anyway, I digress. This isn’t about my problems. Fact is, the story isn’t about a problem at all, just insanity.

Well, when Mrs. Jones screamed for about five minutes straight, I decided I’d better have a look over the fence to see what the hell the problem was. We have one of those privacy fences that are misnamed. You know the kind; you can see right through it anywhere. If I’d been sitting facing the fence, I wouldn’t have had to get out of my chair to see what was happening next door.

The boy, Tim, had hold of one end of the rabbit and old Indiscretion had hold of the other. Tim was trying to save the animal, but between him and his dog, they pulled that poor sucker half in two. When Tim let go of his half and stood looking first at the animal half at his feet, then at his bloody hands and blood spattered legs, I damned near laughed out loud. When he ran to the corner of the yard and puked behind a bush, I did.

Now, Mrs. Jones took all this in, and was running around in a circle, screaming and yelling incoherently. I swear, she ran toward the dog and his half of the rabbit, then toward her puking, crying fifteen year old, then toward the patio door to escape this madness, then to the rear half rabbit which Timmy had jerked free from Indiscretion. Then, she began the circuit all over again.

I’m sorry. Normally, I’m a truly compassionate guy and would never make little of someone’s trauma, but so help me, I busted out laughing as loudly as Mrs. Jones was screaming. When Maggie finally had been aroused from her late morning sleep and came to the patio, I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to tell her what had happened or why I was teary eyed hysterical, with laughter.

Finally, she realized her good friend and neighbor was screaming at the top of her lungs and moved to look through the fence to see for herself what was going on. With her little hands balled up into fists held at head level, Maggie stomped her feet and cried loudly, "My God, Larry, there’s half a bloody rabbit in the middle of their yard. What happened? Why’s Sheryl screaming like that? What’s Timmy doing behind the bush, naked?"

It seemed Timmy had pulled off all his bloody clothes. All I could do was slowly move my head back and forth, about to choke on my own laughter. Every time I tried to tell her what it was all about, I began my hysterics all over. Then, I pointed at the half-eaten bed of petunias and geraniums, and this refocused Maggie’s attention. When I did manage to get out, "Rabbit," as I pointed at her destructed flowers, she said angrily, "Well, I’m glad that damned thing is dead. So, what’s all the fuss about?"

I grabbed up my half-empty coffee cup and went inside without answering and had to pour the refill over the sink, I was shaking so hard with laughter. Don’t ask why the entire thing struck me so funny. I guess just the fact that anyone would make such a fuss over an animal doing what came naturally, whether it was the rabbit eating Maggie’s petunias, or the dog eating the rabbit. Rather than face Maggie’s wrath at my laughing harder, when she became upset over her flowers, I went out the front door and down the sidewalk, coffee mug in hand.

My neighbor on the other side from the Jones, Bill Parker, was out getting his newspaper and asked, "What the hell’s all the ruckus over there?"

For a real brief moment, I thought seriously about telling him it was only Mrs. Jones celebrating that her husband was staying home for the weekend instead of carousing around with some young skirt. That would have given him a bit of gossip to spread around the "hood," but it wasn’t true, and me being a pretty truthful guy, I had second thoughts about starting such a rumor.

"Aw, Sheryl Jones just went a little crazy, because their dog killed a rabbit in their back yard. Well, actually, Tim and his dog killed the rabbit fighting over it. Tore it right in half."

Parker gave me a quizzical look and asked, "Timmy helped the dog rip the rabbit in half?"

Bill didn’t mean to be a nerd, he was just born that way. Believe anything for the truth, even if spoken in jest. "Yeah, hell, you know how that boy loves that dog. You see, the dog had caught the rabbit, but was having a hard time getting to the meat under all that fur. Just as Tim was ripping the rabbit in half for Indiscretion, his mom came out and saw it. Went kinda fruitcake."

"Man, what do you suppose is wrong with that boy?"

I honestly nearly puked myself, trying to keep from laughing at him. Like I say, ol’ Bill Parker might be a big wig at the local newspaper, but he sure as heck was slow to catch on. Having to keep my teeth clenched to prevent laughing, I waved at him and continued down the street, wondering what Mr. Jones thought of all the fuss over a dead bunny rabbit.

You know how sometimes you see people together who just shouldn’t be together? Not that the Jones’s fought or argued or anything. Just that they were not a proper match. Sort of like wearing a knee high argyle sock on one foot and going barefoot with the other. Or, like, wearing a loafer on your left foot and a combat boot on the right. You can walk with a limp, but it isn’t quite right. That was the Jones’s. A loafer and a combat boot.

Actually, Tim Senior was a pretty level headed, likable guy. His wife? Well, it would be kind to say she was a little erratic. So, it came as no big surprise … I guess I’d better say here, that some of the rest of this story is hearsay, but I got it from Tim Junior, a pretty reliable source. Some of it I know from first hand observation. Like I was saying, it came as no great surprise, when a couple of days later, Timmy was out sticking some sort of flyer in the doors of the entire neighborhood.

When I came home from work on Monday, the first thing Maggie said was, "I bought some new petunias you need to plant. Have to go in the ground this evening, ‘cause they’re in real small pots." Well, it had been an extremely trying day at the office, and I was in no mood for gardening, but, well, truth is, Maggie treats me pretty well, so I nodded agreement, as I flopped down on the sofa.

Then, she smiled and said, "You’re gonna get a kick out of this."

I took the flyer from her and busted out laughing. It read something like this. On Saturday AM past, we experienced a tragedy in our back yard. Some of you will know who Indiscretion is, but for those who don’t, he is our mixed breed dog. Indiscretion killed a small cottontail rabbit in our yard.

In all fairness to the rabbit, we think it only proper and fitting that he be given a decent burial. So, on Saturday next, we will have a funeral of sorts and bury Mister Rabbit in the southwest corner of our back yard, under the Golden Rain Tree. There, he can rest under a blanket of pretty ground cover of vermilion and fortentias.

Services and burial will begin at 12 noon, sharp. We have arranged for Dante’s Catering to furnish lunch. Picnic tables will be set up around the burial site for your convenience.

Mr. & Mrs. Timothy Jones

2750 South …etc.

PS You are welcome to bring your children.

I’ll have to admit to a long, hard laughing spell once more. I thought it was a joke perpetrated by Tim Junior. But, then, Maggie said, "It isn’t a joke. I’m beginning to think you’re right about Sheryl. I called her to tell her what Timmy was doing, and she was insulted that I thought it was a joke and burned my ear for twenty minutes, telling me that animals have rights and deserve the same dignity as we when they perish in such a horrible manner."

"Well, I’ve tried to tell you, your friend is thirty degrees out of plumb." I started laughing again and wondered why the flyer didn’t say they would be burying only half of Mister Rabbit. Then, I wondered if it would be a closed casket funeral. Only Maggie dragging me to the kitchen to eat quieted me. Maggie might not be the gardener she would like people to think, but cooking is among a couple things that she does extremely well. And, the person who coined that phrase about a man’s stomach was right. All week long, every time I looked at Maggie, or she looked at me, we both broke into laughter at the idea of the Jones’s having lunch catered for the burial of half a rabbit. Ol’ Tim would have barbecued the sucker and threw the leavings in the garbage.

Finally, Saturday came, and we stared in disbelief at the two large trucks unloading tables, chairs and box after box of dishes and food. Evidently, people were curious to see what in the world the flyer was about. I doubt any of them really believed the story about a rabbit having a funeral. In fact, later, several told me they figured it was a cute way to get the neighbors together for some reason or another, maybe to announce a coming wedding or birth or something. At any rate, the street was lined with cars by eleven thirty, and there were more people on the sidewalk on our street than I knew lived there.

Finally, just out of curiosity to see what in the world would happen next door, Maggie and I walked around the house and through the gate at the side of the Jones residence. Beautiful table setups, a long banquet table, with steamers and ice trays filled with food, a huge ice sculpture of a cottontail rabbit. I chuckled under my breath and again thought about half a rabbit. The ice sculpture should have been half a rabbit.

In the northwest corner of the yard, five rows of chairs sat in a semi-circle around the Golden Rain Tree, and a small lectern stood facing the chairs. The lectern was draped with a piece of white satin, and a large King James Bible lay open atop the satin. I’m a well-studied person, and I know since the beginning of mankind’s known history animals have played an important role in many aspects of life. The first and foremost being a source of food. Many cultures still use animals, in lieu of people, as blood sacrifices to their particular God or Gods. The entire world over, one can find statues of animals, put in place for many different reasons. Legends abound about half animal - half man creatures. Some cultures even worship particular animals.

But, never, in all my reading and studies, have I come across a rabbit being sanctified or being looked upon as any sort of deity. I’ve never heard of a rabbit, uh … that is, half a rabbit, receiving a funeral. How in the name of anything could Tim Jones go along with this? Unless … Naw, he’s not a mental case, like Sheryl. Guess he went along to get along, as they say.

Anyway, there I am, staring at the rabbit ice sculpture, when Sheryl beckoned everyone to have a seat for the services. Most of those present still thought it was some sort of joke and a way to bring the neighbors together for a couple hours. In fact, if that had been the case, it would have been a hilariously neat way of doing it. But, when everyone was seated and Sheryl began reading from the Bible with tears running down her face, the crowd began to look around at one another, not knowing if they should laugh or run like hell outa there.

I had to admit the smell of Dante’s catered food would have kept me there, come hell or high water. Guess you can tell, I like food! Although, after twenty minutes of Sheryl talking about how we should respect these little animals God put on Earth, and the heartbreak she felt knowing some people just shoved them aside when they died and threw them in the garbage, well, not only was the food getting cold, my butt was tired from the metal chair, and I was beginning to lose my appetite, staring at that ice sculpture. If we didn’t eat soon, it would be but half a rabbit.

Finally, the Tims, senior and Junior, placed the small, finely crafted mahogany box in a hole beneath the tree. Before they could cover it, Sheryl took a small handful of dirt and threw it atop the half rabbit. Then, she invited everyone to do the same. I made haste to the pile of fine china plates at the end of the serving line and was seated, eating, before anyone else had picked up their plate. Seems only two people at a time could wash their hands at the hose.

I smiled the whole time that I dined on the exquisite cuisine, unable to take my eyes off the disappearing rabbit. I thought what a funny, but horrible joke it would be to take a bunch of juice from the huge crystal bowl of strawberries and cover the now half melted rabbit with it. If Sheryl had known what I was thinking when she sat down across from myself and Maggie, she would have shot me. No doubt about it.

When everyone shook the Jones’ hands and told them what a good time they had, I thought the entire episode was over. Maggie and I were among the first to depart for saner territory. All evening, we talked about the possibility of moving. Of course, we decided Sheryl was probably harmless, and we might find ourselves living next door to a serial killer, or such. So, the moving idea was dropped. Maggie couldn’t keep from laughing, when I told her about the strawberry juice idea.

Sunday morning, a good cup of coffee and the newspaper found me on the patio, hoping against hope I wouldn’t be disturbed by anything or anybody. Not even Maggie cooking breakfast. Sometimes, a guy wants nothing but to be left alone with his coffee, his newspaper, his cigarettes and his thoughts.

The scream damned near jolted me out of my robe and slippers. I threw the paper down on the patio, slammed the coffee down on the table, breaking my favorite mug, spilling coffee all over the table top, then watched it run off onto the newspaper. What the hell could be wrong with Sheryl now? This time, I didn’t sort of peek through the fence to see what was going on, I jumped over the damned thing, my robe baring my butt to the world, my cigarettes and lighter falling in the dew dampened grass and one slipper in my yard, the other in the Jones’ back yard.

There, in the middle of the yard, was the half rabbit we had given such a nice going away and had buried yesterday. Old Indiscretion was rolling around atop the foul smelling thing, luxuriating in some insane thing dogs do with dead animals. Sheryl pointed steadily and screamed. Man, how that woman could scream.

Well, stinking or not, if I was ever going to have any peace, I had to get rid of that damned half rabbit. I chased Indiscretion away, bent over, grabbed the smelly hunk of fur and threw it in my back yard. Once more showing my butt to Sheryl, climbing over the fence, I yelled at her, "Would you please throw my damned cigarettes and lighter back over the fence? And, my damned slipper?"

"What are you going to do with my rabbit?"

"Half rabbit, dammit! I’m going to put the damned thing in the garbage where it belongs!"

"You can’t do that! We need to rebury him!"

"How the hell you know it’s a him? It’s the damned front half! Gimme my damned cigarettes and lighter!"

I guess she finally figured out I was mad. Her shaky hand extended over the fence with the cigs and lighter, followed by the slipper being tossed over. I lit one before going in the kitchen and grabbing a small garbage bag. As soon as I had the fiendish half rabbit that wouldn’t stay buried in the garbage can, I went upstairs, awakened Maggie, then took a long, hot shower. I wouldn’t even give Maggie time to shower.

"Throw some jeans and a tee shirt on. We’re going out for breakfast."

"I have to get dressed. Put make up on and everything."

"Go like you are, or I go alone. I gotta get ta hell outa here."

"What in the world was all that screaming and yelling?"

"That damned rabbit! That damned half rabbit and that damned friend of yours next door. The damned dog dug the damned rabbit up and Sheryl went berserk again. C’mon, let’s go."

Now, I have always treated Maggie like a lady. I try to never say anything unkind or be overbearing in any way. So, I felt pretty much an ass, having rushed her out of the house the way I did, but you know what? By golly, I liked her sleepy, unpainted look. We had a really relaxing breakfast, drank coffee for an hour and just chatted, deliberately avoiding the issue of the half rabbit. And, also, we avoided any outbursts of screaming from the neighbor.

Things were quiet when we got home, and they remained that way the rest of the day. In fact, we heard no more from the Jones house for some time. Then, one day, as I was mowing around Maggie’s flower beds, trying my best not to bruise any of the plants’ leaves, (as Maggie warned me against doing) I realized one of their cars had been missing from the Jones’ drive for a week or so. It was several days later, when I saw a moving van backed into the Jones’ drive, and Tim Junior seemed to be supervising the movers. I couldn’t help it. My curiosity got the best of me, and I walked over to see what was going on.

"Hi, Tim. What’s the deal?"

"Movin’."

"Why?"

Tim sort of squirmed around and asked, "You didn’t hear what happened?"

"Nooo."

"You know that piece of rotten rabbit you threw in your garbage can? Mom retrieved it. Dad told her she belonged in a nut house."

Tim stopped and looked kinda sad. "I’m going to live with my grandparents. Dad’s parents. Mom’s parents are about as nutty as she is."

"Where’s your mother and dad?"

"Mom’s in the psyche ward at County Hospital. The last time I saw dad? Well, it was when mom was on the phone with the caterer, ordering up another banquet for a second funeral. Last time I saw him, dad put two suitcases in the trunk of his car and drove down the street."

***

There’s a moral in this story, somewhere. Perhaps it’s if you’re an animal lover, don’t have a dog. Or, maybe don’t go overboard about an innocent creature going to his great rest in the sky the way it was intended. Oh, by the way, I asked Timmy if he was going to take Indiscretion along with him to his grandparents. He told me the last time he saw Indy, was the day his mom was carted off to the psyche ward. Indy was running wildly down the street, a bit of dirty gray-brown fur in his mouth. He hadn’t been seen since. Perhaps he, too, knew that all was not right at the Jones’s. I’ll have to admit it’s been hard sitting on the patio with my coffee and newspaper. A new, quiet family lives next door, now, but I’m always sort of on edge out there - always expecting a scream that’ll not only ruin my peace, but spill coffee all over my favorite comic strip.