The little brown and white rabbit seemed to come out of nowhere, hopping casually around our backyard one morning before breakfast. It was spring in 1990.
“Isn’t it cute? Where did it come from? Who does it belong to?” were some of the comments from the fascinated window watchers.
The rabbit was certainly at ease, even brazen and cocky and showed obvious symptoms of ADD, pausing briefly here and there, moving on, pausing, nibbling. It was also a fussy eater.
It must have found some hiding place to call home for it was soon spotted regularly, everywhere, at all times of the day. We watched its moves and antics as it cavorted happily around, showing no concern about the possibility of predators.
“I don’t think it’s a baby rabbit,” I said, “I think it’s an adult, dwarf-type of rabbit. It acts like a mature rabbit,” I added with some knowledge.
I had raised rabbits when I was an early teen, not just as pets. I had actually sold the large New Zealand white rabbits for meat at a butcher shop in Chilliwack in the mid 1950s. At about three or four months of age, a good meat rabbit dresses out around three pounds. It brought 42 cents per pound as I recall, about $1.25 per rabbit. Rabbits are prolific: does, female rabbits, have eight to twelve babies in a batch. It was both a hobby and a paying enterprise.
So we had regular fascinating rabbit entertainment over the next week or so.
Then the love affair began to fade.
“That rabbit’s been eating my flowers,” Jeanie stated emphatically one day. “I see signs of it. It’s been chewing on my flowers all over. I don’t like it!”
Sure enough, a day or so later we caught it in the act. It was standing on its back legs, reaching up as high as it could (which wasn’t too high) nibbling on some flowers.
Jeanie hurried to the patio door, opened it, clapped her hands.
“Hey you! Quit that right now!” she said loudly. The little rabbit hopped away nonchalantly, not alarmed in the least.
Over the next few days, Jeanie became more and more upset with our new guest. That brazen, impudent bunny was definitely damaging her well-cared-for and well-loved plants. The rabbit had become less loved.
“That rabbit has got to go,” she said one day as she watched it eating another flower. “I don’t care how or when—just get rid of that rabbit!”
I made a few futile attempts to capture it, but it could make a quick right or left at high speed. It wasn’t a dumb bunny.
Jeanie was working at the Coquitlam Public Library, Sheena was attending Vanier School in grade five.
I came up with a plan. When frightened or trying to escape, the rabbit always went between our backyard cabin and the solid board fence between us and our neighbour. There it could make an easy get-away circle from any pursuer and eventually show up on the other side of the cabin.
I found a fairly large piece of plywood wide enough to wedge between the wall of the cabin and the fence. It was a snug, rabbit-tight fit.
I waited for the opportunity. I didn’t need to wait long. The rabbit was soon poking around and in the right position. I rushed it.
It quickly hopped into the escape route with me following. The rabbit reached the plywood barrier, stymied for a split second. By the time I was upon it, it was digging furiously at the bottom of the plywood.
I caught the rabbit. I had thought I might just transport the rabbit a few blocks away and release it, but I didn’t.
I dispatched the rabbit.
By its back feet, I hung it on a eye-level branch of the large pine tree at the front of the cabin. I skinned it and dressed it carefully. Only a small carcass remained. I saved just the four leg quarters and buried the rest of the rabbit in a hole that I dug in the treed area back of the lane in our backyard. I put away the plywood and cleaned up.
It looked like nothing had happened and no one had seen a thing.
I put the four quarters in a freezer bag and put it deep down in the freezer.
A day went by.
“I haven’t seen our rabbit,” said Jeanie.
“I took care of it,” I replied.
She understood.
The rabbit wasn’t mentioned again, by anyone. The flowers flourished.
Time passed.
One day I bought a box of Shake ‘n Bake at the grocery store. I put it at the back of the cupboard.
Time passed.
Then one day while Jeanie was at work I decided ‘today was the day.’
I rarely made dinner on my own for all of us when Jeanie was working. It was often pancakes. I really like pancakes; but Jeanie and Sheena not as much. It’s hard to vary pancakes a lot or add side dishes or even change the toppings much.
Tonight I was going to prepare Kentucky Fried ‘Chicken.’
The rabbit pieces were thawed and I put them into a bag with a large amount of Shake ‘n Bake and shook it, following the directions. I knew just when Jeanie would arrive home from work. I was working diligently preparing the potatoes in the kitchen.
Sheena had come home from school and was likely reading upstairs in her room. She must have heard the activity in the kitchen and came down.
“What’s for dinner?” she asked, looked around the counter.
“Fried chicken,” I said enthusiastically.
“Yummy!” she said, and disappeared.
The rabbit pieces, smothered and covered liberally in Shake ‘n Bake, were in the pan, sizzling. The potatoes were boiling. The can of creamed corn was in a pot warming slowly. Jeanie came home right on time.
“What’s for dinner?” she asked.
“Fried chicken,” I said enthusiastically, “Fried chicken, potatoes and creamed corn.”
She got a strange look on her face. She looked in the pan. She looked up into my eyes. She continued looking as she talked.
“Sheena,” she called loudly. “Sheena, please come here quickly.” She had an urgent tone in her voice. Sheena hurried over.
“Sheena, you and I are eating out tonight,” she said with determination in her voice.
“Why?” asked Sheena, surprised.
“Don’t ask why; we’re eating out! Just you and me. So put on your coat. We are eating out. I’ll tell you why.”
I tried meekly to diffuse the situation, to change her mind. It was in vain. They left. Jeanie called back, “I hope you choke on it!” as she closed the door.
The rabbit was tough. I couldn’t believe how tough and untasty it was, even covered with all that Shake ‘n Bake.
It wasn’t fun eating alone either. I threw it all out. The potatoes were good though, covered with all the creamed corn.
I cleaned up the kitchen.
Someone tossed out the remaining Shake ‘n Bake at a later date.
The girls came home quietly. It looked like Sheena had been crying.
We found out months later that the rabbit had probably escaped from a renter up the street who had some kind of very large pet snake. The rabbit was meant for the snake.
Well, at least it had enjoyed a short reprieve with a different kind of ending.
No rabbit has been served in our home since.