Cottontail

(This column was published on January 6, 1997)

   I don't get no respect.

   I know that was what the drab little cottontail was thinking as it squatted 
shivering in the snow, its sad Rodney Dangerfield eyes seeming to accept but not 
to enjoy its life style. As I stood watching the little brown and white bunny, I 
imagined a conversation we might have if only we understood each other's 
language.

   I have nothing against you.

   Ha. That's just because you've left your gun home.

   I don't hunt.

   Okay, so you're probably a trapper. Do you think that makes me feel any 
better? How would you like to live at the bottom of the food chain? I'll tell you, 
it's not too pleasant down here. I'd give anything to trade places with you -- or 
better still a smart animal like a fox or a coyote.

   Surely your life isn't that bad.

   Easy for you to say. Did you ever have any brothers or sisters?

   One brother. He's now seventy-five.

   Impossible. My oldest relative, Uncle Fuzz -- Farmer MacGregor kept him as a 
pet -- died of very old age at ten. And look at me. I'll be lucky to make my first 
birthday. I was one of octuplets. Flopsie, Mopsie, Bopsie..., oh, I've forgotten all 
their names.

   Was Peter one of them?

   How did you know? That's me. And after ten months I'm the only one left.

   Goodness, what happened to the others.

   Flopsie went first. I had just opened my eyes when I had to watch her being 
dragged out of our nest by a big black snake. Then I guess it was Lorelei who 
was sucked into a mowing machine. A raccoon got another sister down by the 
creek. Bopsie and a brother were taken from us on different nights by a great 
horned owl. Another brother was shot during hunting season. And just last week 
Mopsie was picked off by a red-tailed hawk.

   Wow. That's quite a litany of disaster.

   I know I'm next. Even if another predator doesn't snap me up and I escape 
getting run over by one of those monsters you ride around in, I'll be gone in a 
few weeks.

   How do you know that?

   Mister, I've got troubles you haven't dreamed of. You think I'm shivering 
from the cold and I wriggle my ears to hear better? Not on your life. I've got 
mites and ticks and chiggers eating me alive. And inside? I've got a tapeworm so 
big I can't keep up with feeding it.

   Gosh, I'm sorry. You seem to be the last of your kind.

   Well, not quite. I do have a few more brothers and sisters that were born 
before and after me. In fact mom had four more litters last year before that cat 
got her. I see a few of my siblings around. And I've even fathered a few bunnies 
myself. I hate to admit it, helping to bring more suffering into the world.

   You know, I'm going to have to tell my wife about your problems. All she 
thinks about is how you prune her shrubs mercilessly and chew the bark off 
every tree she plants.

   Is she the lady I watch from the woodpile setting out the cage with the food in 
it?

   She's the one.

   Well, please don't tell her that my feeding habits are too dainty to spring her 
trap. But you might say that I prefer pears to that yukky peanut butter she uses 
for bait.

   On the other hand, perhaps I shouldn't say anything about you. She's been 
getting angrier and angrier. She even pulled me into a gun shop the other....

   I'm outta here.