Here's a story I started. Should I keep going? Sam awoke to the sweet smell warm smell of carrots wafting directly into his nostrils. He felt the weight of about 20 pounds in the center of his chest. Squinting his eyes open, still feeling sleepy, he was alarmed by the two eyes, black as lumps of coal but shiny and close together, staring him in the face above a pink twitching nose. “Jesus Christ,” he swore, sitting bolt upright and flinging the furry lump across the room with both hands. He looked at the floor to see if he’d killed it. But no such luck. It hopped about fearlessly, happily, long ears perked and listening, nose quivering, eyes alert. “Louise,” he screamed. “Your goddamn fucking pet is in here again. I swear to God we’re having a rabbit stew for dinner if you can’t get if you can’t get it under control.” He looked at the clock. He still had a half an hour to snooze, but knew he’d never get back to sleep and might as well get up. He was due to catch the Blue Sky Airlines flight from Tucson to Boston at eleven. He sighed and looked across the room. On the armchair by the door was his a single piece of hand luggage, barely under the allowable dimensions. The rabbit sat under the chair, scratching behind its ear with its hind foot and staring at him. “Damn thing,” he said under his breath. He wouldn’t allow a pet in his home at all if it wasn’t for the kid. The whole fucking house had had to be rabbit-proofed to keep it from gnawing everything in sight. And it wasn’t allowed in the bedroom. But here it was. He swung his legs onto the floor, yawned, stretched, and stood. He was naked and glanced in the mirror over the dresser, turning sideways to admire his forty-year-old physique. Not bad, he thought. Of course, being in law enforcement, he had to keep in shape, but still . . . . So what was he doing with fat-assed Louise? He dropped this thought as he stepped over to the armchair ready to give the rabbit a good swift kick in its fucking cottontailed ass. But it watched with shiny black eyes as he approached and, sensing danger, hopped under the bed. He hefted the carry on. It was heavy as hell. He lifted it onto his shoulder. The strap cut int his flesh and the weight already hurt his back, due to an old injury sustained when he’d been on foot patrol years ago. “Fuck.” He’s furious with his wife for not packing the rolling carry-on instead of this heavy duffle. Why can’t she learn to be a real wife, like the policemen had in the old movies. Kevin Costner’s wife in The Untouchables. Mrs. Elliot Ness. She put that little note in with his lunch that said, “I’m so proud of you”? (Louise would never do that.) The fucking good old days. You could slap them around when they screwed up. If they needed it. And they often needed it. But they shouldn’t need it. His own mother never needed to be slapped around. A pair of black eyes shined at him from under the bed. Sam noticed, and kicked his foot, but the rabbit dodged him. Sam said again, “Fuck.” * * * From www.katiesrabbithutch.com Rabbit Mind, Rabbit Memory: Let’s talk about what goes on inside the minds of our bunny pets. It’s been said that they have a five-minute short-term memory. If that’s the case, however, how do they recognize the sound of the fridge door opening and come hopping when we prepare their meals or snacks? The answer is they have both short-term and long-term memory. They can and do retain information about people, places, and things. Like other animals, they have been, since the dawn of time, controlled by an instinct and desire to survive, and to protect themselves. Otherwise, their cotton tailed ancestors would never have remembered which predators to avoid and how to avoid them, becoming extinct long ago. So, yes, they can think, remember, and retain data. They can recognize people and other animals. This is especially true when they connect emotional responses with others—pleasure, fear, pain, etc. They can recall who has treated them well—those they should seek out for such things as nibbles—and those who have treated them poorly or made them feel threatened—such as predators or, heaven forbid, mean humans . . . . * * *
