They Shoot Rabbits, Don't They?
by Wendel Potter
July 31, 2005
I like rabbits. I always have.
I'm not talking about the domesticated kind with the white fur and the pink eyes that contentedly nibble carrots in a back yard hutch like complacent furry vegetarian albinos. I'm talking wild cottontails here.
Many people hate them. Most of these rabbit-haters are garden owners and the rabbits present them with a challenge.
Much like Osama bin Laden poses a challenge to Western nations. He's encroaching on our garden and we hate him for it.
And just as much as people want Osama dead, I dare say there are those who want vegetable-foraging wild rabbits even more dead.
So far, nobody's seen bin Laden hopping around our lettuce and carrots. But we have seen the rabbits.
The rabbits pose no problem for me. They are welcome in my yard.
Of course, I don't own a garden. I still have too many chilling flashbacks to the days when Dad had a garden in back of our house (this was inside the city limits!) that rivaled the size and the crop yield of many small farms.
Gardening was no pleasure. Dad saw to that. We cultivated, we raked, we hand-plowed rows ("You're veering off course! Straighten it out! The beans will come up crooked! Go back and start over!"), we planted, we weeded, we picked, we plotted how we could kill Dad and plant him in the garden.
Dad took gardening way too seriously. I have to admit, though, he did get results. Had he been born earlier, he could have single-handedly overcome Ireland's potato famine.
Maybe that's why I like rabbits. Because I don't particularly give a crap what they do to a garden.
I don't recall Dad having a rabbit problem in my youthful gardening days. They were probably afraid of him and knew better than to screw with his straight rows.
To me, rabbits are rather docile creatures. They don't make any noise and they don't attack humans. Well, except for that giant one that jumped out of the lake at Jimmy Carter that time and he had to beat it off with a rowboat oar. But outside of Georgia, how many rabbits do you see that are on steroids and are excellent swimmers?
My dog, which by breed should instinctively be a hunter, does not chase rabbits. He, too, enjoys their company. For the rabbits, this is mutual.
There are always several rabbits in my back yard when I let the dog out early in the morning and let him in again late in the evening. They are naturally cautious, but allow you within a few feet before they hop a short distance away.
I think the rabbits enjoy my grass and they know that neither my dog or me are going to chase them down and stomp their cotton-tailed butts.
My brother lives in Kansas City and, like the majority of people I know, hates rabbits. He doesn't even have a garden. Probably too many of those flashbacks for him, too.
But he doesn't want the rabbits in his yard where they will likely eat his flowers. So he shoots them. On sight. No warning shots. Just plugs them, then dumps their philodendron-eating carcasses in a garbage can!
I watched him do this one evening a few summers ago. We were sitting on the deck and drinking Five To Ones.
Let me explain what Five To Ones are. They are any alcoholic beverage my brother serves and they get the name because for every one you drink, he will drink five. And this man owns a gun.
He punched me on the shoulder to get my attention. I followed the trail of his pointing finger and spotted the lone bunny sitting quietly about ten yards away, eating some grass in the quiet dusk.
My brother slowly set down his drink, pulled the flaps of his flannel cap down over his ears, and picked up his pistol. "Shhhh!" he whispered, "Be verwy, verwy quiet."
In spite of the liquor, he pointed that gun as straight as though he was plowing a garden row for Dad. Within seconds, the rabbit flinched and was down.
Just because he likes grass and flowers. But this is how many people feel about rabbits.
I just couldn't shoot a defenseless rabbit. I like them too much.
As a matter of fact, I'm not sure I could shoot Osama bin Laden. But I might consider beating him with an oar.
Copyright 2005 Wendel Potter
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