Dead Rabbit.

The humble rabbit.

When you were about 11, you sprinted outside around the vegetable garden that your friends mother grew in her backyard. You’re eagerly waiting for your friend to come play, and you have a frisbee in your hand that you plan to bean at his head when he comes out. You’ve been practicing, and you’ve figured out the secret to great aim. His frisbee is a bit different than the one at your house, sometimes it wobbles, but your technique is perfect. You’ll get him. He still isn’t out yet. You wonder what's taking so long. You start to walk towards the back kitchen door. As you round the corner you see that he's outside, but crouched under a bush. He looks sort of dumb and awkward. As he always does. His butt is in the air, and for a second you take careful aim at his backside with the frisbee. The idea is enticing, but something about how he’s poking at the ground draws your attention. You two are so close you have changes of clothes in each others houses. You both like his house better. You’re not ashamed of it, but your house has way fewer video games. Your parents are a lot more strict. But he’s always let you play on his toys as long as you’ve liked. And he likes the same subjects you do. Math, and science. You two have been class nerds of equal caliber for as long as you can remember. But you’re sure you’re still cooler. You don’t tuck your shirt into your pants, or your pants into your socks, and you don’t have glasses (yet). 

Imagine this with pants tucked into socks.

Your relationship with him is the same protective bully you are with your younger brother. You’ll chuck the frisbee at him any day. But everyone else better back off. He’s your victim. He takes it in good humor, so you guess it’s okay. Today you wonder how his mother ever let you near her child, or why he enjoyed your company at all. But you are a physical child, and you show your adoration through punches and thrown rocks. He didn’t complain too much. The makings of a best friend.

But your attention turns to the point of his focus, and you see an animal on the red mulch under the bush. He turns, sees you behind him and waves you over. “There’s a dead rabbit”. A dead rabbit? This is your realm. A dead body. Time to cut it open and see what’s inside. You bend down, grab a stick, and crack it into two, imagining the jagged edge can be used as a scalpel.

                “What are you doing with that stick? I think we should bury it.”.

“Bury it?” Why would you bury it? You want to look inside. He continues, “I think we should send it on its way into the afterlife. Poor rabbit.”. Being a 10 year old, you roll your eyes at his rather precocious talk. You understand his words, but not the sentiment. You just want to cut it open. It’s a dead rabbit. You can name all its internal organs. You wonder what a spleen looks like. 

Literally no one know what it does.

You push him to the side, bend down and poke the rabbit. He screams. You back off, he only contradicts you for a good reason. “We should bury it.”. He’s crying. You’re uneasy now. He’s too moved by this. It’s a dead rabbit. Nothing more, nothing less. May as well look inside. You’re sure you can get your way, but something about his tone gives you pause. You agree to bury it. “We should give it an egg. Two eggs. So it can eat on its way to rabbit heaven. You run into the kitchen, and come out, egg in hand. And start towards the rabbit. He looks on with abject horror, “No, rabbits are vegetarian, why would you give it an egg?”. 

Vegetarians eat egg....

You don’t know the answer to this. You just wanted to crack an egg on the rabbit body. See what it did to the fur. Also, cracking an egg is satisfying. He remains adamant. “I think we should write it a poem.” This goes too far. He wants to make a rabbit burial into an educational activity? Poems are written in school. You can’t stab it and you have to write a poem? You throw the egg onto the rabbit, it cracks on impact, and oozes into the fur. “Aruuuuuuuuul, come on. You ruined the rabbit. Now it’ll be forced to give up its vegetarianism on its way to heaven.” You’re satisfied, you got the egg on the rabbit. He shakes his head and starts to wax eloquent, composing a poem on the spot. You don’t listen. It’s probably dumb anyway.