|
epitome of incomprehensibility
|
"Oh no, there's a dead rabbit." My brother, about to leave for the library, pointed to a spot near the gate.
I looked. A rabbit lying on its side, not a usual posture. Was it moving, or was that just the wind in its fur? But no. It twitched and then moved its front paw near its mouth.
It was a wild rabbit, dark brown eyes, white and brown fur. White pompom of a tail, back legs stretched. Its face looked like it was smiling, but its shivers and twitches indicated it wasn't having a great time.
I said, "I'll get Dad," like we were children. My brother left, My father, working upstairs in his study, came down to check.
I was in the process of taking in the clothes on the line. Shiloh was outside, his leash looped on a post on the other side of the yard.
Dad said it looked like the rabbit was dying and we could "let nature take its course" but that he'd make a couple of calls and come back to make sure Shiloh stayed out of the way. I thought he was going back to his work, but a minute or so later he came out again to report that the SPCA person said it was very unlikely a rabbit would have rabies, and also that they didn't have an office in our municipality so they couldn't pick up a sick wild animal.
He went back inside. I decided to do something: put some water in a leaf and let the rabbit drink. Then I decided to tip the leaf. The rabbit opened its mouth, seeming to drink the drop. Idea. A small cup, half filled. No contact, but pouring the water around its mouth so it could drink some.
This made it revive a bit, or maybe I just irritated the animal. Probably both. It flailed around, showing more movement and animation than before, but wouldn't - couldn't - get up. That's when I saw one of its back legs was caught, tangled in some vines and raspberry creepers.
Dad got the garden shears while I played with a now-restless Shiloh. He freed the rabbits leg and it moved, but couldn't get up, only flopped around.
I couldn't tell if its leg was broken, but I could see the red of a wound. I got an old towel from the rag pile, and, with that and Dad's garden gloves, moved the rabbit to the front yard so we could get Shiloh inside (now he was barking, catching scent and sight of his attention rival and would-be prey).
Dad called a wildlife rescue group. I tried to give it water again, but this time I'm pretty sure I just caused it discomfort. I covered its back with the towel which it didn't seem to like either - maybe with bad memories of the leg-trapping vines, maybe just out of instinct.
Mom returned from swimming. I was inside making lunch, just checking on the rabbit once (its eyes seemed bloodshot, a new and worrisome development after it had seemed to be recovering; I re-covered the blanket it had wriggled out of). The wildlife people were sending a guy. Dad told Mom he was embarrassed about spending so much, but when she said "How much?" it turned out to be $60.
Shiloh barked at the bearded man who came and wrapped the rabbit tenderly in what looked like an old children's blanket, brightly coloured.
Dad made it seem a little like the rescue was someone else's idea, saying, "My ancestors would have put water on to boil" (e.g. to make a meal of the creature). And I've eaten rabbit before. And there are a lot of wild rabbits around here. But that doesn't mean I - and he - didn't feel bad for this one.
Mom and Dad left to do some shopping for the soup-kitchen-y lunch thing tomorrow. That's when the man from Animal Control or Animal Rescue called. He said he'd promised my dad he'd give an update. Unfortunately, the rabbit had to be put down; the leg break was too bad and he seemed to have internal injuries. "Maybe he was injured more when I moved him." But I did too. So I said, "Don't feel bad, you did what you could."
"At least he could go in comfort, not be bitten by crows or, or dogs."
"Like mine," I laughed (taking sole ownership of Shiloh, apparently).
But despite the laugh, I was sad when I hung up. Just too many bad-news things happening at once. Mom had been on the phone with her friend before. That friend's stepdaughter, age 29, was just diagnosed with cancer.
...
Anyway, cut a few hours to my night-time anti_stress_walk. On the way back from Valois, I was looking idly at a house's Halloween decorations when a brown-and-white rabbit jumped out from among them and raced across the street, surprisingly quick.
Shiloh wasn't looking, so he didn't bark. With the pale flash of the rabbit's tail in the Halloween lights, my imagination got to work. I imagined it was the ghost of the last rabbit I'd seen, now nimble and free.
|
251028
|
