At Least They're Committed

The past few weeks I have determined that The Tale of Peter Rabbit by Beatrix Potter is nonfiction. In my precious moments of solitude I’ve

taken to escaping to my front porch and reading the occasional legitimate literature.

The first time my attention was drawn to this family dysfunction was a couple weeks back, when a daredevil pre-adolescent bunny ran into the street, followed closely behind by what must have been his mother. She herded him off the cement — him dashing here, there and hither-ward — and back to what I perceive to be his home underneath the unwitting couple’s house across the way.

I chuckled.

A few days later, the same scenario played out, only this time a car was coming and the youth played chicken, standing proudly on his back legs, until his mom tackled him and they both ran back to the sanctuary below the neighbors’ house. I shook my head.

This morning I woke up and went to let Mina out and saw something I hadn’t witnessed in YEARS. The second year we’d moved here — 12 years ago — we saved three baby bunnies from the window well and disposed of the corpses of two others. Sigh. Shadow. Since then, no rabbit has ever, ever been seen nor a corpse been found in my back yard.

Until today. No corpse thankfully, but there was Peter, sitting proudly, ears erect in the middle of my back yard. I giggled. I was certain Mina couldn’t catch him, so I threw the sliding glass door open and said, “GET ‘EM!” thinking it might teach the chap a lesson.

Mina was faster than I suspected and as the rabbit circled and dashed, I was for a second or six afraid she might catch him. But she came back “empty mouthed.” I told her she was a good girl.

The story of Peter Rabbit is disturbing. I imagine psychologists find it a contradiction in its parable: Is it that you should not take risks because you can die? Or is it that adventure is worth the risk and the norms of society keep us confined?

No matter, Dez, after you and your mom left tonight and your grandpa was settled, I went outside to continue to read “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.” And there Peter was, standing unwavering and unashamed at Dexter’s heels. So I took his picture. And I talked to him. And instead of bolting, he thought that was cool and moved closer and closer the more photos I took until he stood next to Owl and it occurred to me that we now had two characters from the 100-Acre Wood and it would be lovely if a few more showed up and maybe they’re already here. (Awkward run-on)

But then Peter was met by another, adult rabbit. Not his mom. Maybe a wannabe. Tsk, a bad influence. And across the street I could see more rabbits boldly wandering the yards and the streets and, although it was delightful, I am perfectly aware that nature is off balance here.

“We need more foxes,” I said aloud. But then, recalling an incident where your Uncle DS wanted to write a report on furry red canines and put “foxes.com” into the search engine, all I could picture were skinny, scantily clad young women in stilettos and pink lip gloss with long, flowing, blond, red, auburn and black hair, arms outstretched, clunking past my house on the sidewalk screaming with delight and frustration, “Buuuneeeeee!”

And that was pretty funny.