Digital Norseman:

"One has but to observe a community of beavers at work in a stream to understand the loss in his sagacity, balance, co-operation, competence, and purpose which Man has suffered since he rose up on his hind legs. . . .
He began to chatter and he developed Reason, Thought, and Imagination, qualities which would get the smartest group of rabbits or orioles in the world into inextricable trouble overnight."

James Thurber
(1894-1961)

Bunny

Far away is a little country which once had a lot of sardines. It also had Bunny. Then the sardines quit and eventually so did Bunny. Now it has neither. I don't know if anyone cares, but that's the way it is.

Bunny has a lot of good qualities. Most of them wrapped around one central core idea: hunting. His life revolves around it; always has and, I suppose, always will.

His generosity knows no bounds and he and his family are among the most hospitable people I have ever known. I forget how we met, but it hardly matters. We have lost touch now. Regretfully, I feel. I can't explain why things like that happen, that we lose touch with good people, I mean. And it isn't just me, either. Happens to lots of folks, I've noticed.

A call to arms

For a while, a good many years, actually, I would regularly get a call at work right about quitting time. "What are you doing for dinner? Nothing, I know. Come by the house. You eat good and we talk, eh?" Bunny would never take no for an answer. I felt somewhat like an adopted son in a large extended family.

A foregone conclusion

His standard line never changed. "Always we have ten, maybe twelve people here for dinner. One more won't matter. Come straight." And then he'd hang up leaving me as a foregone conclusion.

So, naturally, I'd go to his house and have dinner with the usual crowd of mothers, fathers, sons and daughters, friends and grandchildren.

The hard core nuts

Bunny would cook. And how. From a long life of serving people in private homes and four-star hotels, he would rustle up heaping platefuls of delicious goodies from your standard staples and everyday groceries. A unique talent, I'm sure.

The talk would eventually, very quickly to be truthful, turn around to hunting and fishing. Mostly hunting. We'd soon be reduced to a hard-core group of nuts around the downstairs dining table with our coffee and our bullshit.

Recycle this

Old lies were recycled and new adventures planned with great fervour. Some to be attempted, most to be abandoned. Bunny had a special gift for stories. He'd get right into it and act everything out.

No story of his was ever told with him in the seat for more than a minute. If you could see him you'd understand the effect of his empathy.

Imagine that

Bunny is short and stocky with a balding pate which he half heartedly attempted to cover with his remaining strands in a sort of crosswise slick-over. His teenage son was forever bugging him about that by taking every opportunity to muss it up. "Eh, what's happening, fat boy?" he'd say and move out of reach after a fast rustle.

But Bunny wouldn't miss a beat, just tamp down the frizzes and carry right on with whatever he was on about. The first few times was a bit unnerving for an outsider, but pretty quickly we all just learnt to ignore it. Must have bugged the kid, though, to not even raise an eyebrow anywhere.

Micro stories

Different people have lodged their own special micro stories about themselves in my mind. These micro stories often flash before me when I meet these people face to face or connect with them on the phone. Bunny's story is about something that goes way back.

The tale begins

In the old country when the sardines were running thick as a brick, Bunny was growing up in a big old house with large fields all around. Even then he was a hunting nut and eventually got the run of an old single shot French made rifle, a 9 mm Berliot or Peugeot or some such obscure thing, I forget now.

I did look up the make one time. Definitely not one of your household brands. Not even then, I imagine.

The game

The game of choice or opportunity or both, was rabbits. Our Bunny would sneak out at about dusk and hole up somewhere in the olive groves and settle down to wait with his nine mill long gun.

Blind magic

As anyone can tell you who has ever sat in a blind hoping for any kind of game, big or small, the hour of darkness has a special magic of its own. It plays powerfully on your mind. You definitely don't have to do acid to hallucinate.

Just plunk your butt down in a deer blind, or rabbit blind, as in our little story. You'll see all kinds of things, trust me. Trust Bunny. If grown men have troubles, what then of impressionable and excited young stalkers?

Animatorus Rex

At this point in the story, Bunny is always right out of the chair tip toeing around with his fingers doing rabbit ears along his head. The great animator - "Animatorus Rex" - is holding court.

"As the light would turn to darkness," he'd say, "things would start to move around out there under the olive trees. Pretty soon I'd spot something." "Here comes bunny, I'd think and get ready."

The bunny-stepping would halt behind a chair and he'd take mock aim with his imaginary nine mill blaster.

Here comes bunny!

"Here comes bunny!" - "POW!" he'd exclaim. And we'd have no trouble at all seeing a boy scampering forward from his hideout to claim his prize. How he'd reach out his eager hand to pick it up.

Claiming the prize

"YEOW!" Bunny would mimic, pulling his hand back, shaking it in pain. "A hedgehog!" No matter how closely he would look, he could never find any long pink ears on that pesky critter. So no excuse for his mistake.

But true hunting is about overcoming obstacles, patience is the ruling virtue. Thus, back to the blind he'd go. Unshaken in his belief that the bunnies were out there.

Never say never

More waiting. And the light is definitely not getting any better. But eventually things settle down and mother nature cranks up the action after the hedgehog incident. Things start to move again. Bunny is out of the chair like a shot.

"Here comes Bunny!" he would say and go into ambush position. This time the boy is dead certain. He is lining up on a rabbit and waiting till he has a clear shot.

"POW!" Bunny has pulled the trigger and the nine mill has done more business. Once again we see the boy rushing in eagerness to his kill. Finally success! A rabbit! One for the dinner table. Mummy will be proud.

Then again...

And once again his hand shoots back in pain and surprise. "Another hedgehog!" Bunny is at the top of his voice. "But it had ears. I saw them!"

No matter what he did, the rapid and inexplicable metamorphosis of rabbit to hedgehog would plague the boy for years. Of course, there were rabbits out there and not a few would succumb to the single shot nine mill. But always there would be those pesky hedgehogs to contend with.

A dynamic duo

Always after he first told this story, whenever I saw Bunny, my mind would flash a picture of Bunny dancing under an olive tree with a loaded gun: "Here comes bunny and the hedgehog!" How's that for a dynamic duo?