crucible of ennui

With Easter right around the corner, it’s time to retell that most favorite of rabbit stories, Becky bunny.

When my sister and I were 2 & 3 we had pet rabbits. My bunny was Becky, named for my best friend’s mom who lived across the street. She was soft and oh so fluffly.

I wasn’t aware of the fact that we were in the process of raising rabbits as a food source. I’m not sure why a suburban family in San Fernando Valley felt the need to farm bunnies. Seriously. There’s an Alpha Beta just down the street. What about Danish American Farms - that really cool store with all the produce and meat counter where the butcher shaped the ground meat into the animal shape from whence it came?? C’mon. There’s no need to kill your own food in 1970.

One day my Becky ran away. She just disappeared. I cried all day long. Mom made us a special dinner that night - fried “chicken.”

It didn’t look like chicken. It didn’t taste like chicken. And those were NOT chicken bones on my plate.

Not cool Mom. Not cool.

I remember only my sister and I getting “chicken” that night. The killing of Becky and my sister’s rabbit had been too traumatic for my father and he could only bring himself to bump off our two pets. How thoughtful.

The next day - the rest of the rabbits ran away. And the day after, the rabbit hutch.

I really didn’t understand that I ate Becky until years later when I found the this note in my mother’s handwriting.

I’d like to call your attention to the word ”live” in the note above. ”Live” rabbits, not like the pile of dead ones right off frame in the bunny killing fields I called my backyard.

Moral of the story (besides not letting your parents kill and then feed your pet to you for dinner) : Don’t eat weird chicken; it could be your pet.