Bunny is the dog I feed and water, de-feed and de-water. She is not mine. She belongs to The Hunt*.
When The Hunt calls, Bunny answers. Were she given the physical gifts of her wolf ancestors, Bunny would bring down elk in her jaws at The Hunt’s command. Alas, Bunny is 6 pounds, and so must confine herself to smaller prey.
She delights in the chase, and revels in the bloodsport, while my squeamish stomach is left to pick up the pieces. Bunny’s prey are many and varied, but I am her perpetual victim.
Bunny is a jerk.
When Bunny Hunts Mice
We have mice, and Bunny could not be happier. She hears the pitter-patter of their feet and leaps to action. Running along the cabinets, she shouts her battle cry, “BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD, SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!” and pursues her prey.
After much barking, yowling, scratching, and pouncing, she will flush her quarry into the open. With a snarl, the mouse is in her jaws, at her mercy, The Hunt concluded. Bunny pauses, victorious. And then releases the mouse. The Hunt begins anew!
Bunny hunts the most repetitive game, and in the pauses between hunts, she looks to me expectantly, demanding a treat for her efforts. She has created her own little Valhalla in our apartment: each day spent battling, followed by celebration and libations, rinse and repeat.
Bunny is in viking heaven, while I am left to beg, “ohmygodbunnypleasestopbarkingit’s3am.” Bunny is deaf to my pleas, and The Hunt continues past dawn.
When Bunny Hunts Rats
Bunny loves cities, because cities are full of rats. Also, because cities smell like pee. But mostly because of the rats.
Bunny hunts rats similarly to how she hunts mice: with cries of bloodlust, and alarming enthusiasm. The key difference, apart from size, is that when she catches a live rat in her mouth, she is usually in a public park, and people are usually staring.
Bunny revels in this attention, and desires that her hunting prowess be celebrated by onlookers. So she brings rats to people, pauses for admiration, and then releases the rats at the feet of her adoring fans. Shrieking ensues. Bunny accepts these cries as her deserved adulation.
When Bunny Hunts Skunks
The stronger the smell, the greater the glory. This is, I can only assume, Bunny’s chief thought while flushing skunks out from the underbrush.
Whether we are on a quiet side street in Manhattan, or deep in the woods of Appalachia, if Bunny catches a whiff of skunk, she is a dog possessed. The following obstacles have been unable to dissuade Bunny from her mad pursuit of a skunk:
When Bunny gets too close to a skunk (she has yet to catch one) this is what happens:
Fifteen dollars of tomato sauce later, and stench improves to be only “merely horrifying.” Her love of cuddling, like her love of the skunk hunt, can not be discouraged.
After The Hunt
Bunny lifestyles resembles that of a Neolithic Man: she returns from The Hunt to a home prepared to her satisfaction, a warm meal awaiting her, and does naught but sleep and eat. She considers this her due, and gives no thanks. And at this point, none is expected.
The Hunt will call again to Bunny, of this I am sure. She will answer it tomorrow, the next day, and every day after that. I will be dragged along at the end of her leash, a human drogue parachute. My resistance serves only to handicap her, and thus make The Hunt more sporting.
*Don’t worry, Bunny gets her annual lepto shots to inoculate herself against rodent diseases.