How to Train Your Rabbit

My butt still hurts. The injury is, let’s face it, my own fault. One shouldn’t blatantly harass Mother Nature. Yes, I was mad. There was a rabbit in my garden! It’s spring up here in NorCal so nothing important is sprouting in my twenty-by-twenty fenced-off area. And yes, I had left the gate open as one of its hinges was damaged—a basic invitation for any critter to enter therein and chow down. But there was a rabbit in my garden! A visceral human instinct took over: Kill the Wabbit! Well, not really harm it, just harass it.

Let me set the scene: With my coffee cup in one hand and my walking stick in the other, I had just completed a leisurely stroll around the property—only the second walk of the season since the snow finally stopped. Bodie, the ranch’s Chief Security Officer, accompanied me along to make his round of snuffly inspections. Approaching the fenced garden, I spied a panel of wire mesh that had come undone, and made the repair—and that’s when I saw it: a cottontail skulking in a corner. Gray and brown, the critter looked a lot like a childhood pet I had named “Innocence.” Aha! Gotcha!

I hurried inside and figured I’d give the beasty a good run for his money. Teach it a lesson. Dispense some Pavlovian conditioning or, better yet, behavior modification. Not skin it, but B. F. Skinner it! Long ago, I’d given up the notion of killing critters on my ranch. Live and let live! Rabbits are especially useful. I only mowed the grass twice last season because they kept the lawns well-clipped. Plus, while the bunnies feast, they also fertilize. It’s a twofer benefit that’s organic to boot—right up my sustainable alley.

An early adopter of ecology, in junior high school I participated in the very first Earth Day, April 1970. I read Paul Ehrlich’s best-seller book, The Population Bomb, and made presentations to several classes on China and world over-population, complete with easel-sized charts and graphs that would have made Ross Perot envious. Still a greenie in my adulthood, every April, I step out for Earth Day and pick up cans and garbage along the county road. So, no—no whacking the wildlife. But giving chase a bit might do some good—and lets me let off steam.

Let’s face it; these rabbits have 40 million years of evolved behavior developed to save their skins. They know how to survive, how to evade—and how to escape. Humans, on the other hand, set aside this skill when they invented the shotgun. Just stand your ground, aim, and shoot! Bam. Elmer Fudd gets revenge—but not with this critter. Not suffering any winter-induced lethargy, said rabbit was nimble—light on its feet. As I gave chase, it turned on a dime and went back and forth between the raised beds, always hopping just out of my reach. Bodie came inside the garden and summarily fled. He didn’t chase the rabbit. He didn’t even bark. He got the heck out. Smart dog!

On the final turn between the raised beds, the rabbit came straight at me, lickety-split, hopping down that bunny trail. Now, you’d think I would have charged right at it. Nope! Thousands of years of human evolutionary behavior took over. Escape from danger! I backed up. The rabbit kept racing toward me, so backward I went, stumbling along out of control until I reached the gate opening, tripped over the threshold board (which I’d forgotten about) and sprawled onto my hind end. The walking stick flew one way, the metal coffee cup the other. My hat popped off. I never saw where the rabbit went.

Lying prone, limbs outstretched as if I were making snow angels, I wondered if any bones broke—or if I even could get back up. My neighbors live distant on surrounding hills, so no one witnessed this farmyard farce. Luckily, a winter’s worth of snow and rain had softened the ground, or I’d be in a butt cast right now. Imagine trying to explain the mishap to the folks in the emergency room: “It’s the rabbit’s fault!”

The last time I had a similar accident here at the ranch was during a bit of vain tomfoolery. After a delightful snowfall, I filmed a selfie video. With my cell phone in one hand, I sang, “Sleigh bells ring, are you listening...” dancing along backward until I came to a snow-covered gravel pile (which I had forgotten about) and went sprawling, and splayed out— ready to make those snow angels. Since seeing behind myself is not an evolved skill, I figure I best give up walking backward. I guess you can say that my behavior has been modified.

A native Californian, H.A. Silliman grew up in the Gold County and currently lives in the northern outback. He is author of The Two Rivers anthology, which also appears in this newspaper. ©2023 H.A. Silliman.