The Constant Rabbit

‘Kent might have got longer,’ said Doc. ‘It was a good job RabSAg lent us one of their lawyers.’

The Rabbit Support Agency had been formed only three weeks after the Event, and had worked tirelessly – and mostly in vain – to improve rabbit/human relations. ‘Our work is finished,’ their spokesperson Patrick Finkle said, ‘when we see a female rabbit as prime minister.’

‘So, Peter,’ said Connie, ‘more dandelion brandy?’

‘Thank you.’

Connie poured me another tot and I downed it eagerly. It was powerful stuff, and I felt warm and tingly all over.

The conversation turned to education cuts and the NHS after that, and the differing ethical benchmarks between medical and veterinary science.

‘We’d like to enjoy the ridiculous amount of attention you pay to minor ailments,’ said Doc, ‘and in return, you might think more carefully about the huge benefits of euthanasia.’

And then Connie served up a blackberry parfait for pudding that melted on your tongue. Once the meal was over and the children had been packed off to do homework, Connie shooed Doc and I into the living room and said she’d bring in some coffee.

‘May I ask you a question?’ I asked as Doc poked the fire.

‘Of course.’

‘Yesterday, when I gave Connie the basket of carrots, you seemed angry. I was wondering—?’

‘You must excuse me my temper,’ he said with a trace of embarrassment, ‘scrubbed carrots given to a married doe can really only mean one thing: spouse appropriation.’

‘Oh,’ I said, ‘hence your comments about a duel.’

‘Pretty much. It’s a good job for you it was only the Autumn King variant. If it had been a Cosmic Purple there would have been no room for ambiguity and I’d ask you to name your seconds³⁵ and we’d be standing back to back at dawn on a foggy heath somewhere.’

‘Oh,’ I said, realising how this might have been a hideous faux pas, ‘sorry.’

‘Don’t give it a second thought,’ said Doc amiably, ‘but if you do want to make a play for Connie and she’s up for it, it’ll be pistols at dawn.’

‘I’m not looking to appropriate your wife, Doc.’

‘Good thing too, old boy. Cigar?’

‘No thanks.’

I thought for a moment.

‘So what’s your explanation for how you came to be anthropomorphised?’

‘Do you know,’ said Doc with a frown, ‘I’m not sure it’s ever been fully explained – or even if it’s relevant. Some say it was a spontaneous miracle performed by Lago the instant she died at the hand of man, or alternatively, a retrospective miracle performed by the Venerable Bunty, but I’m not sure that’s possible. Bunty herself thinks that it might have had a satirical component—’

‘Coffee!’ said Connie as she bounded into the room with an energetic flourish, and placed the tray on the table.

The coffee was, again, excellent, and after challenging me to a game of Scrabble that I lost in a spectacular manner to Connie’s placement of Poxviridae³⁶ across two triple word scores for a total of 257³⁷ points, the evening was soon over and they saw me to the door. I had enjoyed Doc and Connie’s company more than I had anyone else’s in Much Hemlock – Pippa excluded – for at least ten years. I remembered more clearly what I’d liked about Connie, too. Her charm, her range of conversation, and her mixture of good humour and perceptiveness. I suddenly found myself feeling a little stupid that I’d never looked her up.

Connie and I paused in the porch as she saw me out, Doc having excused himself to set the VCR to record The Great Escape.³⁸

‘It’s been a very pleasant evening,’ I said, ‘thank you very much.’

‘Likewise and really good to see you again,’ said Connie, staring at me intently.

‘Yes,’ I agreed, suddenly feeling all hot and flustered, ‘too long.’

She moved forward and gave me a hug. Her fur was as soft as the finest cashmere, and when her whiskers stroked against my cheek I twitched involuntarily. We released each other and then, catching me by surprise, she pulled me back in and gave me a second hug, much tighter yet briefer. I was going to ask her why, but at that moment Doc reappeared.

‘Goodbye, Peter,’ said Connie, ‘pop by any time.’

‘Yes indeed,’ said Doc, ‘always up for a game of Scrabble, or a gambol in the fields. Do you like gambolling? In moderation there’s nothing better.’

Gambolling in the meadows was a pastime peculiar to rabbits which involved sporadic jumping around on turf, usually just after sunrise, and best enjoyed when little was on your mind. Sort of like mixing jazz dancing and yoga.

‘I’ve not tried it,’ I said. ‘I think our version might be quite close to golf.’

‘Ah!’ said Doc. ‘Do you play?’

‘No.’

‘Me neither. Rubbish game. What about rugby or soccer?’

‘No.’

‘Glad to hear it. We abhor gladiatorial team sports. Why are you still bringing up your young men to be warriors?’

‘Are we?’

‘Looks like it. You may want to address that, along with the mummying and princeling stuff. You should reappraise the “death as entertainment” bullshit, too – I’m sure it’s not healthy.’

‘We don’t use death as entertainment.’