Wuff with the Smooth: Thumping

When I was a kid – probably around the age of nine of ten – I acquired my first rabbit. I called him Thumper, after the cute little cuniculus in Disney’s ‘Bambi.’

As far as I remember, I traded a telescope for Thumper and the transaction took place at primary school which, as you can imagine caused quite a stir – there being an honest-to-goodness, live rabbit under my desk for the duration of that day.

After school, I transported the black and white Thumper to his new home which was – this being a stopgap facility – an old tea chest, the front of which was covered in chicken wire. Some hay was procured, from where, I know not and the make-shift hutch was positioned in the shed in the back garden – double protection from the elements.

The next morning, I went out to feed Thumper and on the way, I pilfered a carrot from my father’s vegetable patch, a big orange specimen which I presumed Thumper would wolf down in seconds.

However, entering the shed in the back garden, Thumper was nowhere to be seen, there being only a tangle of hay inside the tea chest. It was only after calling his new name and hunkering beside the chest, that I finally realised that old Thumper was no longer in one piece. I am not ashamed to say that nine or ten-year-old me immediately screamed in anguish; it was as shocking an experience as I had ever encountered thus far into my journey through life.

At a best guess (following the funeral and interment – with which I was not involved, heartbroken, as I was), it was suggested that the chicken wire had not been of a sufficient fineness, by which I mean that the holes were so large as to allow a neighbourhood cat to sneak inside.

I recounted this story to the littlest little human in the house just last week when the annual, ‘Can I get a rabbit for Christmas’ conversation reignited. I followed ‘The Tragic Tale of Thumper’ with the not-so shocking ‘Story of Thumper II’ (so named after his predecessor, of course). This tale relayed how Thumper II and I spend the following summer as virtual strangers. The issue, as I repeatedly emphasised is this: Rabbits aren’t much craic and as such, the novelty of having a rabbit wears off very quickly – even after such a catastrophic experience with the first rabbit and you’re trying to be as nurturing and as playful as possible with the second rabbit.

“I would snuggle my rabbit in my bed and we would be the best of friends,” Anna assured me.

“But I see you snuggling Waffle all the time,” I countered.

“That’s different. Waffle is a smelly boy. I would have a girl rabbit.”

“Girl rabbits can still be smelly.”

“I would give her a bath and she could have one of my bath bombs to make her smell nice.”

“You can give Waffle a bath any time you want. Sure, why don’t you give him a bath now – get some the Barbies in on the act. I’ll put on some dance tunes for you.”

“Waffle doesn’t like Barbies, remember. He chewed up Fancy Barbie, the one with the sparkles in her hair, remember.”

“Rabbits have teeth too, you know.”

“Yes, small teeth that wouldn’t harm a fly.”

“Waffle wouldn’t harm a fly either.”

“Unless it’s called Barbie.”

“Anyway, you’re not getting a rabbit and that’s that.”

“You’re mean!”

“You stink!”

I think all parents would agree that we want to do the best for our children – and by ‘best’ I mean keeping them as happy as possible for as long as possible. And there is no doubt, seeing Anna beaming on Christmas morning snuggling her new rabbit would fill my heart to bursting. But do I want to trade that fleeting sense of well-being for the reality that it would, all-too-soon, be up to me to clean out the hutch and take it to the vet’s – or God forbid – carryout the required funeral and interment arrangements, should they become necessary?

“But you already have Waffle,” I tried again, lamely attempting a diplomatic compromise.

“We went back and forth like this until I finally gave in – but just a little.

“Look, I’m not saying yes… yet. But maybe – just maybe – Santa could bring a Thumper III,” I said, trying to sound casual. “You just have to promise not to ignore Waffle and not blame me if anything goes wrong.”

Anna crossed her arms, smirking. “Deal. But she’s not being called Thumper III. And, if she smells funny, you’re officially on the naughty list.”

Waffle, who had witnessed the whole interaction from his favourite spot on the sofa, gave a slow blink and yawned. He didn’t look one bit pleased.

“Amen, brother,” I told him.