Hunting Wascally Jack Wabbit

The rabbit's soft fur entranced me. I petted the pelt, stroking its beigey tan backside and marveling at the black tail. I'd kept the black ears too. They were what I first noticed silhouetted against the very sky blue sky. Mr. Jack Rabbit had been my first kill, the first animal I'd shot with my less-than-a-year old Ruger .22 take-down rifle.

I'd brought the rifle along for the ride..just in case. I knew hunting was legal in Carrizo Plains National Monument, so I figured "what the heck." I'd been dying to get my first kill out of the way. It was far less painful emotionally than I had imagined. I think the road-kill squirrel I dressed recently had been more mentally draining. Then, fragile from the guilt I felt at even contemplating hunting, carving up roadkill still left me unnerved. No, this time, I was exhilarated honestly and very ready for the hunt.

Mr. Jack Rabbit sat atop a moderate sized grassy hill amidst hills and hills of rolling grassland and yellow sunflowers and purple filaree and orange poppies. Dan and I had walked along the lone dirt road for less than a mile, my gun in tow just in case. When I saw Mr. Jack Rabbit, he stood still, frozen, his eyes watching us. Did he not know how obvious he was against the sky? Did he seriously think we couldn't see him?

My gun has a habit of jamming right when I need it.

On my first outing when I was hoping to shoot a squirrel, I fumbled with it for five whole minutes before I got the thing to lock down for the ready. This time Dan fumbled with it. I'm sure he thought he'd know more about how to get it to work, since he is a man. He didn't. I smirked.  I knew it wasn't just me. The gun goes into the shop the moment I return. It's had this problem for a while now, and it's only getting worse.

After what seemed like eternity, the gun was cocked and ready. I steadied it against my cheek and took careful aim for his head. I wanted to make this quick and easy, so I aimed for his eye.

Pow.

The gun went off, and like that, he was dead. No suffering, no rabbit screams like my pet rabbit, Baz used to do when I took him out on his leash and an airplane flew overhead. No, one shot, my first shot, my only shot and Mr. Jack Rabbit lay listless atop the hill. The sun shone down upon him, and I said a little prayer thanking the universe for the clean kill and the  meal I was going to enjoy that night.

Dan and I high-fived, as we trudged up the hill, grinning, celebrating my first official hunting kill. How should I pose? Should I hold him by the ears, the feet? Should I smile or look serious or should I feign shame?

I posed in the traditional pose, holding the rabbit by the ears, grinning wildly, my rifle held in my opposing hand, its butt by my feet. We took several pictures, mostly for our friends not on Facebook.

We walked back to the car, silently. Dan held my hand. We'd been together for many years, and I'd moved out multiple times. I'm moved out now, but I still cherish the man. He is still my best friend, and for that I am grateful. Although I would like to potentially date, it seems foolhardy to do so when you know you're going to be leaving for most of the rest of the year. I just don't know.

Back at the campsite, we began the grueling process of slicing around the anus, horizontally across the thighs, then up to the sternum. I continued the knife cut up to the throat, then sliced the throat along the jaw to open it up to the windpipe. I severed the windpipe, pulling the guts out. The stomach, liver and heart lay in a blob at my knees. I grabbed the rabbit's heart. "I am going to eat this first", I thought. It's a small way to honor him. As someone who genuinely believes that energy simply changes form once someone dies, I don't think of death as permanent. To me, Mr. Jack Rabbit's essence now permeates something or maybe someone else now. I do not mourn, because I do not see death as worth of mourning. Sure, we can miss the people who have dropped their spirits, but believing that part lives on gives me some comfort.

Skinning him was far easier than skinning the squirrel had been. His pelt came off in one fell swoop. It was soft. I planned to make slippers with it.

I thought of Mr. Jack Rabbit's life. Had he lived a long time? Did he have a wife and kids? How long had he lived in this beautiful piece of heaven? I wondered what his days were like. Did he dream? Had he gone to rabbit heaven? Had he had a chance to fuck before he died?

As I pulled off the skin from the meat, Dan and I discussed our limited option for gourmet rabbit fare. I'd brought salt and lemon-pepper. Dousing the skin in a fine crust of both, we put him on a spit, lit a fire and opted for a slow roast. About an hour and a half later, the tangy meat pulled easily from the bone. As the sun set across the rolling flowery vista, we both sat on our campsite logs grateful for our lives.

It had been a very good day.

Pow! The gun went off, the bullet whizzed by the rabbit's head. It was not one even inch away! Yet Mr. Jack Rabbit stood frozen, stiff, still, not moving. I couldn't believe it! I couldn't believe I'd been granted an opportunity at a second shot. I took aim again. This time I put my sights on his heart. The 3/4 view I'd been given seemed perfect for that. It's bigger area, I'd hoped, would give me a better chance of success.

Pow! This time I missed by about a foot. Mr. Jack Rabbit took off running. Dan and I pursued. He ran around the corner through the ravine and disappeared. Undeterred, Dan and I slowly walked through the small valley looking under each bush, rattling them as we passed. Dan rattled one bush, and Mr. Jack Rabbit took off up the opposing hillside, disappearing. We followed him up the hill, tossing rocks at each bush. After about 20 minutes, we came across a large rabbit hole. We figured he'd run to this known safe place and escaped.

Mr. Jack Rabbit got away.

The entire fantasy I had of my first kill was gone. No slippers, no heart, no pelt, no dinner. Yet, the thrill of the hunt had been deeply satisfying and a bonafide blast. Since I'd only shot my gun at a range which allows only one shot every 2 seconds, I'd never yet used the semi-automatic feature of my rifle. If I had, my fantasy of Mr. Jack Rabbit would more than this tall tale.

Better luck next time.