THE RABBIT

The Rabbit

The rabbit lay flat on the parched earth, its powerful back legs stretched out as if in sleep, its eyes closed. I moved closer, thinking it was dead, and saw that it was still breathing. I could see it panting for breath, its firm sides moving in and out beneath the soft tan fur as it struggled for life. There was no obvious injury, no clear reason why it had lain down here to die, unless perhaps a desire to separate, to prevent the infection of the rest of the burrow. I wanted to reach out and touch the pulsating little body, to run my fingers through its downy fur, to comfort it, but I knew that human touch would incite fear, not comfort, in this wild creature.

My dog sniffed it, curious about this unexpected find, then lay down nearby, almost as if she knew this small and helpless creature was a soul in torment. She made no move to worry it or try to chase it away: instead she seemed to be protective, knowing perhaps that to die alone was a cold and desperate fate.

I stood for several minutes watching that small chest rise and fall, the fluffy puff of tail lying still against the ground where it must before have twitched and flashed in play. This animal seemed strangely resigned to its end, unconcerned with my presence. Should I put it out of its misery? It seemed, in these days of isolation and separateness, wrong to call on a vet, and I wished I could summon the strength to kill it myself; it felt cruel to leave it out in the open, waiting for inevitable death.

Reluctantly, I walked on.

Another walker was approaching with another dog.

‘Hey, there’s a sick rabbit there, by the path,’ I called. I saw her restrain her dog, fix on a lead, then pass with barely a smile. These days we pass each other cautiously; human interaction seems so linked with infection, and here was an unexplained poisoning, an unwelcome reminder of the fears that lurk so close to the surface of all of our minds in these strange plague-filled days.

The next day I passed that way again, saw the dark stain on the dry, scrubby grass and the pile of soft fluff blowing in the breeze. Nothing else remained. I hoped its despatch had been quick.

As the ominous numbers rise on the news and strangers treading the local paths become objects of fear and suspicion rather than people to be welcomed, this little death haunts me. Pinned down, helpless in my home, I sense the invisible predator approaching; I imagine the last painful, gasping breaths behind those numbers and feel the preciousness and fragility of our lives and safety.

Clare Ereira