When Bunnies Go Bad

by Clea Simon

  “No, no, it’s not that.” I heard a sigh, and for a moment I expected tears would follow. They didn’t. Marnie Lundquist was tiny, but she was tough. “It’s—I believe it is something I did. Please, could you come over?”

  Cursing myself silently for not sticking to my position about wild animals as pets, I grabbed my keys and made ready to go. Wallis, I could tell, was watching, her eyes curious and wide. When I poured the rest of the coffee down the sink—it wouldn’t take another reheating—she jumped down and came to brush against me. As bothered as I was, the warm pressure was a comfort, as I was sure she knew full well.

  “Thanks, Wallis.”

  The low rumble of her purr and one word—“family”—and I had to go.

  Not that there was any reason for me to rush. In the twenty minutes that it had taken me to get to Marnie Lundquist’s neat little house, it seemed the crisis had passed. I entered to find the older woman pink-cheeked with relief, and the small brown rabbit happily sucking up a blade of grass from the small pile before him as if it were fresh pasta.

  “Look at him eat!” She clasped her hands before her. “Doesn’t he look lovely?”

  “Yes, he does.” I answered slowly. Maybe this old bird wasn’t the model of stability I had assumed. “But you called because you had a problem?”

  She nodded. With her hands before her and her lips tight, I could almost feel the tension. Marnie Lundquist was holding something back.

  “He’s not himself,” she said finally.

  “Do you want me to examine him?” I waited. “As I said, I’m not a vet…”

  “I know, and, yes, please.” I took a step toward the small brown creature before she reached out to me. “Only, please, be careful.”

  “Of course.” I knelt on the floor, trying to make eye contact with the little leporid. He was too busy eating to mind me, but at least I didn’t pick up any of the fear I might have expected. Wild animals are fundamentally different from those we’ve domesticated. Their instincts are keener, their senses sharper. And that meant that my usual sensitivities were often useless, confused, or came to me hopelessly late in an interaction. Still, Marnie Lundquist was not only a client but a nice enough woman. And the rabbit was frankly adorable. With a slight shiver of trepidation, I held my hand out. This was my customary overture: hand low, palm up. Friendly, nonthreatening. My only concern was what Henry would find on my outstretched fingers. After all, I’d only given my hands the most cursory wash before leaving.

  He paused in his nibbling to reach his brown head toward me. I held my breath, wondering too late if Wallis’ parting contact was meant more as loving gesture or as her claim.

  The quivering nose came close enough for me to feel his warm bunny breath.

  “She’s your female?” The thought hit me so hard I jerked back.

  “Did he go for you?” Marnie Lundquist had stayed behind me, but I kept my eyes on the rabbit as I responded.

  “No, I simply—I lost my balance.” It was lame, and I got a wave of something from the rabbit that bordered on amusement. “Why? Did he try to bite you?”

  “Not exactly.” Henry lifted his active nose once more in my direction, taking in the air around me, and I got a quick rundown on my own day: “dog, cat, bird, fish?” But it wasn’t Henry I was waiting for. Marnie Lundquist wasn’t paying for a house call simply to have me confirm her impressions.

  “He, well, he growled at me earlier,” she said finally. She looked down at the floor, her hands clasped, as if embarrassed. The rabbit paused in his meal to gaze up at her. “It was unmistakable,” she said.

  That was curious, but not unprecedented. “How old is Henry again?” I spoke as softly as I could. As softly as I imagined the bunny would.

  She tilted her head, her white bun bobbing as she thought this through. “Cara found him in the fall, so perhaps five or six months?”

  I nodded. Although this bunny might look like a cute toy, I was betting he was in the throes of adolescence. “It could be spring fever,” I explained. “I could probably tell if our little guy here is sexually mature if he’d let me examine him…” I paused. Technically, I knew how to examine a rabbit, but it wouldn’t be easy. Bunny bodies aren’t as obvious as a human’s, and I’d have to flip the little fellow onto his back to get at the openings that shielded his private parts. He would feel vulnerable. Exposed.

  “Oh, I don’t think he’d like that.” Marnie Lundquist echoed my thought, adding her own trace of embarrassment. “And he seems fine now. Doesn’t he?”

  “Yes, he does. But still…may I?” I was speaking out loud to the woman, but I focused my thought on the rabbit before me. When neither objected, I reached out for the creature. He didn’t struggle, and I got no notes of panic as I gently stroked him, my hand cupping his round body. Instead, I was flooded with pleasure. This little fellow was as soft as anything I’d ever felt.

  “Family, nursing…young…” I couldn’t help it. I’ve never been one for the young of my own kind, but I longed to cradle the rabbit to me as if he were a child.

  “He likes you.” Marnie Lundquist came closer and sat in front of me.

  “He does seem quite content.” I was aware of how fast the little heart was beating, but I wasn’t getting fear or pain. Though there was something…a rumble. A stirring. I reached my other hand toward him. If I could just flip him, I could—

  Too late, the little rabbit kicked—I could feel the strength in those hindquarters as he hopped away. When he turned, those big eyes stared at me, wary.

  “Have you taken him to a vet?” I thought about making another attempt. His nose twitched, as if to say, “just try it.” And I sat back on the floor. I know when I’m defeated. “If just to have him neutered.” I was talking to his person now. “It might be a good idea.”

  “No, I haven’t.” She shook her head. “I don’t believe I should, not until Cara gets back. After all, if the veterinarian felt compelled to report him…”

  She didn’t have to say any more. Henry was an illegal pet. And while the law—certainly in our neck of the woods—has other problems, if someone brought a wild animal in to Doc Sharpe over at County or any other reputable vet, little Henry would probably be reported and confiscated. Or worse. I might not know what was going on with this little fellow, but I wasn’t going to make any more problems for Henry or the kindly old woman who loved him.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I was going to be a bit late for my appointment with Cheryl, I realized by the time I got back on the road. Marnie Lundquist had dragged out the visit, asking me questions that she appeared to know the answer to as if reluctant to let me go. It was odd behavior for a woman who seemed so competent, reminding me of the questions I’d had after our first meeting. But I didn’t know the old lady well, and some animals do put up a brave front at first, as a defense against attack.

  I finally got out the door by promising her another visit. Henry had moved on by then, hopping slowly over to his nest of paper shavings, which he proceeded to dig at in an almost feline manner. Watching him, I was reminded of how little I recalled about the family Leporidae. My school days were a few years behind me at this point, and I made a mental note to bone up on rabbit behavior. This little guy seemed to be the picture of health, both mentally and physically. But I couldn’t discount what his petite caregiver had said. Nor could I dismiss that feeling—a sense of stirring—that I had picked up, however briefly, when I had touched him.

  I tried to dismiss my worries as I drove to my next appointment. The day was doing its best. While the March air still held the hint of frost, the freshness that Growler had enjoyed had warmed up. Add in the additional daylight—only a month ago, we’d have been nearing dusk—and the drive was a joy, the road dry and dappled by the afternoon shadows. Granted, the folks at the Hills wouldn’t be so happy about the thaw. I wondered if Cheryl Ginger was considering sneakin
g back to the ski area for a last few runs. For the rest of us, spring couldn’t come soon enough, and it was with a stab of regret that I saw I was approaching the upscale hotel and my next appointment. The biggest problem with driving fast is that too soon the ride is over.

  “Cheryl Ginger, please.” I hadn’t thought to get a room number, but the desk clerk jumped to attention at the name. Some behaviors don’t need training, not in spring.

  My initial impression was reinforced by the flush on the young clerk’s cheeks as he got off the phone. “You can go up,” he said, his voice soft and a little wistful. “She’s in the Monadnock Suite.”

  And suite it was, I saw as she opened the door for me. I’d only seen a room in the hotel once before, and that was a regular room—if you can call a hotel room that was better furnished than my entire house “regular.”

  “Come on in.” Cheryl turned and walked down a hall lined with tasteful landscapes, the carpet thick enough so her heels made no sound. “Pudgy and I were just settling in.”

  “Thanks.” I snuck a look into the bathroom as I passed. It smelled of expensive soap. I resisted the urge to duck in and steal a bar and, instead, followed my hostess into a sunlit back room, where the dog was waiting, front paws crossed decorously as he lay on a deep rose chaise longue. “How you doing, Pudgy?”

  Silently, I addressed the dog. “Stewie,” I tried to direct my thoughts. “Will you talk to me?”

  “Oh, he’s so much better.” Cheryl sat next to him, her hand on his back. “I think his night outdoors really scared him.”

  “I believe it.” I continued looking at the dog who, I noticed, was not wearing his fancy collar. That could explain the vaguely quizzical sense I was getting from him. Then again, he could simply have been feeling me out. Still, I had questions of my own. “Though he doesn’t seem to be any the worse for wear.”

  “Pudgy?” She turned to look at him, as if he would answer. “No, he doesn’t, does he?”

  “But where’s his pretty collar?” I smiled, hoping to put her at ease, but it was a serious question. A collar is more than a means to attach a leash—or show off an owner’s wealth. It holds the animal’s ID, his proof of rabies shots, and more. For a dog to go without his collar would be like Cheryl Ginger not having the latest smartphone.

  “Silly me.” She looked around. The bling-covered leather was on the end table, and she quickly buckled it on, to the spaniel’s evident satisfaction. “I was going to brush him, you see.”

  I nodded, although I didn’t. There was something off here. For starters, I didn’t see a brush or any grooming tools nearby. Plus, the way she sat once I’d followed her in was more like she was posing for a family portrait than cuddling with a beloved pet. And although she had brought up the little dog’s adventure, she had been surprised when I had voiced my concern. Either she was incapable of empathy—always a possibility—or there was more going on than I could see.

  I needed to talk to the dog.

  “For a first lesson, I’d like to go over some basic commands,” I said. I was using my own basic command voice: low and calm. “I’d like to take Pudgy outside and see how he responds.”

  “Of course.” She jumped up. “Let me get my coat.”

  I shelved my objections until we got outside, which we did without any fuss, Cheryl taking us blithely down the elevator and out through the front lobby. In fact, from the look on the desk clerk’s face, I wondered if she might be slipping him treats. But the redhead wasn’t my concern, except as a client, and so once we were out of doors, I led the small dog over to the edge of the parking lot. From here, I could see down into the surrounding woods. The snow had retreated on this side of the hill, leaving only white patches against the dark base of the trees. The day had been sunny, the temperatures—almost clement. Either spring was genuinely on its way, or the money behind the Chateau truly did buy its guests something better and beyond. Either way, I saw an opportunity.

  “Come on, Pudgy.” I chucked for the dog to walk.

  “Are you going to keep him on the road?” The merest hint of distress had crept into the redhead’s voice. Of course, those heels.

  “I’d like to take him on a trail.” Again, my voice was smooth and even, with nothing in it to alarm her. I even smiled as I explained. “See how he reacts with distractions like birds and other animals.”

  “Oh.” She paused, lost in thought, and I looked down at the spaniel.

  “What did you find in the woods, Stewie? What were you looking for?” He wagged his tail, but that was all. For all I knew, he was simply pleased at the idea of a good walk.

  “It might be better if I take him alone.” I delivered the coup de grace. “For training purposes.” Another smile, to soften the blow. “You see, if he will obey the voice commands of a stranger, that assures that he’s well trained.”

  “I’ll just wait here then.” She sounded a bit forlorn. If I didn’t know better, I would have said she was a nervous pet owner—one who had nearly lost her dog the day before. Maybe that was even the truth.

  “Come on, boy.” I spoke out loud, avoiding the dog’s real name while there was the possibility that Cheryl was still in earshot. I had set out at a slow jog, and the energetic little animal seemed quite pleased to run alongside. “Let’s go into the woods, shall we?”

  “Collar off?” He paused to look up at me, and I’m afraid I started.

  “What? No.” We were a good few hundred yards into the woods by then. The lengthening shadows blended with his caramel markings, but I could still make out the puzzled look on his face. “Who let you run without your collar?”

  I had intended to interrogate the animal, but this was potentially more serious. Letting a dog run off lead I could get behind—a well-trained dog, that is, who would come when called and not get into too much trouble. Taking the dog’s collar off was a different matter.

  “My man. My person.” He turned to sniff at something—I got a strong sense of rot. A dead squirrel. Long dead. “We would play.”

  “Teddy Rhinecrest?” The scent of decay seemed to blend with my question, but the little dog didn’t answer, his nose buried beneath the leaves. “Here, Stewie?”

  I reached for his face, redirecting his muzzle toward me. Not all animals respond the same way, and I can’t communicate freely with any except Wallis. I credit our years together for that. She thinks it’s because she’s a cat. What I do know is that contact helps.

  For the spaniel, however, my hand was more than a means to move him. “Rabbit.” He buried his wet nose in my palm, and I got an image of brown fur, a white fluffy belly, and big dark eyes. I let him sniff, mentally confirming that, yes, I had been in contact with a rabbit recently. I wasn’t thrilled by his interest: spaniels are hunting dogs, and even the toy breeds retain the instinct. Maybe my honesty—the offering of my hand—would prompt him to open up.

  After a few moments, I tried again. “What were you doing in the woods, Stewie? What were you looking for? What did you find?” I voiced these questions out loud, but in my mind they were all the same —one query centered on one image: the woods.

  “Prey.” His nose was still busy, reacting to the rabbit smell, and his thoughts were coming through loud and clear. For the first time ever, I found the wet nose—inquisitive and busy—disconcerting. “Fear.” He must have picked that up from my desire to draw back, to block his curious sniffling, unless he was getting something older and more primitive from Henry himself. “Fear and hiding.”

  From the parking lot, I could hear Cheryl calling.

  “What was out there, Stewie?” I held his jaw, tilting his face up toward mine. By doing so, I broke his connection with my palm—with Henry. It was a risk, but I was running out of time. “Please, tell me.”

  “Hiding?” Those big, dark eyes stared into mine. He was trying as hard to read me, I felt, as I him. For all his toy status, h
e was a good dog—a working dog.

  “In the woods.” I didn’t want to discourage him. I did want to get him off Henry and the prey angle.

  “Family…my man. The man.” Despite the distractions, I got a sense of bonding. Kinship. Cheryl’s old boyfriend—her man on the side?

  “Mating?” If this was going to be multiple choice, I would offer the obvious options. Animals aren’t squeamish, and if Cheryl was meeting someone in the woods, I doubted it was to trade the time of day. But all I got was confusion and a mishmash of images.

  “Family,” he said, as much as thoughts could say anything. “Hiding. Holding on.”

  “There you are!” Cheryl Ginger was coming up behind us, heels sinking into the thick mulch. “I got bored waiting and figured I’d tag along.”

  “Of course.” I got to my feet and handed her the lead. “As I’ve said, the first lesson is about following simple instructions.”

  “She can do that.” It was the clearest thought I’d gotten yet, and I turned to stare down at the spaniel.

  “Is everything all right?” Cheryl yanked the leash up to her chest, and we both turned to her. Her face had gone white, her mouth drawn.

  “I believe so. But maybe this is too much for you right now.”

  “No, no.” With a visible effort, she lowered her hands to her sides. “It’s good for me to get outside. That’s why I’m so glad I have Pudgy.”

  It was such palpable nonsense I didn’t know how to respond. For an expert skier, the exercise a little dog would provide would be virtually unnoticeable. But as she spoke, I saw how the spaniel looked up at her, his dark eyes deep and focused.

  “I’m here to save her, and I will,” he was saying. “She’s my person now, as well as his.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was none of my business. I’d warned Cheryl about Benazi. I’d told her that he was a dangerous man, and I’d even tried to intervene—asking her about her late lover’s business. I’d gone as far as I could be expected, and then some.