### Aesop
When I was a kid, I begged my parents for a dog. It started when I was seven, I think, and continued until I was ten, when I gave up. By then, they’d made it clear that I wasn’t getting a dog. I still don’t have one. Never have, in fact. And I’m pushing forty now. No, I’ve only ever had one pet, and it was that rabbit.
You’ve never heard of a kid begging their parents for a rabbit, have you? I’m sure kids like that exist, but somehow, it seems to me that the type of kid who’d want a rabbit in the first place isn’t likely to be the kind of kid who’d muster up the courage to ask their parents for much of anything, especially with any level of tenacity. But maybe I’m conflating rabbit tendencies and rabbit-likers, and that wouldn’t be fair to either side of that equation.
But lots of kids hound their parents relentlessly for a dog, right? Plenty of parents relent, too, or are happy to oblige. Lots of parents are dog lovers. Some kids are even born into families where a dog’s already present—lucky them. For better or worse, dog ownership is just a trial run of child-rearing for many conscientious couples, and when they decide to take the plunge, the dog’s along for the ride. For a long time, I envied the kinds of kids who found themselves in those kinds of situations.
Anyway, long story short, I wanted a dog – the kind of big, beautiful golden retriever who always looked like he was smiling whenever his mouth hung open – but my parents didn’t see fit to indulge that dream of mine. My mother had allergies, they told me. And who would walk the damn thing every single day? Not my father, that was for damn sure.
For a brief spell, I tried to convince myself that maybe I’d settle for having a pet cat, but that felt like settling for a bowl of lukewarm soup when what you were really craving was a pizza with extra cheese. So I never outright suggested a cat to my parents, and to their credit, they never broached the subject either.
I just wish my dad had never bothered with that damn rabbit.
It was early in July. Summer vacation still felt brand new and full of possibility. The guy next door was washing his car and had the baseball game on the radio. I was sitting on the back porch, reading a comic book when my dad came home from work. He sold cars over at Pontino’s Ford, and worked unpredictable hours, but that day he came home around three in the afternoon.
“Hey Jamie,” he said, sounding like he had exciting news.
“Yeah?” I looked over my shoulder, wondering what the news could be.
“C’mere. I got something for you.”
This did not happen, as a general rule. My dad got me presents for my birthday and Christmas, and that was it. Aced a test at school? Came home with an A+ on my report card? All well and good, but met with nothing more than a hearty clap on the back, and a “good job,” or some such. So I got up from my seat on the porch feeling a heady rush of excitement shot through with a blue sliver of trepidation. I followed him along the side of the house to the driveway, where his forest green Taurus was parked.
He paused next to the car, and turned toward me, crouching down a bit so his eyes were level with mine.
“Now, you’re not obliged to keep it, okay? So if you don’t want it, that’s alright. Just let me know, and I’ll take it back.”
My reply was a slightly cocked head. He grinned and nodded.
“Yeah, best to show you, huh?” He opened the rear passenger door, reached in, and pulled out a sizable cardboard box—the kind used for transporting tomatoes in bulk. He pulled back the blanket that had been draped over top enough to reveal a white rabbit, no bigger than a football.
I blinked at the rabbit, and it blinked back, nose twitching.
“I know how badly you want a dog, son, but… Listen, one of the guys at work had a few of these rabbits to give away, and—”
“Why did a guy at work have rabbits to give away?” By now, a smile had spread across my face, and despite my mild confusion, I decided to leave it be.
My dad chuckled. “You know? I didn’t even think to ask. But I told him I’d take one, and here it is.”
A beat passed.
“So what do you think?” He asked.
I didn’t honestly know what I thought, but I was still high on the thrill of being surprised by my dad on a sunny afternoon with a pet to call my own. The first pet I’d ever had. (Also the last.)
“He’s great!” I said.
My dad stood up, satisfied. “How do you know it’s a he?”
“I don’t,” I said. “Just a guess.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “Let’s take this little fella inside.”
Anyone who’s ever known a rabbit can tell you that they shit all the time, and at volume. Luckily it comes in the form of tiny compact balls, and it’s easy to scoop up and clean. I found out about rabbit shit minutes after introducing the little fella to our kitchen. Once I’d set his tomato box down on the linoleum, he poked his head over one edge of the cardboard, as if taking in his surroundings. Then, seemingly deciding it was safe to go exploring, he hopped out of the box and started making his way along the baseboard.
“Mom’s not home yet?” Dad asked.
“Nope, and Sarah’s at Renee’s house.” Sarah was my older sister, and Renee was her best friend. My mom worked at a junior high school, and had signed up to teach summer school classes. As a kid, I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why she’d voluntarily choose to work in the summertime. She did it every year she was able, too. It wasn’t until I’d grown up a bit and gotten my own taste of the economy that the choice started to make a dreary kind of sense.
“Perfect.” Dad smiled conspiratorially.
“So I really get to keep this guy?” I picked the rabbit up to try and pet it, which he clearly wasn’t in favour of, but I had the size advantage.
“Assuming your mom doesn’t object.”
“Where will he stay?”
It wasn’t clear whether or not my dad had thought about that. He faltered, but recovered quickly. “In the backyard. You know that patch of garden where nothing’s planted.”
Our backyard was decently sized, with a big maple tree on the right side, green grass (which it had lately become my job to mow), and a garden off to the left. It had a shrub and cucumbers or mini tomatoes when my mom felt like it. Currently, it had a patch of dirt a few feet wide that no plant life had yet lay claim to. At first, that seemed like the ideal home for the rabbit. But only at first.
“He’ll escape,” I said.
“Not if we put up some chicken wire,” Dad said.
I considered for a moment. “What if it rains?” I said.
Dad frowned. “Rabbits don’t mind getting wet.”
“We can’t leave him outside in the rain!” There I was, indignant about the rights of an animal I’d known for seven minutes. “Or overnight!”
My father crossed his arms. “Alright,” he said. “Get in the car. We’ve got some shopping to do.”
By the time we pulled back into the driveway, we’d already agreed to a compromise we could both live with. The rabbit would live out in the yard during the daytime, and come into the house only at night, or when the weather was inclement. It would, of course, be my job to shuttle the rabbit back and forth accordingly, and if it got left out all night and some coyote came along, well, I’d only have myself to blame. I couldn’t recall ever having seen a coyote, but I told myself to be on the lookout for them.
The rabbit had been a fine passenger throughout the multiple stops on our shopping trip, as he evidently had also been when my dad brought him home from work. I’d sat next to him in the back seat, watching his little nose twitching constantly, and thanking my lucky stars that, even though his fur reminded me of freshly-fallen snow, he didn’t have those weird red eyes that so many white rabbits seemed to have.
My dad had gone first to the hardware store, then the mall (which didn’t have a pet store, it turned out), and finally the big box shopping center across town from the mall (which did). We’d come home with chicken wire, some rabbit food (brown pellets that smelled like the inside of a barn) and a cage, for indoors. And that first night passed without incident. My mom had barely commented on the rabbit when she saw the cage in my room, just told me to make sure it got fed. Sarah was more excited. She cuddled the rabbit for a little while, sitting on the floor in my room. It wasn’t until she asked me what his name was that I realized he didn’t have one yet.
“Aesop,” I told her. I didn’t know where that came from. Still don’t, to this day. But nobody ever questioned it, so Aesop it was.
Did you know that if a rabbit doesn’t have something to gnaw on constantly, its front teeth will just keep growing, like a fingernail, or a hair? Eventually the tooth might even start curling in on itself, sort of like a ram’s horn. Bugs Bunny taught millions of people that rabbits love carrots, and maybe that stereotype does have some roots in reality, but shortly after Aesop came into my life, I started doing research on rabbits, taking books out from the library. I started to get the feeling that the link between rabbits and carrots came from some farmer somewhere in history figuring out that when he gave his rabbits carrots to nibble at, their teeth stayed under control. Either that, or the reason rabbits snatched carrots out of undefended gardens was some nature-driven urge they had to maintain dental health. When I was really little, my mom read me all those Beatrix Potter stories, and half of them seemed to feature rabbits getting in trouble over carrots. At least, that’s how I remembered them.
Anyway, the point is, Aesop made me realize that, until he came along, all of my experience with rabbits had come through stories and cartoons. I had no idea how to care for a rabbit – luckily, it didn’t seem to be all that demanding a task – and, by extension, I didn’t really know what constituted what you’d call a normal rabbit.
After skimming through a book or two, and with a little trial and error, the caring-for half of the equation more or less took care of itself. It was even less challenging than it seemed at first, in fact. Make sure the rabbit’s got a steady supply of food, something to chomp on, and space to run around, and you’re ninety percent of the way there.
But the other half of the equation? Well, it wasn’t long before I started wondering whether there might be something off about Aesop.
See, everyone knows about the long ears, and the buck teeth. Everyone knows that, to folks of a certain persuasion, a rabbit’s foot is considered a lucky charm. Rabbits have a set number of physical characteristics that they’re known for. Their eyes, though? You don’t hear a lot about rabbits’ eyes.
For the rest of that summer, my daily interactions with Aesop went something like this: I’d get up in the morning, stumble out of bed, and go over to his cage to check on him. Not once did I ever catch him snoozing in the morning—he’d always be wide awake, munching on a food pellet, or pacing around in the wood shavings I’d lined his living quarters with.
He was an early riser, Aesop.
If the sun was shining (which it was, most mornings), I’d take him downstairs with me and out into his corner of the yard before pouring myself a bowl of cereal. Most days, my schedule was pretty much wide open, so I’d hang around for a while after breakfast, watching Aesop hop-stepping around his patch of dirt. Once I’d had my fill of that, and it seemed like he had everything under control, I’d get on my bike and ride over to the park, or to my buddy Andre’s place. Whatever that day called for, I’d see to it that it gone done, which meant that Aesop was generally on his own until I got home (which was always before the streetlights came on).
Occasionally, I’d spend the day at home, and check in on Aesop periodically. Over time, both the frequency and the duration of these check-ins began to dwindle. Aesop was predictable, and didn’t offer a lot in the way of entertainment. But like my mom told me to do, I made sure he always had food and water.
One evening, as my dad stood at the sink washing the after-dinner dishes, I heard him say to no one in particular, “Storm’s on its way tonight. Someone ought to bring that rabbit in before the rain starts.” I couldn’t tell if he’d intended for me to hear him, but I did, and since I had nothing better to do, I set aside the book I’d been reading and got up from my seat at the table.
As soon as I stepped outside, I could feel what he was talking about. The air had that edge to it—the smell that signals an oncoming summer storm. You’d never know it if old Aesop was your only barometer, though. He simply sat there in the dirt, nose twitching, a nibbled-at carrot stub by his side. I went to pick him up, but paused mid-crouch, letting out a gasp of revulsion. Aesop’s left eye was fine. But the right one – that shiny, dark marble – wasn’t level with the left. It was nearly a full inch higher up Aesop’s head than its opposite. Almost tucked away in the soft pink valley at the base of his right ear.
Placing one hand firmly on his back to ensure he wouldn’t hop away, I took his head in the other. Gently, so as not to hurt him, I turned it so he was facing me. And there was no mistaking it: his right eye had somehow crept up toward his ear. As I was examining him, he blinked – the right eye a split second after the left, like it was playing catch-up – and I let go of him like he was sandwich in which I’d discovered a live cockroach.
Had he always been this way—my little leporid Quasimodo? Surely I would have noticed by now. Was I feeling jittery because of the storm brewing? No, I’d long ago outgrown being afraid of a little thunder. This was… new.
Gritting my teeth, I snatched Aesop up and ran back into the house with him tucked under my arm like a football. Halfway up the stairs to my room, I stopped cold. The idea of letting Aesop spend the night at the foot of my bed suddenly didn’t sit right with me, even though that’s where he’d spent every night up until now.
Before going to sleep later that night, I moved Aesop’s cage into my closet and shut the door. But I didn’t have the heart to leave him that way, so I cracked the door back open, just a sliver. Enough to let in fresh air? I wasn’t sure. It simply felt less like locking him in solitary confinement that way.
Not a single drop of rain fell that night.
I woke with a squawk-gasp and sat up in bed, hair stuck to my sweaty forehead. My heart was thrumming in my chest. I must have had a nightmare, though I didn’t remember any of the details. It felt like it must have been a bad one.
Looking to the window, I could see that the sun had only just begun rising. Then my eyes darted to the closet. Jumpy as I was, I’d forgotten momentarily why it was ajar. It didn’t take long for the memory to kick in, but even once it had, I had a hard time convincing myself to get over the childlike suspicion that, as long as I stayed in my bed, I’d be safe.
I threw back the thin sheet which was all I slept with in the summertime, and set one tentative foot on the floor. My eyes trained on the closet door the entire time, I lowered my other foot, and slowly stood up. Ignoring the morning urge to go to the toilet and take a leak, I did my best ninja impression all the way over to the closet, and once I got there, yanked the door open with what I hoped look like authority. At the same time, I switched on my bedroom light.
And there was Aesop, in his usual static pose, wide awake. If he’d had any reaction to my opening the door, he didn’t show it. He simply sat, body perfectly parallel to the space created by the open door. It was not lost on me that his left side faced my now exposed room, while his right side faced toward the back of the closet. His left eye was open, and where I remembered it last being located on his head.
“Turn around,” I said aloud, surprising myself. I regretted it instantly. What if my parents – or more likely Sarah – heard? I cursed myself under my breath.
Unflappable Aesop remained still, except for the minute movements of his nose.
On a normal morning, I’d take Aesop out of his cage, and give him a little cuddle to start the day. But this morning, I was loathe to touch him. Still, I had to see his right eye. I had to know. So I grabbed hold of his cage, and started rotating it. As I did, he rotated himself in the opposite direction, keeping his left side facing me, his claws making tiny skritch-skritch sounds as he compensated.
“Fucker,” I hissed at him. Under other circumstances, that utterance might have elicited a thrill.
I turned the cage with more urgency, but Aesop matched my pace. So I gave up that tactic, opened up the cage, and reached for him. To my surprise, he offered no resistance. I whipped him around and my stomach leaped up into my throat — his right eye had grown overnight. To four times its former size, at least. It seemed to occupy the entire right side of his face. It looked like a greased steel ball. It rotated in its socket, and blinked. I dropped Aesop to the floor. He didn’t move. For a second, I thought he’d been catastrophically injured, but no, he was just sitting, calmly as before.
I stared down at him, positioned between and just in front of my feet. Resisting every instinct in me, I bent at the knees and slowly started getting down for a better look. And then, another eye opened. A hideously milky, dark grey eye, right in the center of his back. It stared back up at me, as if with recognition.
Without pausing to think about my next move, I ran back to my bed, tore the pillowcase off my pillow, and used it to scoop Aesop up from the floor. He didn’t protest. Just hung there limply like dead weight as I held the pillowcase at arm’s length.
The house was still silent. If I could get down the stairs and into the garage without waking anyone, then I had a chance. That’s where my bike was waiting. The plan formulated itself in my head, mercifully without seeming to need any input from me.
Pedaling back home, I started thinking up explanations for my early-morning bike ride. I had a feeling everyone would be awake by the time I got back, and I’d need an alibi. It was only a mild concern, because I was so full of adrenaline and relief that my body barely had room for anything else. I’d also have to explain my missing pillowcase to my mother. That would be a trickier proposition.
My mind kept replaying the scene that had played out only moments ago. There was a park across town that edged onto a small, forested area. If you walked through the trees for a while, you’d wind up at a chain link fence, beyond which was a steep drop, more trees, and untended vegetation. Every kid I talked to on a regular basis knew this spot like the back of their hand, despite all of our parents warning us never to go there. And it was over this chain link fence that I chucked the pillowcase containing Aesop. Swung it over my head once for good measure, and to give it some extra momentum, and just let it fly. I didn’t even watch to see where it landed.
A day or two later, my dad asked me what had happened to Aesop.
“Haven’t seen him in the yard lately. Have you been keeping him up in your room, son?”
“Nope,” I said.
“Did he escape somehow? Burrow under the fence or something?”
“I dunno, Dad. Maybe a coyote got him.”
He arched his eyebrows at that. “Coyote, huh?”
I shrugged. “Maybe.”
And we left it at that.