I was on the phone with one of my favorite people last night, chatting merrily and cooking dinner when Wes walked through the door after taking the trashcans out to the curb. I didn’t pay him much attention because of the multitasking already going on, but something caught my eye and I turned to behold something sitting in a bag on my dining room table.
Something….Pale. And…Fleshy. And…Oh my sweet cracker sandwiches, are those legs?!
Wes, noticing my regard, whispers, “It’s a rabbit.”
Fighting the urge to vomit (the legs, the twee little legs!) I tell my friend I’m going to have to call her back as there’s a dead bunny sitting on my table. She takes the news admirably in stride, as she’s awesome like that.
I, on the other hand, can’t bear to look at the thing without my stomach twisting. I hang up the phone and turn to Wes, asking why on Earth he has a dead rabbit. He explains that our neighbor (you may remember him as the one I thought was a ghost) just killed the rabbit and wanted to give it to us as a gift.
Now, I’d already known that our neighbors raise rabbits for eating. Shoot, they make their own beer and wine and grow veggies in their backyard. They’re cool people. I just suppose I wasn’t prepared to see a skinned, decapitated rabbit. I guess I’m just one of those people who needs to prepare for that sort of thing.
It’s the uncanniest thing. I don’t get squeamish about dead chickens and I handle raw beef and pork with nonchalance.
Bunnies are different, you guys.
So now the rabbit is floating in some brine in our fridge, and our neighbors are going to come over later tonight to help us eat it. I’ve never eaten rabbit, but I assume it tastes like chicken. What doesn’t taste like chicken, you know?
I’m just so sad, though. I so badly wanted to be the kind of girl who can field dress a deer and behold a dead rabbit sitting on her table without batting an eye. But that’s definitely not me.
I’m more the kind of girl who has to vacuum up spiders with the long extension hose in order to feel properly removed from the carnage. The kind of person who, if taken deer hunting, would probably miss on purpose. The kind of lady who feels bad when birds run into her windows and then wonders if that gives them a headache.
In short, I’d never survive on my own in the wild and thank goodness for grocery stores.