For Kasey, this furry suburban creature that looks like it could be posing for a chocolate Easter bunny mold is a mortal enemy.
Our little corner of New Albany has lots of bunnies hopping about. To my knowledge, they have done nothing to offend Kasey. They haven’t eaten her food or guzzled her water. They haven’t danced a mocking jig outside the window. Nevertheless, Kasey hates them all. She hates their fluffy white cottontails. She hates their ravenous rabbit appetites. She hates that the hares sit there, noses twitching, staring at her as we walk past.
But most of all, Kasey hates that she is on a leash and can’t go tearing after these furballs that hunch in the grass, taunting her with their closeness and their rank rabbit odor. So all Kasey can do is pose. She strains until the leash is stretched taut and puffs out her chest likes she is posing for the statue found at the prow of a ship. She glares her most withering glare. She displays every alpha animal signal ever seen on Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. And deep down, Kasey is thinking: “I could take that.” She believes that if she were just let loose she would be able to chase down that wild hare, no matter how quick and nimble it might be, and do unspeakable things that eons of species development have left her desperately wanting to do.
But the rabbits are unconcerned. They pay no mind to Kasey’s macho posturing. They just sit there, munching and watching, perhaps taking a desultory hop to one side or the other. And then, when they have made a maximum show of languid boredom, they hop casually away.
It drives Kasey nuts.