Blown by all the Winds That Pass

Blown by all the winds that pass
And wet with all the showers

Those lines from Robert Louis Stevenson’s children’s poem, “The Cow,” came to mind yesterday morning as I stood on my back stoop, watching my cottontail friend munching the cracker he had taken from my hand. The sky was gray and all was wet from the rain that had stopped not long earlier.

My friend’s fur was wet and stringy, and he looked much smaller than usual. I saw my image reflected in his deep brown bovine eyes. He kept careful watch on me as he chewed, and I kept careful calm so as not to startle him. He lets me sip my coffee in his company, so long as my motions are slow. I talk softly to him, and his ears twitch, I know he’s taking in my tone. His cracker lasts a long while, eating it is slow since it breaks into smaller pieces and he seeks them out one by one; rabbits can’t see immediately in front of their faces, so he relies on his nose. Once he’s sure the cracker’s gone he raises his face toward me, sniffs to be sure there’s not another, then wanders off into the lawn, careful not to put too much weight on that damaged back leg.

When working outside I sometimes see him making his route along the back fence or behind the dogwoods. If I speak, he pays little attention to me, at best a twitch, because that’s not our time, he has other things on his agenda. Sometimes I mistake another rabbit for him; that other rabbit freezes for a moment then, if I move even the slightest in its direction, it’s off in a bunny flash, white tail bobbing across the lawn and under the fence.

Sometimes my friend will hang out near the back door, lying in a spot worn into the mulch along the foundation. On rare occasions I’ve known him to pay us the greatest rabbit compliment of all, when he stretches out on the grass and fully relaxes. Rabbits do that only when they feel absolutely safe. Not having any predatory pets helps with that, but so does familiarity. And the fenced yard.

When he and I are being quiet together, I observe his features. On dry days his coat looks soft and smooth, and (don’t tell him this) I can imagine that fur as soft slippers or mittens. On cold winter days he’s all fluffed up, Nanook-style. Some summer days I notice a tick on his ear, a circle of gnats, or some other sign that life could be better for him. And always there’s that bad back leg. This spring and summer he’s been holding it higher off the ground, and I’ve seen him licking at it. Sometimes he will use it to scratch his back ear, but then he licks it again. It obviously pains him.

But he lives with the pain and ignores the annoyances. Far as I can tell, he’s uncomplaining. Of course a wild rabbit’s life is a lonely one, with no one to complain to. Cottontails at least are raised in simple, sometimes barely concealed, nests by a mother who stops by a couple times a day to feed them. It’s for everyone’s good, since she doesn’t want to lead a predator to the nest, but it still leaves little time for maternal attention. And of course there’s a very high casualty rate among the young rabbits once they leave the nest. Only the careful ones survive, and not all of them. So in some ways I’m his closest friend, and in some ways he’s mine. We share time in mutual quiet.

It’s pleasant, then, to see my friend in the yard this morning, carefully preening himself, washing his face with his hands, stretching out each leg in turn (the bad one carefully) and making himself look good before he sets out on his risky rounds. Part of me wants to say he’s living in a state of denial, but the better me knows better. He’s living life fully in the only way he knows.

I sometimes let myself think he’s living in blissful ignorance, lacking (and uncursed by) a sense of self-awareness, with no inkling of the future that awaits him. But then none of us has an inkling of the future that awaits us, and we could do worse than to live like my rabbit friend. To let the future fend for itself, and live fully in our present, making do with what we have.