Rabbit on the run

Slowly stalking through the high grass, I moved with care. Snakes. There were a few in the shed this year, one now dead, and a warning to others. Head chopped off at the swing of a shovel. It’s nice to know my wife has balls. Thirteen rattles; it’s meager body not enough for food. Must be the drought. Sun beats down on the land and creatures like it has no mercy, the skin of the earth flies up as sandy dust across the prairie. This is life on the front lines of a raging, aging battle. Like a bullet, Charley scampered out of the truck into the dry prickly foliage, the white fur on its tail side bobbed up in down as it raced toward the wood pile and better cover. Its brindle coat blended in with the yellow drying shrubbery, a shelter and a trap all at the same time. The rabbit provided our mixed-breed hound the chance to exercise his sniffer and his stubby legs; he’s never caught one and probably knows he never will. Still the rabbit saw a slobbery growling face as a threat, as well he should. He doesn’t know when the game might turn serious, and our old mutt remembers his roots as a hunter, or dare I say, predator. After years of kibble, he doesn’t know the taste of wild flesh, and frankly, we’d like to keep it that way. Who knows when one day that rabbit might be food for us, the way things are going. Zombie apocalypse. Don’t rule it out. Rumors of a food shortage, and a wrecked supply chain because… There are a lot reasons. Mainly that humans have acted stupidly. The friendly faced dog still looked like a monster to the rabbit when he’s afraid. The rabbit knows eventually the monster will leave, like he always does, the motor of the truck a solid clue. A honk. Then a yelp. Then silence. An occasional bird song. There’s one key thing that I have observed, though, in Mr. Hip Hop’s world: When he’s done foraging in the patch of green, and protection becomes a factor because on the farm we’ve been busy clearing out the dead wood and junk around his home, then he’ll move along. However, I don’t think his focus would be on death. That’s an abstract concept. He doesn’t have the time – no such luxury. The moment’s here. The moment’s gone. See, rabbit’s don’t know or care about a mortgage, a car payment, don’t go to malls, don’t shop online, and don’t keep their food on ice. What dumb bunny does that? In my view, when I’m not terribly steeped in thought, I ask, what’s so bad about being a rabbit on the run?

Published by: frankmarquezwritings

I'm a writer, and have been for most of my adult life. Without making this sound like a resume, I wrote creatively in college, dabbling in poetry, short stories and play writing. Later, I became a journalist, public affairs specialist, copy editor and eventually a guy who ran his own newspaper. Now, I'm back to letting my imagination run wild in some new creations including a science-fiction novel. Somehow, I also managed to teach English to high school kids, and roam the battlefields of Afghanistan as a field historian. Field historian may be a misnomer considering all I did was write abstracts summarizing military unit profiles and missions that included hundreds of interviews of troops and contractors in combat. I grew up in a small town called Gering, Nebraska, before escaping to Pomona, California, where I spent my last two years of high school, graduating from Ganesha High School in 1983. I have a Bachelors in English from the University of La Verne (1987), and a Masters in Education from UNLV (2007). In between, I worked for government - the Army and TSA. I served tours in Panama, D.C., and Tokyo, all thanks to a teacher who encouraged me to see the world before I settled down. As hobbies, I run, hike and bicycle long distances. I have also been known to surf and ski. I now live in my hometown after moving back in June 2015. I get to see family on a regular basis, breath fresh air, and not have to ride the D.C. metro or get stuck in traffic. In fact, I ride my bicycle whenever I can. I'm happily married to my wife Lisa, and we watch over a pack of fur babies, our dog Charley, and three cats Spike, Bootsy, and Franky (his shelter name). If you should ever visit me in west Nebraska, be prepared to feast your eyes on paradise.

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