I pulled up the garage door to grab hay for the ponies this morning, and Quimby shot past me when the door was barely cleared from the ground. Lately she has an obsession with a furry little ball of cute, the rabbit living in my garage.
For a rabbit, this outbuilding provides a veritable feast, an endless buffet of soft grass hay and leafy alfalfa. With easy access through a dog door that never was finished, Mr. Rabbit could come and go as he pleased. All he needed to survive the harsh winter existed in surplus within just a few hops of the cozy bed he made for himself under the deck of the riding mower. Fresh water provided for the horses, warmed by an electric coil at the bottom of the bucket, quenched his thirst whenever he did venture from his nest.
I'm not exactly sure when the bunny moved into his new digs, but Quimby has been frothing at the mouth to get him. She runs through each section of the divided garage interior, whining in frustration and yipping at her tiny nemesis. Perhaps she believes enough barking will draw him out of hiding so she can enjoy a tasty snack?
My favorite game to play with Quimby lately is to ask her, "Where's the rabbit?!" She will perk up her silly collie ears and look around intently, wondering if you saw something she didn't. Then she will tear off across the snow to the trees, leaping several feet into the air when she reaches the grove to see if she can spot him while sky borne. She will disappear down the hill for several minutes, searching through the downed logs, then come flying back like a sleek little black-and-tan racecar.
Some nights I come home and hear Quimby's frantic, high-pitched wails as she fruitlessly chases Mr. Rabbit around the yard. I think if she saved her energy for just running rather than vocalizing, she might have better luck.
Anyways, this morning I turned my back on Quimby, who automatically rushed to the mower on the other side of a hog panel. As I peeled a few flakes off a bale to feed the ravenous hooved beasts outside, I heard blood curdling screams emanating from some point behind me. I paused in my endeavors and glanced over my shoulder.
Quimby had nabbed the poor bunny as he fled from under the mower. He had squeezed most of his lithe body through the hog panel, but Quimby had a grip on his fur from the other side. He screamed and Quimby whined, trying desperately to pulling him back through the grid to her.
I'm not sure how long the ensuing struggle lasted. I returned to my task, gathering up loose hay.
Next I heard Quimby's aggravated cries. Mr. Rabbit had freed himself from her tenuous hold, losing large tufts of fur in the process. I'm sure he won't miss those, as he most likely feels his life is more important than his vanity.
I carried the grass hay out to the horses and returned for a couple of flakes of alfalfa. Quimby darted in and out of the garage, still desperately searching for her lost prey. I had leaned over to pick up the alfalfa, when out of the corner of my eye I spotted a flash of brown.
Mr. Rabbit, in full fledged panic, ran straight into my leg in his attempt to evade Quimby. Normally there isn't a leg in his path when he takes that particular route. He quickly regained his equilibrium and bounded off, although I didn't see where he went. Neither did Quimby, apparently, because she continued to search high and low for her foe, but she had not yet found him when I ushered her out and closed the overhead door.
Mr. Rabbit 1, Quimby 0.
