Hud and I lived with a dwarf lop eared bunny named Arnie for about, oh, almost eleven years. He was quite the little man. He was allowed free range of the house because he was potty trained and didn't chew on cords and such as most lagomorphs are wont to do.
He was such a sweet soul. If he had been human, he would have been the kid who was bullied in grade school with the pocket protector and horn rimmed glasses wrapped on the bridge in white medical tape. The kind of kid who would ask if this wasn't the day we were supposed to have a pop quiz and offer to wipe the chalk board. If a bunny could be nerdy, loveable Arnie sure seemed like it.
When my imagination was particularly randy, I would envision him as a tough guy, drinking bourbon, smoking, picking up cheap dames and punching the lights out of drunken slobs unfortunate enough to cross his path.
In a high, squeaky voice he would bark, "Take THAT you big piece of Rat Doody!"
I surprised myself today. I found out that I like to hit things --HARD. Really, really HARD.
Normally, I'm pretty laid back. I have a relaxed, open life that's the definition of freedom to most people. I don't think of myself as someone who is unaware of who I am, but when my personal trainer, Stephen, strapped me into some boxing gloves and instructed me to punch the pads on his hands, something happened. For the first time in my life, I got a high from exercise. I usually slog through, waiting for the bell to ring and release me. Today, the time ripped by with hurricane force.
At one point, Stephen's palm flew back and he shook it. "Who's face are you seeing on this?" he queried, a little shocked at my aggression.
But it didn't feel like anger. It felt like power.
Boxing makes me believe I might be a good bunny gone bad.
I still feel a might jazzed by the experience.
* The painting of my sweet boy bopping a bull dog is named, "Last Call Bar Brawl".*