Sexy Beast.
He humped his way to a knighthood.
“I had a large rabbit called WillyFred. I was happiest pressing my ear to his fur and hearing his heart beat.” Toyah Willcox
I was advertising for a new tenant, and this guy came by, asking if I was cool having a rabbit around. The guy’s name was Huxley, and he kept going on about his German flop-eared rabbit, saying it was “cute as the devil.”
I was still deciding if I wanted Huxley living in my house. Outside of loving rabbits, he didn’t seem to have much going for him. He cleaned pools and did bike marathons. He never won trophies or even honourable mentions. I think he only did it to wear cycling gear all the time.
It was ultra-blue and he wore these cycling shoes with cleats. That’s all he seemed to own.
Well, he didn’t look like a drug addict, and I needed help with the mortgage, so I let him move in. I remember him coming up the front walk the first day, carrying this rabbit in a cage.
“Here’s Mr. Bun,” he said, taking him out, holding him up like they both cut quite the figures.
He was a big rabbit, and neighbours were constantly leaning over our backyard fence, asking what he was.
I guess Mr. Bun was bound to attract attention, given his size and the fact that he looked like a cocker spaniel. Neighbours were constantly leaning over our backyard fence, asking what he was. We’d have to explain he was German.
They’d nod or shake their heads, like this rabbit was certainly a long way from home.
One neighbour seemed to think her cat would get along with Mr. Bun, even putting Buttons — that was her cat’s name — on the ground next him. That was a mistake. Mr. Bun lunged at Buttons, sending her over the fence.
Next thing you know, Mr. Bun had her pinned to the grass, screwing the hell out of her.
Strangely enough, the following day, Buttons was back again, figuring she could get the drop on Mr. Bun. She crept up all stealth-like. Next thing you know, Mr. Bun had her pinned to the grass, humping the hell out of her.
Buttons let out a feverish howl. The owner came out, screaming about her cat being ravaged. Then other neighbours came out to see what was going on.
Judging from their expressions, Mr. Bun was demonstrating the worst act of perversion they’d seen in a long time.
Huxley had to apologize to the owner, a Mrs. Kowalski, explaining to her that German rabbits — the bucks, anyway — had very high sex drives, and Buttons shouldn’t take it personally. What did she expect from a German?
“My god,” the woman screamed. “What an awful, awful creature. My poor Buttons. My poor, poor Buttons.” She ran around her yard some more, threatening Huxley with some sort of criminal charge.
The next few days, we kept Mr. Bun to the basement. Sometimes I’d go down and he’d be nibbling away on a box or Huxley’s rubberized weights. Huxley loved those weights. They were his pride and joy next to his squat rack. He was always using his squat rack to build up his legs.
I couldn’t shake the stupid thing off. It as like trying to get wet clay of the bottom of your shoe.
One day, I figured I’d do some squats. I was down there in the basement, squatting away, when Mr. Bun came flying out and started humping my leg.
Huxley told me later it was my gray sweatpants. The colour and texture reminded Mr. Bun of rabbits. So did my squatting for some reason.
“I don’t care what I remind him of,” I said, “put him out back. And keep the cage door closed. I don’t want him corn-holing anything else.”
So he put Mr. Bun in his cage outside, but it didn’t last long. I came home from work the next day, and there was Mr. Bun hopping around the yard.
“He’s being good,” Huxley explained, which wasn’t hard considering Mr. Bun had essentially cleared the yard of animals, including the squirrels.
Then one night he took off. Huxley came running inside saying Mr. Bun must’ve dug a hole under the fence. Actually, he’d dug many holes. One of them was under the fence by the raspberry bushes.
Some neighbours even had chicken coops. What if Mr. Bun was humping chickens?
We grabbed couple flashlights and started looking around, bringing our neighbours out of their houses. As word travelled down the street, lots of folks joined the search. Light beams were going up and down all over the place.
No Mr. Bun.
Eventually, everyone went back inside, and Huxley put some carrots out on the porch in case Mr. Bun decided to come home.
The next morning, I was getting ready for work. I looked out the kitchen window, and there was Mr. Bun sitting on the grass. Next to him was Buttons. They looked as peaceful as a Disney classic.
“How do you charge a rabbit?” I asked the woman from Animal Services.
Only Buttons’ owner saw the same thing, and she called the authorities. A woman from Animal Services came by, saying there was an official complaint, and Mr. Bun might be facing charges.
“How do you charge a rabbit?” I asked her. She was stalky, short hair, wearing a gray shirt and gray pants. Based on Mr. Bun’s love of gray, I wasn’t sure I should put her within a mile of Mr. Bun.
“I’ll need to see him,” she said.
So I took her downstairs and opened the cage door. Mr. Bun stood there for a minute. Then he jumped out and hopped under the work bench. Huxley was just coming home from his pool job.
We ran downstairs, and there she was, trying to shake Mr. Bun off her leg. She finally grabbed him by the neck, holding him up in the air.
“I’ll go up and get the owner,” I said.
I went up and told Huxley there was an Animal Services woman in the basement. “Buttons’ owner made a complaint,” I said.
That’s when we heard the Animal Services woman calling out.
We ran downstairs, and there she was, trying to shake Mr. Bun off her leg. She finally grabbed him by the neck, holding him up in the air.
“Bad rabbit,” she said. “Bad, bad rabbit.”
Then, damn if she didn’t start cuddling him, talking baby talk.
“You’re a bad, bad rabbit,” she said. “Yes, you are, yes, you are.”
She snuggled Mr. Bun, rubbing noses. Her uniform was covered in rabbit fur.
“So, is he being charged?” Huxley asked.
“Let’s just say I gave you a warning. Please keep him restrained, though. He can’t be having his way with the neighbour’s cats now, can he?”
“Oh, I think I can calm Mrs. Kowalski down,” she smiled, stroking Mr. Bun. “Let’s just say I gave you a warning. Please keep him restrained, though. He can’t be having his way with the neighbour’s cats now, can he?”
She seemed to think that was hysterical.
“I’m going to give him one more big hug,” she said, rubbing noses again, then putting Mr. Bun back on the floor. “I’ll have a word with Mrs. Kowalski now, and — ”
We looked down and there was Mr. Bun grabbing her leg again.
“Well, all right,” she said. “Boys will be boys, I guess.” She seemed to think that was hysterical, too. “You are a little monster,” she wagged her finger at Mr. Bun.
“My word,” she said. “He’s certainly a horny bugger.”
“Sorry,” Huxley said, picking Mr. Bun up like he was a prize turkey.
“Well, all right,” she said. “Boys will be boys, I guess.” She seemed to think that was hysterical, too. “You are a little monster,” she wagged her finger at Mr. Bun. “I swear, I could just eat him up,” she said.
I think a few neighbours felt the same way.
She went to out her truck, wiping her shirt and pants, fur drifting off in the air. “Bye now,” she waved, getting in and driving away.
Animal Services was called again. Another formal complaint was lodged by Mrs. Kowalski. She was demanding serious restraining measures.
I guess she had a good talk with Mrs. Kowalski. The charges were dropped. Except Mr. Bun and Buttons disappeared again. They were found under the neighbour’s porch. Another formal complaint was lodged by Mrs. Kowalski demanding serious measures.
The woman from Animal Services came by again, saying there was a restraining order. “I’m sorry about this,” she said. “I hate to see the poor little bugger being kept in his cage. I brought him something.”
Then she reached in this bag she was carrying, and brought out a cardboard crown. “I made this myself. I thought it might cheer him up.”
We had to take her downstairs again and let her put the crown on Mr. Bun. It had a little elastic strap that went under his chin.
“From this day forward,” she said, “you will be Sir Bun.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her knights didn’t get crowns. I think they only got a crest of some sort. Mr. Bun didn’t like it, anyway. He kept trying to pull it off, and she kept putting it back on him again.
He looked glum. He didn’t even try to hump her leg.
He sat up, pulled the crown off his head, and started eating it.
The enthusiasm just wasn’t there anymore. I guess, reaching the level of knighthood, he didn’t feel humping was appropriate.
He finally pulled the crown off his head, and started eating it.
Then he disappeared under the work bench.
I guess he wasn’t cut out to be a knight afterall.
Robert Cormack is a blogger and author of “You Can Lead A Horse to Water (But You Can’t Make It Scuba Dive).” You can join him every day by subscribing to robertcormack@medium.com/subscription.
