The White Rabbit

So this was an odd adventure...

The path to the garden leads through a forest.

At one point, I imagine, the forest was a cottage lane where forelock-tugging relatives of the Vanderbilt staff were graciously allowed to squat so they could mumble obsequities as the grand Vanderbilt carriage passed. But the cottages have long since tumbled. Now it’s all trees and brambles and the occasional brick pile that I sometimes wish I had the time or energy or permission to explore. But that mostly I ignore.

It’s been very, very sunny and hot here recently, so I’ve gotten into the habit of watering the garden first thing in the morning.

And as I was on my way back to the car, I saw something white in the greenery.

A cat, I thought.

But, no.

It was a white rabbit.

Naturally, my first thought was to look for the hidey hole through which I could tumble and have fabulous adventures involving smart-ass playing cards, mad hatters, and magical potions that would stretch me or shrink me.

My second thought was, Oh dear. Coyote bait.

So, I trotted back to the garden where Claude was shoveling llama manure—I can’t tell you how much time in the garden is spent shoveling llama manure!—and screeched, “Claude! Claude! Come quickly!”

Naturally, the white rabbit went into hiding just as soon as Claude arrived.

And Claude spent the next 10 minutes listening to me mumble, “But I swear! It was just here!” and thinking I was insane until the white rabbit decided to reappear.

Then we spent the next hour and a half corralling him.

Claude’s method was to poke him with big sticks.

My method was to dangle carrots in front of him and talk to him in baby talk: “Cutest and most magnificent of all white bunnies, look at the deee-lish-us treat I have for you!”

This tells you everything you need to know about the difference between Claude’s and my respective personalities.

I was the one who snagged him in the end!

I drove him to the SPCA. What else was I supposed to do? Sybyl is quite content to be an only pet. But I felt kind of bad when I got there because the SPCA is not set up to take care of rabbits.



My Big Adventure of the day was supposed to be apricots.

Apricots are my favorite food in the world, and I haven’t had a good one in more than 10 years simply because there aren’t any good apricots on the east coast. Or, at least, not in supermarkets.

But Aimee, the cannabis lube entrepreneur—and I have no doubt that she will make a fortune with her product and that two years from now, I’ll be dropping her name at parties, trying to get people to notice me—had casually mentioned that a farm stand near her house sold apricots.

“The growing season is quite short,” she warned.

Apricot orchards in Hudson!

Who knew?

So, I drove up there, and yes indeed! Fresh-picked apricots! Different variety from the ones that grow in California, not quite as fuzzy, thicker-skinned. Not quite as nectar-and-ambrosia-y either, but still delicious.

I hadn’t seen Aimee in a few months, so I popped by her house afterwards. She fed me lunch and told me all about her problems.

“Gee! Sorry you’re having to deal with that,” I said.

“It’s fine,” she said. “I self-cared last night. I had a lover over.”

I didn’t know whether to be charmed or horrified that she’d managed to turn “self-care” into a verb.

“I always cry a lot when I’m upset,” I continued babbling. “Crying is just the best tension release for me—“

“Orgasm is the best tension release for me,” said Aimee.

And this tells you everything you need to know about the difference between Aimee’s and my respective personalities.

I include the photo below because I had some thought I would Photoshop a teacup in front of the cat. I’m very, very good at Photoshop, so this would be well within my technical powers! But, of course, I’m much too lazy.



When I got home, I looked up every Lost Pets BBS within 100 miles and furiously posted Found Bunny alerts: I’ve had my Big Adventure! And now, I want to come home!

When I woke up this morning, I had 20 new emails.

Eighteen of them were variations of Go ask Alice! Yuk, yuk, yuk.

The other two were recipes for Lapin a La Cocotte.

###

I told this story to Adrienne who hit me up for a ride to the train station this morning.

She looked at me in complete bewilderment: “Go ask Alice… ?”

“You know,” I said encouragingly. “It’s that old Jefferson Airplane song. White Rabbit!”

“White Rabbit?”

Adrienne is in her late 20s.

How quickly the iconic songs of our youth become Lawrence Welk accordion music.

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Now, I am off to the SPCA with a big sack of kale and Timothy grass to visit Mr. Bunny.