The Reverend Izaak Greyfriar lit his pipe and looked forlornly out his study window, burdened by visions of the killing he must do. Thick clouds of aromatic haze belched from the bowl of his Bjarne, slightly obscuring the frown upon his face as he contemplated the unpleasant task of firing a bullet through the brain of his favorite bunny. Occasionally, rabbits get cancer: large tumorous growths that slowly eat up the animal with pain if its owner does not act responsibly and do what needs to be done. Greyfriar had a choice: opt for expensive (though probably ineffective) surgery, allow his pet to perish in prolonged agony or put it down mercifully. The right decision was not easy to come by, but neither was it hard. It just took a while.
The critter's name was Psycho Bunny. At one time the good Reverend had three hippity-hops whom he called Little Bunny, Psycho Bunny and Big Bunny, or sometimes Breakfast, Lunch and Dinner. All three were lovely does. Big Bunny eventually died of old age and became Cryogenic Bunny after Greyfriar tossed the body in the freezer until it could be disposed of properly. Three weeks later when he remembered he had a rather hairy issue to deal with, the corpse was pretty much stiff as a board and not likely to respond to rejuvenation. Little Bunny was a self willed dwarf; Psycho Bunny was a psychotic half-breed Chinchilla, endearing by virtue of weirdness, extremely opinionated, and quite fond of grunting at her food and rough-housing like a dog. Forty-five minutes had slipped into eternity before Izaak finally laid his warm briar down on a paperback copy of Bonhoeffer's ETHICS and picked up the telephone.
"Morning Felim. I've put this thing off as long as I dare. When can you meet me?"
Father Felim McAllister, a once Roman Catholic-now Episcopal priest was Izaak Greyfriar's closest ministerial associate. A kindred spirit in many respects, not the least of which was a shared appreciation for God's furry friends, McAllister had previously made the kindly offer to accompany Greyfriar whenever he decided to shoot the Psycho Bunny. He had also made the point of insisting that he would do the driving on the way home.
"You know, a vet would put your partner to sleep for twenty-five bucks."
"My rabbit, my responsibility. I've had this long-eared lagomorph for nine years. If anyone is going to destroy her, it'll be me, not some stranger."
"It's your call; I'll be at your place in less than an hour."
"I'll see you then. Bye."
Reverend Greyfriar hurried over to the manse adjacent to the church, grabbed his Ruger .22, a box of shells, the unsuspecting bunny and a muffin. He then threw himself and everything else into his automobile and waited for Father McAllister to arrive. For twenty minutes Greyfriar fed Psycho Bunny pieces of bran muffin on the front seat of his Crown Victoria "OK moron, this is your last meal," he grumped. "You'd darn well better enjoy it." He was angry, but not at the rabbit.
Felim McAllister rolled his Volvo into the driveway within the promised hour, climbed out of his car and slid into Izaak's, gently transferring Psycho Bunny onto his lap as he did so. As they headed down the highway Greyfriar growled, "You Episcopalians are paid far too generously. You realize that, don't you?"
"Jealous, Izaak?"
"Maybe a little, but I wouldn't admit it if I was . . . especially to you."
"What are you so mad at?"
The question was deliberately ignored, so McAllister said nothing else for several minutes. Softly stroking Psycho Bunny's head, he hesitantly inquired, "Can you really punch a hole in this noggin?"
"I have no choice. Check her out for yourself."
What Felim saw nearly turned his stomach. Poking through the rabbit's gray fur was a rock hard, scabbish, red lump the size of a thumb. The skin over it was drawn so taut as to create the illusion of some internal organ struggling furiously to burst through her side.
"Yeah, I see what what you mean. So where are we taking her?"
"Out to the Swift River Wildlife Management Area. With all the small game and bird hunters this time of year, nobody will notice another gun shot."
"And her carcass?"
"The coy-dogs and crows ought to really enjoy their Thanksgiving dinner, don't you think?"
"You're being awfully heartless aren't you? Frankly, Izaak, I'm kind of surprised. I thought you'd be somewhat teary eyed about this whole affair."
"Felim, you have no idea how crazy I am about this creature or how badly it hurts to think of blasting her out of her misery. But she's only a beast, not a person. If she was a person I'd bury her with honor: the casket, the funeral, the whole bit. Yet, if I shove her in the ground somewhere in the woods it's a complete waste; she becomes worm food. Since I'm going to make her a part of the eco-system it's only fitting to place her a little higher on the food chain. The predators will carry out God's will. After all, that's their job."
"Mind if I kindle a few pinches of my latest concoction?" McAllister asked, interrupting the conversation on purpose. "This stuff is absolutely superb, perhaps the best yet." The Episcopal priest was no mean mixer of custom tobacco blends and he knew it. So did Greyfriar. "Only if you share," replied the Reverend as he fumbled around in his coat pocket and pulled out a pipe, handing it to Felim. McAllister filled his companion's Tinsky as well as his own Peterson and the two ministers smoked in silence the rest of the way to their destination, each man quietly petitioning heaven for a divine blessing upon their rather macabre undertaking. For Izaak Greyfriar that meant a one shot kill, no suffering.
There were four trucks in the gravel entrance of the Swift River WMA. With any luck the hunters belonging to those vehicles would be in the furthermost acreage past the tall pines, shotgunning for pheasants or grouse. Greyfriar parked by a GMC decorated with a bumper sticker which read, "JESUS IS COMING SOON. LOOK BUSY."
"Well, Felim, this guy must go to your church;" it was the first lighthearted remark of the morning. The seriousness of the situation quickly overshadowed the humor, however, especially as Izaak removed both the rabbit and the Ruger from his Ford. "Let's get this gruesome business over with," he groaned.
Reverend Greyfriar and Father McAllister walked down the dirt road which meandered through the main pheasant field of the WMA and eventually circled around a huge swamp built by the ingenuity of big buck-toothed beavers. Not a word was uttered between them; no words were necessary. Greyfriar cradled Psycho Bunny firmly in his left arm and with his right hand he carried the rifle straight down by his side in sorrowful resignation. When they had reached a suitable spot on the back side of the beaver bog Izaak set his beloved bunny on the ground. Psycho Bunny snuffled around, exploring the newness of her surroundings. Wishing to burn a permanent picture of the scene deep into his memory, Izaak watched intently for a moment before raising the Ruger to his shoulder.
"Maybe I should pray first," suggested Felim.
Izaak lowered his weapon. "Please do," he said.
"The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord."
"Blessed be the name of the Lord," Greyfriar echoed, and--yielding his soul to the sovereignty of God--he raised his rifle again and squeezed off the fatal round at point blank range. Psycho Bunny died instantly.
The hike back to the parking area was more akin to a forced march. Enroute, Izaak mumbled something that nearly flattened McAllister, "Tomorrow, we had better go bunny busting, Felim." Father McAllister glared at the man next to him, wondering if he actually knew the Reverend Izaak Greyfriar, pastor of the Mercy Baptist Church, as well as he thought.
"Izaak, did I hear you correctly?"
"You did."
"Are you nuts? Do you have any idea of what you did out there? Am I to believe that exterminating your buddy had no meaningful effect upon you, that you're really as cold-blooded as you appear right now?" Izaak responded in a controlled tone of voice, "Listen to me and listen carefully. I am not nuts; I am a Christian. I had . . .have . . a tremendous fondness for that poor animal. But given the usual propensity of human depravity, it's a frightfully narrow breadth separating affection from idolatry. If I project Psycho Bunny onto those cute little cottontails, I'll jump the gap before you know it. There is a profound distinction between pets and game. For the glory of God, I intend to acknowledge the difference. Plus, you have to admit, cottontails are incredibly tasty. Am I making any sense?"
"You are. Still, you seem terribly cold."
"I am . . . for now."
During the ride home McAllister took the wheel and patiently listened as Izaak rattled on about bamboo fly rods, deliberately avoiding the uncomfortable subject of what had transpired beyond the swamp. He adored cane, preferring to fish it above all other alternatives; his wonderful wife had allowed him the pleasure of ordering a gorgeous 4-weight from a rod maker in Connecticut; he was desperately hoping the rod would be delivered before his upcoming surgery in December so he could evaluate its perfections on the algid flow of the Swift, etcetera, etcetera. He discoursed brilliantly about the theological nature of fly fishing. The entire monologue was an evasive tactic. Father McAllister was not easily fooled. He sarcastically taunted Greyfriar in a risky counter-maneuver designed to provoke the needed emotional catharsis, "Don't cry now, Mr. Stoic, it wouldn't be Calvinistic."
"I have no stinking clue what you're talking about."
"I believe you do."
The exchange was curtailed by the approach of the church manse. As they pulled in the drive there was a sudden flash of brown as something leaped from behind the Jacob Arminius gnome strategically stationed between the house and the garage. The gnome was intended as a joke, but nobody ever got it.
"Do you see what I see, Izaak?"
"Uh . . . yeah, I do. We had better catch her, otherwise she'll freeze to death tonight."
"How do you know she's a she?"
"Trust me on this one."
Both preachers cautiously exited the car, careful not to slam the doors. Directly in front of them was a scrawny lop--hungry, cold, scared and obviously abandoned. They converged upon the shuddering form slowly, figuring the rabbit would bolt if their advance was too fast. Thankfully, it cowered instead. Izaak dropped to his knees, lifted the bunny with his hands and flipped it over for sex verification. Finding no bubbles, he looked at Felim through moistening eyes.
"Well?"
"The Lord taketh away and the Lord giveth. Blessed be the name of the Lord," and he began to weep.
John 14:6
Jesus said to him, "I am the way, the truth, and the life. No one comes to the Father except through Me."
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