Someday My Prince Will Come To - Or Not

When my daughter, Syd's beloved guinea pig died, we allowed for a proper time of mourning (three days). Then we brought home a baby Netherland dwarf rabbit. Syd named him Prince Charming. He was the umpty-umpth rabbit to hop into our hearts.

"Rabbit Sings the Blues" by Teece Aronin, on 

products in the phylliswalter store at

Redbubble.com. 

Why we were so optimistic about this rabbit's prospects, considering our luck with previous ones is unclear. The closest I can come to why we felt this way is that we didn't feel that way. I think what we really felt was a glimmer of hope and a lot of enthusiasm about sustaining a tiny life with the bonus that neither of us would have to get pregnant. 

The other rabbits had died. With the exception of one, that was snatched from Syd by a dog and killed, we never knew exactly what went wrong; some "syndrome" or another would strike and next thing we knew, our rabbit was gone, hopping up God's bunny trail.

So, now, here we stood, Syd and I, with Prince Charming.

We bought him from a breeder who kept him and a pile of other rabbits from a mishmash of litters all stashed together in a stuffy outbuilding. 

Gently, Syd picked him up. He didn't thrash around; he just gazed placidly back at her as if peering into Heaven, or something just short of Heaven since Syd didn't have carrots sticking from her ears.  

We stopped at the pet store on our way home to buy Prince Charming some supplies. Syd was holding him in her hands when a clerk revved up a noisy floor buffer and Prince Charming promptly fainted.

The clerk immediately switched off the floor buffer. Prince Charming's eyes were closed and his head had lolled to the side, but with the noise stopped, all it took were a few gentle strokes down his back to bring him around. Syd and I breathed again, bought the supplies and took him home.

We'd had Prince Charming for maybe a couple of months, when Syd woke up one morning to find him dead. After the crying subsided (for both of us), I told Syd she could stay home from school. I used a towel to lift Prince Charming from his cage, wrapped him up and placed him in a shoebox. We decided I would bury him in the woods off a nearby bike trail.

I found my garden spade, picked up the shoebox and went outside. Not until I'd walked a few yards up the path did it occur to me how obvious it was that I was the mother of a kid whose rabbit just died, who was single with no one else to pawn the task off on, and was looking for a place to bury the beast. It was still morning but brutally hot.

A few feet into the woods was a little bush that looked perfect for bunny-burying so I slinked off the trail, knelt in the dirt and started digging. Then I thought: What if someone comes by? This was public land and bunny-burying was probably frowned on. If someone did come along, I would pretend to be talking on my cell phone. It seemed to me that would minimize the risk of anyone questioning me.

Digging a hole, even one that short and shallow was hard work in that heat. My hair had fallen into a page boy droop that made me look like Prince Valiant's sweaty father. Then I heard some women coming up the path. When they were close enough to see me, I started talking into the phone with a no-nonsense clip I hoped would deter them from speaking to me. Then I fumbled the phone and accidentally hit the speaker button. Loudly and clearly came the words: "I'm sorry, but your call cannot be completed at this time. Please try again later."

The look I gave the women was intended as a warning that I'd just escaped from prison. They walked on, eyeing me cautiously as they passed. I didn't care; I had a bunny to bury. 

Prince Charming was the last of our rabbits. Maybe someday we'll try again. But right now, two things are sure: 

Fainting bunnies are adorable.

And when they never wake again, it hurts.



  

Let Us Be Batesful

Thanksgiving is this Thursday and I was just thinking - before the death of Norma Bates, she and her son, Norman must have spent some lonely holidays together. I think when Alfred Hitchcock directed Psycho, he should have included some flashbacks to show us what those holidays were like. But since it's too late for that, I'm stuck using my imagination. 

A Batesful Thanksgiving by

Teece Aronin. Available at the

phylliswalter store on Redbubble.com

I came up with one scenario for how Mrs. Bates could have met her end if her end had fallen on Thanksgiving. Actually, in this scenario, Thanksgiving is instrumental in bringing about her end. I offer it here in hopes that it will make your relatives look better to you this year. You can thank me later. 

Now, picture with me if you will . . .

. . . a Thanksgiving morning, and, as usual, the neon vacancy light burns with hope beside the Bates Motel. Switching that light on is a task Norman Bates has performed in a perfunctory way ever since the new highway went in, routing traffic away from the motel that he and his mother run. 

Behind the motel, high up on a hill is the house Norman shares with his mother. It is a dark, tumbledown Gothic monstrosity - or is it Victorian? Anyway, right now, the only light burning in the entire house is a dingy bulb attached to a cord that dangles from the ceiling. Norman and his mother are preparing their holiday dinner. Let's listen, shall we?

Norman (at the sink, smiling and rinsing blood from the turkey): Mother, do you think we might get any Thanksgiving travelers on their ways home tonight?

Mrs. Bates (standing at the counter next to Norman): No. And pass me those potatoes I had you bring up from the cellar. By the way, something smells off down there. What have you got stashed away?

Norman: Nothing, Mother. Really.

Mrs. Bates: Nothing mother really my foot! I asked you a question, young man, and I expect an answer!

Norman: Mother, it's just a few things I need for my new hobby. Really, the smell won't bother you at all once you get used to it. One day you won't even know I've been doing anything down there at all. 

Mrs. Bates: I highly doubt that. And just what is that smell anyway?

Norman: Pickling agents, Mother. 

Mrs. Bates: Pickling agents! Norman Bates, have you been sniffing my canning supplies again?

Norman: No, Mother. But soon you won't be needing your canning supplies, so please, let's just try to forget about it.

Mrs. Bates: What do you mean, I won't be needing my supplies?"

Norman: I simply meant, Mother, that canning seems to be to physically demanding for you lately. I think it's time you gave it up. We can afford to buy the kinds of things you used to can. 

Mrs. Bates: What do you mean "used to can?" Norman, just what kind of a ditwad are you? That canning saves us hundreds of dollars a year. With the motel not getting any business, that money comes in handy. Now, where are the onions I asked for?

Norman: Mother, you didn't ask me for any onions. 

Mrs. Bates: Well, suppose you just march your caboose down to the cellar and get some?

Norman: Yes, mother. 

Thinking what a pain in the caboose his mother's always been, Norman trudges down the cellar stairs, selects two onions, then trudges back up. Trudging is as close as Norman's ever gotten to showing his mother he's angry. He hands her the onions.

Mrs. Bates: And suppose you tell me what other of your hobby supplies I'm smelling down there? And where's the celery?

Norman: Mother, you didn't ask me for celery either.

Mrs. Bates: Oh, don't be ridiculous, Norman; of course I asked you for celery. Get down to that cellar and find some.

Now, instead of being a pain in his caboose, Norman's mother morphs in his head into being a caboose; a caboose attached to a long line of boxcars carrying highly explosive materials, jumping the tracks and plunging over a cliff to a fiery end. This time Norman stomps down to the cellar, snatches up five stalks of celery, punches them repeatedly, then stomps back upstairs. 

Mrs. Bates: You were just about to tell me; what else am I smelling down there?

Norman: Tanning chemicals, preservatives, relaxers. Oh, and some re-hydration products.

Mrs. Bates: What are you running down there, some kind of spa?

Norman (hoisting the turkey into a roasting pan): Well, let's just say, that I find it relaxing. 

Mrs. Bates: Norman, why didn't you bring up any rutabagas? 

Norman: Mother, you never said you wanted rutabagas.

Mrs. Bates: Norman, what do you take me for, a cook or a kook? I most certainly did tell you I wanted rutabagas. Now march! 

Going down for the third time, Norman storms off, accidentally striking his head on the dangling light bulb. It swings back and forth, back and forth. His mother's face is glaringly illuminated then darkly shadowed; back and forth and over and over. Seeing his mother like this makes Norman nervous. Once Norman has returned to the kitchen: 

Mrs. Bates: This hobby of yours - is it something I might enjoy?

Norman (slyly): Well, I'd be happy to expose you to it. 

Mrs. Bates: What about those preservatives? What are those for?

Norman (smiling at his mother): Mother, those preservatives could help keep you looking fresh and alive for a long, long time. 

Mrs. Bates: Hmm . . . After dinner I'd like you to show me what you've got going on down there. Maybe for once you've got yourself a hobby we can share.

Norman: Trust me, Mother. There's one thing I'd like to try with my hobby that I wouldn't want to do with anyone but you.

Mrs. Bates: Norman, I must say, that was rather sweet. 

Norman crosses the kitchen to return with a pan of steaming hot dressing. He begins spooning it into the bird's cavity.

Mrs. Bates (looking furious): Norman Bates! That is no way to stuff a turkey!

Norman (smiling again): Mother, there are all kinds of ways to stuff a turkey, and all kinds of turkeys to stuff. I'll show you what I mean after dinner . . . in the cellar.