Pets: Mom Horning Story #2
One of the
least understood compulsions is the one to “own a pet.” I have been a pet owner for the many years
since I was four or five, and begged and pleaded for a cute little pink pig or
the kittens that every farm had in abundance.
I had a kitten, until it got lost when we took it with us to the Lake
Cottage, fish of many colors and sizes, and Rabbits. Lots and lots of Rabbits.
My sister and I had a playhouse in
the back of our property. It was a 2/3rd
size house with flowers planted around it and a railed porch. Inside were child sized toy appliances, tables,
chairs, and beds. Curtains framed the
windows and rugs were on the floor. But
even such a structure lost its appeal after a while, and we wanted something
ALIVE to play with. The family next door
had a dog, but better than that-they had Baby Cousins. Little People they could wheel around in
prams or pull in toy wagons. No one
seemed to come forth with any of those for us, but one Easter, our Parents
surprised us with what were believed to be Sister Rabbits. The finer points of Biology had not been
explained to us, and evidently not even to our parents, because as time went
by, the Rabbits discovered for themselves that they were not sisters at all,
but Buck and Doe.
The single large hutch we had for
them became, after a time, a Nursery.
Wire netting and boards were purchased, and two more cages were
assembled and placed on the Playhouse Porch—one for my sister’s Pet, one for my
Pobby, and the original hutch for the six offspring. A large screened yard was built, and the
Rabbit Family played in it all day. At
night, for safety, they went to their own quarters.
Somehow, this arrangement did not
work out as the humans had intended, for our two original pets kept duplicating
themselves. Our playhouse, now that
cooler weather had arrived and winter was not far off, became the Rabbit’s
House. The little stove, icebox, sink
and dish cabinets, as well as the rugs and rocking chairs, were given to our
cousin Joannie. Our table was stocked
with Pet Food and Grooming Tools, and the make-believe fireplace became the
depository for bedding straw. Being Pet
Owners was not at all as we had envisioned it.
Not At All. –And we were running
out of friends who were willing to take home a cuddly furry pet.
Then the mysteries began. My sister and I discovered that the oldest
and biggest of the Babies began escaping.
We found their cages empty in the morning. One or two rabbits disappeared every
week. Our parents claimed that happened
to everyone who raised Rabbits and we should not worry about it. In fact, the feeding, watering and cleaning
out their cages was getting to be a very big job. We had to tend them before school every
morning and as soon as we returned in the afternoon. A few less each week didn’t bother us at
all. I think we might have even suggested
that we were getting tired of the whole responsibility.
Then one Sunday afternoon, while we
were visiting our Grandma, Cousin Frank said to my Father, “That sure was a
good Hassenpfeffer we had last night.
Thanks, Uncle Ollie (Alie).”
Oh, my! The gasps, the looks that
passed around the room.
“Hassenpfeffer, that’s Rabbit,” my sister cried, as she stared at our
Father, and sobbing loudly, ran from the house.
The ride home from Grandma’s was very quiet.
My sister was pale, stoney faced.
She turned away when our parents spoke and her only words to me were the
forbidden, “Shut-Up.”
So that’s what happened. Our
Rabbits did Not escape—not by themselves they didn’t. They were Kidnapped—Snatched. Someone turned them into Hassenpfeffer. It’s that tender meat with the sweetish sour
brown gravy and dollop of sour cream that goes with the fluffy dumplings we
have at Christmas time. I’d eaten
Hassenpfeffer all my life—I liked it—and that’s where it came from. Rabbits, Pet Rabbits like my Pobby.
There wasn’t much conversation at our house for a couple of days. Then Mrs. Schaeffer, who had the apple
orchard behind our house, said she’d
take my sister’s Pet and most of the others with their hutches. The rest of the Rabbits left us one by
one. I cried when Pobby went. He was the last to go. I think it was—at Christmas time.
Transcribed by G.M. Horning
Photos Below: Mom Horning, Grandpa Marshalek paintings of Rabbit Stew, farm scene, geese
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