When I looked, there was no blog post in it…So here’s a short story, and a reminder that you can now find BHD’s short stories on Kindle, and My essays (on A.E.Coppard’s short stories) too!



Good Intentions

by Brindley Hallam Dennis


I never intended the rabbit to become a pet. I always intended to eat it.

But the way it sat docilely at the foot of my work bench intrigued me. It had wandered into the workshop unseen, presumably from across the fields. Yet it was not a wild rabbit. It was large and comfortable looking, and seemingly unconcerned by the proximity of me.

At first I stiffened and fell silent, as one would do if any wild animal had intruded into the barn. Barely daring to breathe, let alone move, I assumed that once it spotted me it would turn tail and bolt. But it crouched beside the rough wooden leg of the bench, all its attention upon the stalk of grass that it was chewing. I relaxed and let out a breath, but still it did not run, and merely glanced at me as it continued to chew. Then it hopped in a quite desultory way, passing even closer to me, into the dark corner of the barn.

Well, you’re a cool customer, I said aloud, and it ignored that too! That was when the thought first struck me that it was tame enough to catch, and, without any images of killing, I pictured to myself a rabbit pie.

I was used, in those days, to plucking and drawing pheasants which my neighbour, who held regular shooting parties on his land, would leave for me. After shoots, during which the air rippled with muted, distant volleys, like strings of sharp farts, he would hang a brace of pheasant, one male, one female, roped together at the neck, from the old iron hook beside the barn door. It was a practice from before my time, and before that of my predecessor at the house.

Sometimes, when I looked at them hanging, paired there, I would imagine that they had been a couple in that romantic sense, living and dying together. It was an absurd notion, I know, yet I also knew that among the dozens, perhaps even hundreds shot during each drive there must by many pairings. It was only at the gathering of the corpses, the pulling of them from that pile of bodies, and the joining of them by that unholy knot, that the element of randomness was introduced.

As I watched the rabbit making itself at home under the frame of the old wheel-less wagon, the thought of eating it faded from my mind. After that, for a number of years, it lived amicably beside me at my workplace, neither of us especially acknowledging the presence of the other. I never named it. It, presumably, never named me. I never gave it food. It never brought in titbits of salad for me. I laid an old china bowl on the slab floor near to where it had established itself, and this I kept topped up with fresh water, but that was my only concession to what you might call a parental responsibility. My wife, had she still been around, would no doubt have brought it cabbage leaves and old carrots from the kitchen. She would have bought for it a cage too.

Clients who visited to collect newly made or restored pieces would often not even notice it. Those who did, however, would make wry comments and weak jokes. Who’s your friend? And then, when I answered, I was talking to the rabbit! Or, you’ve not eaten him yet, I see. Those of a certain age would reference the cartoon films of their childhoods: Oo dat wabbit! Or, Hey, what’s up Doc! I would smile and glance down into the shadows where it crouched beneath the old cart, nibbling leaves it had brought in from outside.

At nights, or when I was away, I would secure the building, not for its sake, but to protect the finished or part-finished items I was working on. That, and my presence when I was working, kept the local foxes from it, and the barn owl seemed to show no interest.

Have you seen the craftsman’s rabbit? People would ask And some said, with unsavoury humour, he’ll eat it one day. But none of them really believed I would.OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA