Bunny of Boston
On this date, way back when, I was on my way to class and saw a meeting between a little boy and a seven-foot tall white rabbit. It didn't go well.
The boy, only a few feet high, wearing a red baseball jacket decorated with buttons like the ones his mother was peddling to students at today’s open market on Comm Av, was biting his little fist and toddling as fast he could away from the rabbit. The boy had obviously not prepared himself for over-sized stuffed toys come-to-life and addressing him on the street; he was terrified. His deep brown eyes were the size of walnuts.
His mother walked herself and her kid briskly away from the rabbit, her eyes straight-ahead, her jaw thrust forward and her black beret kept squarely on her blonde head with one hand. She wore a determined “I’ll just pretend this is not happening” expression. It was not clear to me which she was ignoring—the rabbit or her own scared child.
The rabbit, who wore a sign on his back advertising “Broadway Costumes,” was doing his job and being as cute and friendly as could be, but after trailing the terrified boy and the stone-faced young mother some 25 ft., the rabbit began to look confused. He’d probably seen other seven foot rabbits getting better reviews, surrounded by laughing, friendly children, and assumed that toy animals and children get along famously. I thought they did, too.
When it finally looked as if the kid might burst into tears the mother reached behind her and pulled the boy around to her front and ushered him up the steps to the school of theology.
The rabbit gave up. He stood on the sidewalk, paws akimbo, shaking his big, furry head sadly and for a long time, until he was bowled out of the way by a bicycle.