The Arrangement
He sat down on the bed in the tiny room he rented in the big city. His rabbit, Harry, seemed to be watching him, so he gently lifted the animal onto his lap and began stroking the fur between its ears. The fur was so thick and soft he could hardly believe it. It made him reflect on the wonder of life and all the things man hadn't yet touched and ruined.
"You're what keeps me from going nuts, Harry," he said, looking the animal square in the face. Harry's eyes were blank. He had a lot of stress there in the city and sometimes it made him a little crazy. Harry rested there peacefully on the man's lap and the hand with its long fingers stroked the rabbit's fur.
Continued...
Harry had been a wild rabbit when the man took him as a pet, so he wasn't white or black or any carefully bred color. The fur on his ears was peppered black and golden brown. He had a jaunty little tuft of white fur on the top of his head. Across his face there were stiff little white guard hairs in among the soft, velvety fur in myriad shades of tan. He had long black and white whiskers. Some of the fur on his cheeks was so soft and long, like a very young child's hair who's never had a haircut. But as he stroked the fur above Harry's eyes, that was his favorite. It was black down by his skin, then golden, and then black again at the tips. My god, what a beautiful creature, he thought.
"Your whiskers are fine," the man said.
He stroked the fur along the animals cheek and its long whiskers flicked out as his fingers moved across them. Harry didn't flinch. He was used to this.
The man stroked along the whiskers again. His thumb was shaking again. He should probably go to the doctor, he thought. It had been like that since he was younger, since he moved away from home and started life on his own, started finding himself, started to develop his own "non-conformist" personality, as he liked to think. He should probably go to the doctor. But he probably wouldn't, he thought. They probably won't have a clue what's wrong anyway. Probably just make it worse. I get along just fine, he thought.
Watching his own fingers stroke the rabbit's fur there, in that detached way of his, he thought how that hand looked like an artificial hand, if you disregarded the shaking (hell, you had to know what to look for to even notice it). It was bony, and too thin. It was like a prosthetic hand, a wooden hand, a piece of beautiful sculpture, one of Tilman Riemenschneider's hands, he thought, with a little pride.
Harry was lying in his lap with his ears out straight, a little stiffly. The man thought he could almost feel Harry breathing. He loved Harry. And Harry loved him, at least as much as a beast can, because he never tried to get away, nor did he flinch like most animals will when they are picked up.
But he felt kind of bad about having taken him out of the wild. A wild animal belongs in the wild, and he knew it all too well.
The bell rang on his intercom. He set Harry down on his bed and went to the door. He always hated this part. When he was hidden away from all the bustle in his little room, away from all the hate and rudeness and selfishness of that city out there. He peered through the peephole. It looked like another salesman. People were always hassling him.
The salesman had the ubiquitous dark suit. The shiny, peach tie that was apparently in fashion lately. Pockmarked face. Narrow eyes. He felt revulsion and backed away from the peephole. He went back to the bed and sat down and waited for the salesman to leave. There was only the bed in the room, and a low table and a small bookcase. There wasn't room for anything else. No chairs, no nothing. A sofa was out of the question. It was a bleak room, but he didn't mind.
He lifted Harry onto his lap again and began stroking his fur again. The bell rang again and he winced.
"Go on now," he said in a low voice. "Take your peach tie and go sell something someplace else."
He waited quietly, very still. Then finally he heard the man walking away. He went back to petting Harry. The smooth, thick, richly varied colors of his fur. He was reflective again. He wanted to freeze life. Keep it in its best state, without any interruptions, without salesmen. He felt behind the animal's ears. It was rough and dry back there.
"Poor fella," he said and knit his brows, wrinkled up his forehead. Oh well, nothing comes out the way you hope completely, he thought.
"I guess I'll have to take that follow-up course," he said. He'd gotten up the nerve the previous spring to leave his little room and take a course at the community center in taxidermy. Then in the late spring he'd found Harry.
He set the dried hare's mask down on the low table lovingly and laid back on the bed with his forehead still wrinkled up, thinking.
"You're what keeps me from going nuts, Harry," he said, looking the animal square in the face. Harry's eyes were blank. He had a lot of stress there in the city and sometimes it made him a little crazy. Harry rested there peacefully on the man's lap and the hand with its long fingers stroked the rabbit's fur.
Continued...
Harry had been a wild rabbit when the man took him as a pet, so he wasn't white or black or any carefully bred color. The fur on his ears was peppered black and golden brown. He had a jaunty little tuft of white fur on the top of his head. Across his face there were stiff little white guard hairs in among the soft, velvety fur in myriad shades of tan. He had long black and white whiskers. Some of the fur on his cheeks was so soft and long, like a very young child's hair who's never had a haircut. But as he stroked the fur above Harry's eyes, that was his favorite. It was black down by his skin, then golden, and then black again at the tips. My god, what a beautiful creature, he thought.
"Your whiskers are fine," the man said.
He stroked the fur along the animals cheek and its long whiskers flicked out as his fingers moved across them. Harry didn't flinch. He was used to this.
The man stroked along the whiskers again. His thumb was shaking again. He should probably go to the doctor, he thought. It had been like that since he was younger, since he moved away from home and started life on his own, started finding himself, started to develop his own "non-conformist" personality, as he liked to think. He should probably go to the doctor. But he probably wouldn't, he thought. They probably won't have a clue what's wrong anyway. Probably just make it worse. I get along just fine, he thought.
Watching his own fingers stroke the rabbit's fur there, in that detached way of his, he thought how that hand looked like an artificial hand, if you disregarded the shaking (hell, you had to know what to look for to even notice it). It was bony, and too thin. It was like a prosthetic hand, a wooden hand, a piece of beautiful sculpture, one of Tilman Riemenschneider's hands, he thought, with a little pride.
Harry was lying in his lap with his ears out straight, a little stiffly. The man thought he could almost feel Harry breathing. He loved Harry. And Harry loved him, at least as much as a beast can, because he never tried to get away, nor did he flinch like most animals will when they are picked up.
But he felt kind of bad about having taken him out of the wild. A wild animal belongs in the wild, and he knew it all too well.
The bell rang on his intercom. He set Harry down on his bed and went to the door. He always hated this part. When he was hidden away from all the bustle in his little room, away from all the hate and rudeness and selfishness of that city out there. He peered through the peephole. It looked like another salesman. People were always hassling him.
The salesman had the ubiquitous dark suit. The shiny, peach tie that was apparently in fashion lately. Pockmarked face. Narrow eyes. He felt revulsion and backed away from the peephole. He went back to the bed and sat down and waited for the salesman to leave. There was only the bed in the room, and a low table and a small bookcase. There wasn't room for anything else. No chairs, no nothing. A sofa was out of the question. It was a bleak room, but he didn't mind.
He lifted Harry onto his lap again and began stroking his fur again. The bell rang again and he winced.
"Go on now," he said in a low voice. "Take your peach tie and go sell something someplace else."
He waited quietly, very still. Then finally he heard the man walking away. He went back to petting Harry. The smooth, thick, richly varied colors of his fur. He was reflective again. He wanted to freeze life. Keep it in its best state, without any interruptions, without salesmen. He felt behind the animal's ears. It was rough and dry back there.
"Poor fella," he said and knit his brows, wrinkled up his forehead. Oh well, nothing comes out the way you hope completely, he thought.
"I guess I'll have to take that follow-up course," he said. He'd gotten up the nerve the previous spring to leave his little room and take a course at the community center in taxidermy. Then in the late spring he'd found Harry.
He set the dried hare's mask down on the low table lovingly and laid back on the bed with his forehead still wrinkled up, thinking.
© 2006 by PA Casey (ryecatcher)
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