On a frost-brittle morning when I was newly six, Dad set out to butcher the latest batch of the rabbits he raised in hutches in our backyard. I had watched them grow from tiny naked pink morsels the size of walnuts into little hoppy balls of silky fluff, and now into nearly full-grown bunnies tugging eagerly at tufts of the sweet timothy hay I helped Dad feed them every day. I had given them all names, as I always did to each baby in every litter — Coffee for the brown one, Cream for the pale tan, Polka for the black-and-white, and Daisy and Truffles and Skeeter. I loved every baby, and I loved the old buck, Pete, and Pansy and Margaret, the does in his harem.
I trotted after Dad when he went to get Pansy's litter. He put them into a cardboard box and carried it into the garage, where I watched him hang a long, hooked cable from a rafter. On the dusty floor planks below the hook he set a rusted pail and laid an old wooden axe handle across it. Then he sent me back to the house.
For the longest time I had pestered and pestered to watch Dad butcher his rabbits, but Mother never let me. This time I would not be deterred. My curiosity made me willing to risk the consequences of defying orders. I knew those bunnies were being prepared for our freezer and Saturday dinners to come, and I was determined to see how.
So I came right back out of the house and went straight to the garage. There Dad stood, with two furry bundles piled at his feet, steaming slightly in the cold. A gray rabbit — Skeeter — dangled by his hind feet from the cable. Dad said I should go back to the house. I said no, I want to see.
Would it hurt? I wanted to know. Would the bunnies be afraid?
No, Dad said, it's very quick. Run along now, he added, it's too cold for you to be out here without a warmer coat.
No, I said, I want to see how you do it. Dad made a few more tries at shooing me away, but I wouldn't give in.
All right then, Dad said. You stand over there, out of the way. He stepped to the side, putting his back between me and Skeeter. I sidled around to where I could see his front side again.
Dad shook his head and sighed. He looked at me for a minute, and then he shook his head again and picked up the axe handle. With his other hand, he stroked Skeeter a few times, smoothing his little ears upwards along his stretched-out body. Skeeter looked at Dad and his big eyes gleamed like shiny river stones. His velvety nose twitched, twitched, but he didn't struggle, hanging there upside down. Okay, little guy, Dad said, and hefted the handle, you're a good bunny. His forearm flew up and snapped down in a lightning-quick arc, striking the axe handle with a loud Pop! squarely against the back of Skeeter's little skull. I saw red blood drops bloom on the floorboards and across the toes of Dad's shoes. The gleam went out of Skeeter's eyes, but they stayed open. Now I knew.
Dad straightened up and looked at me again. I think he was checking to be sure I was okay. My throat felt so tight I couldn't make my voice work, so I nodded to show him yes. Dad nodded back, and smiled. That's my girl, he said. I started breathing again. Then Dad showed me how he made a little cut in the throat to let the blood drain out into the bucket on the floor. After that he took Skeeter down and laid him beside the others.
There were still three of the litter waiting in the cardboard box. I handed Dad the next one (it was Polka), and while he hung her on the cable I picked up the axe handle.
Let me do it, Dad, I said. I can do it.
Honey, Dad said, I don't think so. You're not a very big girl yet, and you might not be able to hit hard enough. When you're bigger you can do it.
So that was all right. I watched Dad finish, and he let me help him afterwards when he showed me how he skinned them in a single piece and hung the pelts to dry on special wire frames, stretched with the fur turned to the inside.
Dad raised rabbits until I was nearly through high school. I continued to love them all and help take care of them. Sometimes I helped with the butchering. But I never gave them names anymore.