When we met

Dear Deer,

You remind me of rabbits. I've always had this feeling about rabbits, that humans think of them as floppy, squishy-soft things; once I held a rabbit and she kicked off my chest, hard, and ran. I was nearly winded by her. Inside her (you could feel it when you even touched your hand to her fur) were tightly-wound muscles and sinews, power and strength belied by the cuteness of her fluffy fur and tiny pink-lined ears. We humans do that -- try to negate the deadly serious dignity and fortitude of creatures, by calling them cute, making jokes, turning them into cartoon characters and stuffed toys. But inside each softly furred or feathered body is a bloody heart and a fiercely independent mind and soul, isn't there? Inside you, and inside rabbits, and inside everyone else.

I'm sorry to talk so much about rabbits instead of about you. I've never gotten to know you personally. The closest we've come to knowing each other is when I fed you, as a child, in a park. You were captive, and furtive, and did not come near the fence. And once I ate a piece of you. A friend had hunted you down and killed you with his father. He told me it had been a beautiful experience, a connection with nature and with you. I believed him and ate. I felt sick with guilt and confusion afterward, for a long time.

Best,
A