Lady Bruce
By Chuck Curtis
Lynn Michael Curtis (aka "Chuck".) Currently resides in Exeter, N.H. with his wife, Julia. He works as a radio DJ, an
actor, a freelance writer, and a wood craftsman. He has three children, three grandchildren, one great grand
daughter, and three step grand children. Chuck also write, directs and produces short comedy plays and scripts.
When our neighbors, the Garvins, decided to present me with one of their rabbits as a reward for helping them clean
their animal cages the week before, I was not only surprised, but also dismayed at the thought of possibly having to
return the animal to them as soon as my parents found out about this. I had recently overheard them discussing
financial matters and making statements about how the family budget was so tight that even feeding and taking care
of the pets we already had was a struggle. We had a large dog, a cat, a canary, a turtle, and a goldfish. I could not
understand how these five family members could be that much of a burden, but I felt that bringing in a rabbit
would surely cause a “Black Friday” in our home, and I was not even sure exactly what that meant, but guessed that
our electricity would be shut off at the end of the week
I cautiously set my new possession on the floor of the small shed which stood about 50 feet from the
driveway, and off to one side. I knew that sooner or later I would have to spill my story to mom and dad, so when I
went into the house, and found mom in the kitchen ( when you are young, isn't your mother always found in or near
the kitchen?) I decided to tell her right away. The look on her face was, at first, one of surprise, as it had been for
me, and quickly turned to one of pity and concern. All I recall her saying to me was “wait till your dad gets home
from work”. How many times a youngster hears those famous words, and usually spoken in a threatening manner.
But this time is was soft and barely audible, so my concern, when I heard him drive up later that evening, was
minimal.
I was soon asked to go outside while my folks had a private discussion. I was hoping it would be a talk that
involved me and my bunny, so we could get this over with before I started getting attached to this large, gray, furry
creature that had wiggled his nose and ears at me as I placed him in the corner of the shed. They only conversed
for about 10 minutes, and I was called back inside and asked to sit down at the table. When you are asked to sit
down, usually it means there is an uncomfortable situation about to unfold. However, it had been decided that I
would be allowed to keep the animal in our cellar, but I would be expected to use my earnings from the yard work I
was doing every weekend for Mr. Michaud, and buy rabbit food and hay, and that it would be my responsibility to
keep the cage cleaned, and my rabbit fed and watered every day. Of course, I eagerly agreed, and hugged them
both to show my happiness and appreciation. Mr. Garvin had mentioned to me earlier, that if we wanted a small
cage on a stand , he had one in his barn that he could spare. I told dad about it at this point because I knew we did
not have anything except the shed outside and a large wire bin in the cellar. So, we decided to cross the street, ask
for help in getting the cage and stand into our cellar, using the outside entrance, and get that gray hare into his new
home. Dad reminded me on the way over that we had to decide where the cage would end up, clean the area of
any debris that was in the way, and get some hay from the Garvins, which had also been offered along with the
cage. After speaking briefly with Mel at his front door, and explaining why we were there, dad and myself were
escorted around to the barn at the rear of their house. The cage was laid across a large wooden wagon, along with
a bale of hay, and soon we were back to our cellar entrance. Dad explained that having my pet in the cellar would
eliminate having to go to the shed in foul weather, especially during winter months, which were rapidly approaching.
Our cellar was dark, except for the center areas where dad had hung light fixtures with strings tied to the pull chains
for turning them on and off. It was musty and damp, with a furnace in the center, a bin to the right where the coal
would slide down a chute when a delivery truck came around, a cistern that contained water which was collected by
the gutters outside, and a small crudely made work bench under the staircase. It was decided that the best spot
would be in the center of the cellar, close to the furnace, with some natural light available through the two windows
on either side, small and dirty though they were. It did not take much time or effort to clean that spot, and we brought
the wagon over, stood the cage up and slid it into place. Some hay was strewn inside of it, a couple of old plastic
cereal bowls were donated by mom, for water and food, and we were in business. As I eagerly turned to run to the
shed for the rabbit, dad asked me what I was going to pick for a name. Every pet must have a name. How silly of me
to not think of that on my own! The cat was Mouse Meat, the dog was Brownie, the canary was called everything in
the book, the turtle was Shelly, and the goldfish was Bubbles. I thought very briefly before deciding. The oldest son
in the Garvin family had been elected to crate up and carry this bunny across the street to our house on the corner.
He was the one to actually present it to me. His name was Bruce. I aptly named my rabbit Bruce. Well, as it turned
out, I was later somewhat embarrassed to find out that “Bruce” was going to be a mommy. Nobody had been told, or
asked, or even bothered to find out which sex the animal was, but I had picked the name, gotten used to it, and so
decided to keep it. We did wonder if the Garvins had known about the pregnancy, and had possibly picked this one
to give to us to avoid having to feed another litter. We never asked them. Bruce eventually gave birth to a litter of
eight little bunnies. I wondered if I would be forced to find a second job!
Upon discovering nine rabbits in that small cage one morning, where the night before there had appeared to be
no more than one, it was soon decided that we had to provide a larger home for them. I suggested the vegetable
bin, which stood on the dirt floor just to the left of the furnace. The vote was unanimous, probably because there
was no other unit readily available without constructing one. However, we were currently using it as a place for
whatever did not have another designated spot. Even modern homes have such an area, like the “junk drawer” that
is in every kitchen. We soon had the area ready for it's nine new tenants. This cage had apparently been used as a
storage area for winter vegetables, probably grown in a garden somewhere on the property out back . It stood about
five feet high, four feet wide, and six feet front to rear.. It rested on short legs so that the bottom was off the dirt
floor. It was constructed of a wooden frame, and was enclosed completely with grid wire, including the bottom. In the
front, there was a hinged door which opened downward, allowing easy access for entering and fetching items from
the rear area of the bin. Dad explained to me that the usual storage foods would consist of potatoes, squash,
onions and apples.
It was not long before the bin was empty and hay had been scattered about inside. Dad and I gingerly lifted the
smaller cage, inhabitants and all, off it's stand and proceeded to place it inside the larger one. We then opened the
door on the end of the smaller one so that Bruce and the litter could come out when they decided it was time and
when the babies were mature enough to leave their current nest area. We would later remove it when it appeared
they no longer needed it or were using it.
I remained in the cellar after Dad had gone back upstairs and suddenly became aware of some problems which
I might be facing now. I will need more money for food, I will have more of a cleaning chore with the addition of eight
more pets in the family. Would mom and dad even consider letting me keep this new litter? Would I have to find a
second job? Could I even find one?
I honestly am not certain of all the facts concerned with paying for more rabbit food, but I have to assume that
either I was able to save enough of my own earned income and allowance to manage on my own, or possibly mom
and dad pitched in occasionally to help me out. I do remember that there were no discussions of getting rid of any of
the litter at that time. .As the weeks passed and this litter grew and started eating more and more of the pellets I had
to buy, I found myself getting attached to the only white one in the group, more than the others. I named him Pete.
Not peter, mind you, but just plain Pete. I had asked my dad to confirm the gender before choosing this name. I did
not feel compelled to name the others. I often picked Pete up and would carry him around with me outside. I talked to
him as if he could understand me and I told him secrets. We became “buddies”, and as time went by, he was
actually spending more time out of the cage than he spent in it, with the rest of his family. But, then he was probably
happy about that for a number of reasons, including the fact that he had a mother named Bruce.
December rolled around and we now had a Christmas tree in our dining room. Dad placed it in the corner, just
off the entrance to the kitchen. I asked him if I could bring Pete into the house and I was truly surprised when he said
yes, as long as I kept an eye on him and agreed to clean up any “accidents” that might occur. I happily agreed and
when I placed Pete on the floor, he at first did not move much. The strange surroundings frightened him some, I
assume, as well as the warm air which he did not experience in the cellar or outside now that winter had arrived. But,
within a minute or so, he hopped over and went under the tree and laid down on the floor among the few colorful,
wrapped gifts which had been presented by neighbors. The tree, with it's spruce scents and low branches, must
have instinctively made him feel right at home. I placed a bowl of water and a small dish of rabbit food nearby. Later
he did eat and drink, and occasionally would wander around other parts of our house, but always returned to the
tree area, where he sometimes would sleep peacefully, even with the constant household noises and conversations
going on all around him. I kept my promise and cleaned up any and all messes, though the newspapers we placed
under the tree seemed to be the place where Pete felt he should relieve himself most of the time. How he knew that,
I will never understand. Maybe it had something to do with the small pieces of carrot or lettuce I would sneak over to
him whenever he went on the papers like I wanted. Rewards worked for me as well. Keeping my word to watch and
clean up after Pete, earned me the privilege of not having to put him back in the cellar except when we would be
getting ready to go upstairs to our beds for the night. We did not allow him to be in the living area every day,
because when we did allow him this privilege, we also had to put Brownie, our dog, outside to prevent any risk of him
deciding to attack this rabbit and possibly kill him. After all, he had chased and caught wild animals while roaming the
back fields and woods around our home, and he had never been punished for it. Mother nature was allowed to do
her will. But inside our home, the rules had to be applied and strictly adhered to by everyone. Very simple rules!
Pete in, Brownie out. Brownie in, Pete out. Both in, not a pretty sight!
Within six months, as with any large family, things changed. And, because we were quite young, my sisters and
myself were not privy to family financial matters or major parental decisions most of the time, and so I would have to
make a lot of assumptions in place of having actual facts. I did not ask questions and did not discuss most of my
inner thoughts and emotions pertaining to the rest of this particular section of my autobiography. Until I decided to
tackle the project of piecing together numerous events and memories from my childhood, I never talked about the
following recollections with anyone.
It had been decided that the rabbits would have to go. All of them. I assumed that they might either be given to our
neighbor's, the Garvins, or perhaps to a relative or family friend who lived not too far away for me to visit and see
Pete once in a while. I was saddened by the decision, but did not allow myself to grieve or ask too many questions
concerning this parental decision. I had learned from the past that matters such as this do not include questions
from the children. It was decided. You either just accept it or you deal with it in the privacy of your own room or in the
back fields, or in the woods. And you do it alone.
Within a week, I was taken to my Grandparent's home in Kittery Point, Maine. It was explained to me that dad
and grampa had business to attend to and I was to remain in the house for a short time. When I was told I could
come out, dad said he would return for me later in the day and that I could visit with gram and gramp in the
meantime. I did not see him in the immediate area and so decided to amuse myself in the driveway area, as I so
often had done in the past. Shortly after I began drawing pictures in the dirt with my favorite stick that I kept hidden
in the garage, I heard gramp calling out to me. I walked to the area between the side of the garage and the front of
what we all called the wood house. I spotted him standing in an open, grassy area. There were three cardboard
boxes on the ground near him. He instructed me to stay at the spot I was in, and just observe. He explained that it
was time I learned a few things and that this event would help me in becoming a man . He then proceeded to reach
down into the nearest box with his left hand, and pulled out a light brown rabbit. He was holding the animal by the
hind legs, and it was squirming and trying to get free. Now, at this point, I thought it must be one of his own bunnies,
because I knew he raised them in a nearby hutch. I had often been allowed to feed and water them when I was
visiting, and when gramp had to be at his job at the Naval Shipyard. Being young and naive, I just assumed that he
gave them away when they were grown enough, or maybe he sold some. I had no emotional attachment for this
rabbit, nor was I yet aware of what was about to happen. With his right hand, he then reached down to grab a solid
metal bar which was about an inch thick and two feet in length. He quickly raised the bar high into the air and with a
swift and carefully aimed blow, he struck the kicking animal on the back of the neck. Quickly convinced that no more
blows were necessary, he casually tossed the hare onto the ground behind him. I froze with disbelief, agony, fear,
and despair. I felt a sickness overtake me and I shook and trembled violently when the full realization of what I had
just witnessed settled into my young brain. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I could do neither. Gramp glanced in
my direction as he reached into the box for his next victim. Apparently pleased that I was still watching, another
whack from the bar took the life out of yet another poor animal. Again and again my grandfather pulled a struggling
figure from a box and the black bar was quickly brought down hard onto their necks, snapping them in the process,
causing immediate death. Then, it happened. The sight that became too much for me to bear. The sight that forced
me to finally run and scream and cry all the way to the porch door where I went inside and got so sick I had to sit on
the floor to keep from fainting. Gramp had lifted up a rabbit I recognized. He was pure white. My grandfather had no
white ones of his own . It was my friend, Pete. It took about 5 seconds for the realization to course through me and I
saw that it took two strikes on his neck. The first one caused the animal to make high pitched squealing noises and
he squirmed violently before the second blow was rained down on him. Then all was silent and the carcass was
tossed onto the pile with the rest of them.
As I sat on the porch floor, sobbing and shaking, the looming figure of my grandfather appeared at the
doorway. He stared at me momentarily in apparent disgust before he made just one comment to me. “You will never
become a man this way!!”Then he turned and walked out of sight.
He was wrong. I did become a man. But I became a different man with different memories than I would have had
if this incident had not taken place in my boyhood. Those types of memories never go away, never fade, and never
decrease in intensity. Animal cruelty, just like cruelty and abuse of another human, when witnessed and
experienced by a child, can result in bad behavior and a lack of values and morals for a lifetime. I was one of the
lucky ones. I did not turn into a violent and angry person. But the pain and agony that I suffered will linger until my
death.
By Chuck Curtis
Lynn Michael Curtis (aka "Chuck".) Currently resides in Exeter, N.H. with his wife, Julia. He works as a radio DJ, an
actor, a freelance writer, and a wood craftsman. He has three children, three grandchildren, one great grand
daughter, and three step grand children. Chuck also write, directs and produces short comedy plays and scripts.
When our neighbors, the Garvins, decided to present me with one of their rabbits as a reward for helping them clean
their animal cages the week before, I was not only surprised, but also dismayed at the thought of possibly having to
return the animal to them as soon as my parents found out about this. I had recently overheard them discussing
financial matters and making statements about how the family budget was so tight that even feeding and taking care
of the pets we already had was a struggle. We had a large dog, a cat, a canary, a turtle, and a goldfish. I could not
understand how these five family members could be that much of a burden, but I felt that bringing in a rabbit
would surely cause a “Black Friday” in our home, and I was not even sure exactly what that meant, but guessed that
our electricity would be shut off at the end of the week
I cautiously set my new possession on the floor of the small shed which stood about 50 feet from the
driveway, and off to one side. I knew that sooner or later I would have to spill my story to mom and dad, so when I
went into the house, and found mom in the kitchen ( when you are young, isn't your mother always found in or near
the kitchen?) I decided to tell her right away. The look on her face was, at first, one of surprise, as it had been for
me, and quickly turned to one of pity and concern. All I recall her saying to me was “wait till your dad gets home
from work”. How many times a youngster hears those famous words, and usually spoken in a threatening manner.
But this time is was soft and barely audible, so my concern, when I heard him drive up later that evening, was
minimal.
I was soon asked to go outside while my folks had a private discussion. I was hoping it would be a talk that
involved me and my bunny, so we could get this over with before I started getting attached to this large, gray, furry
creature that had wiggled his nose and ears at me as I placed him in the corner of the shed. They only conversed
for about 10 minutes, and I was called back inside and asked to sit down at the table. When you are asked to sit
down, usually it means there is an uncomfortable situation about to unfold. However, it had been decided that I
would be allowed to keep the animal in our cellar, but I would be expected to use my earnings from the yard work I
was doing every weekend for Mr. Michaud, and buy rabbit food and hay, and that it would be my responsibility to
keep the cage cleaned, and my rabbit fed and watered every day. Of course, I eagerly agreed, and hugged them
both to show my happiness and appreciation. Mr. Garvin had mentioned to me earlier, that if we wanted a small
cage on a stand , he had one in his barn that he could spare. I told dad about it at this point because I knew we did
not have anything except the shed outside and a large wire bin in the cellar. So, we decided to cross the street, ask
for help in getting the cage and stand into our cellar, using the outside entrance, and get that gray hare into his new
home. Dad reminded me on the way over that we had to decide where the cage would end up, clean the area of
any debris that was in the way, and get some hay from the Garvins, which had also been offered along with the
cage. After speaking briefly with Mel at his front door, and explaining why we were there, dad and myself were
escorted around to the barn at the rear of their house. The cage was laid across a large wooden wagon, along with
a bale of hay, and soon we were back to our cellar entrance. Dad explained that having my pet in the cellar would
eliminate having to go to the shed in foul weather, especially during winter months, which were rapidly approaching.
Our cellar was dark, except for the center areas where dad had hung light fixtures with strings tied to the pull chains
for turning them on and off. It was musty and damp, with a furnace in the center, a bin to the right where the coal
would slide down a chute when a delivery truck came around, a cistern that contained water which was collected by
the gutters outside, and a small crudely made work bench under the staircase. It was decided that the best spot
would be in the center of the cellar, close to the furnace, with some natural light available through the two windows
on either side, small and dirty though they were. It did not take much time or effort to clean that spot, and we brought
the wagon over, stood the cage up and slid it into place. Some hay was strewn inside of it, a couple of old plastic
cereal bowls were donated by mom, for water and food, and we were in business. As I eagerly turned to run to the
shed for the rabbit, dad asked me what I was going to pick for a name. Every pet must have a name. How silly of me
to not think of that on my own! The cat was Mouse Meat, the dog was Brownie, the canary was called everything in
the book, the turtle was Shelly, and the goldfish was Bubbles. I thought very briefly before deciding. The oldest son
in the Garvin family had been elected to crate up and carry this bunny across the street to our house on the corner.
He was the one to actually present it to me. His name was Bruce. I aptly named my rabbit Bruce. Well, as it turned
out, I was later somewhat embarrassed to find out that “Bruce” was going to be a mommy. Nobody had been told, or
asked, or even bothered to find out which sex the animal was, but I had picked the name, gotten used to it, and so
decided to keep it. We did wonder if the Garvins had known about the pregnancy, and had possibly picked this one
to give to us to avoid having to feed another litter. We never asked them. Bruce eventually gave birth to a litter of
eight little bunnies. I wondered if I would be forced to find a second job!
Upon discovering nine rabbits in that small cage one morning, where the night before there had appeared to be
no more than one, it was soon decided that we had to provide a larger home for them. I suggested the vegetable
bin, which stood on the dirt floor just to the left of the furnace. The vote was unanimous, probably because there
was no other unit readily available without constructing one. However, we were currently using it as a place for
whatever did not have another designated spot. Even modern homes have such an area, like the “junk drawer” that
is in every kitchen. We soon had the area ready for it's nine new tenants. This cage had apparently been used as a
storage area for winter vegetables, probably grown in a garden somewhere on the property out back . It stood about
five feet high, four feet wide, and six feet front to rear.. It rested on short legs so that the bottom was off the dirt
floor. It was constructed of a wooden frame, and was enclosed completely with grid wire, including the bottom. In the
front, there was a hinged door which opened downward, allowing easy access for entering and fetching items from
the rear area of the bin. Dad explained to me that the usual storage foods would consist of potatoes, squash,
onions and apples.
It was not long before the bin was empty and hay had been scattered about inside. Dad and I gingerly lifted the
smaller cage, inhabitants and all, off it's stand and proceeded to place it inside the larger one. We then opened the
door on the end of the smaller one so that Bruce and the litter could come out when they decided it was time and
when the babies were mature enough to leave their current nest area. We would later remove it when it appeared
they no longer needed it or were using it.
I remained in the cellar after Dad had gone back upstairs and suddenly became aware of some problems which
I might be facing now. I will need more money for food, I will have more of a cleaning chore with the addition of eight
more pets in the family. Would mom and dad even consider letting me keep this new litter? Would I have to find a
second job? Could I even find one?
I honestly am not certain of all the facts concerned with paying for more rabbit food, but I have to assume that
either I was able to save enough of my own earned income and allowance to manage on my own, or possibly mom
and dad pitched in occasionally to help me out. I do remember that there were no discussions of getting rid of any of
the litter at that time. .As the weeks passed and this litter grew and started eating more and more of the pellets I had
to buy, I found myself getting attached to the only white one in the group, more than the others. I named him Pete.
Not peter, mind you, but just plain Pete. I had asked my dad to confirm the gender before choosing this name. I did
not feel compelled to name the others. I often picked Pete up and would carry him around with me outside. I talked to
him as if he could understand me and I told him secrets. We became “buddies”, and as time went by, he was
actually spending more time out of the cage than he spent in it, with the rest of his family. But, then he was probably
happy about that for a number of reasons, including the fact that he had a mother named Bruce.
December rolled around and we now had a Christmas tree in our dining room. Dad placed it in the corner, just
off the entrance to the kitchen. I asked him if I could bring Pete into the house and I was truly surprised when he said
yes, as long as I kept an eye on him and agreed to clean up any “accidents” that might occur. I happily agreed and
when I placed Pete on the floor, he at first did not move much. The strange surroundings frightened him some, I
assume, as well as the warm air which he did not experience in the cellar or outside now that winter had arrived. But,
within a minute or so, he hopped over and went under the tree and laid down on the floor among the few colorful,
wrapped gifts which had been presented by neighbors. The tree, with it's spruce scents and low branches, must
have instinctively made him feel right at home. I placed a bowl of water and a small dish of rabbit food nearby. Later
he did eat and drink, and occasionally would wander around other parts of our house, but always returned to the
tree area, where he sometimes would sleep peacefully, even with the constant household noises and conversations
going on all around him. I kept my promise and cleaned up any and all messes, though the newspapers we placed
under the tree seemed to be the place where Pete felt he should relieve himself most of the time. How he knew that,
I will never understand. Maybe it had something to do with the small pieces of carrot or lettuce I would sneak over to
him whenever he went on the papers like I wanted. Rewards worked for me as well. Keeping my word to watch and
clean up after Pete, earned me the privilege of not having to put him back in the cellar except when we would be
getting ready to go upstairs to our beds for the night. We did not allow him to be in the living area every day,
because when we did allow him this privilege, we also had to put Brownie, our dog, outside to prevent any risk of him
deciding to attack this rabbit and possibly kill him. After all, he had chased and caught wild animals while roaming the
back fields and woods around our home, and he had never been punished for it. Mother nature was allowed to do
her will. But inside our home, the rules had to be applied and strictly adhered to by everyone. Very simple rules!
Pete in, Brownie out. Brownie in, Pete out. Both in, not a pretty sight!
Within six months, as with any large family, things changed. And, because we were quite young, my sisters and
myself were not privy to family financial matters or major parental decisions most of the time, and so I would have to
make a lot of assumptions in place of having actual facts. I did not ask questions and did not discuss most of my
inner thoughts and emotions pertaining to the rest of this particular section of my autobiography. Until I decided to
tackle the project of piecing together numerous events and memories from my childhood, I never talked about the
following recollections with anyone.
It had been decided that the rabbits would have to go. All of them. I assumed that they might either be given to our
neighbor's, the Garvins, or perhaps to a relative or family friend who lived not too far away for me to visit and see
Pete once in a while. I was saddened by the decision, but did not allow myself to grieve or ask too many questions
concerning this parental decision. I had learned from the past that matters such as this do not include questions
from the children. It was decided. You either just accept it or you deal with it in the privacy of your own room or in the
back fields, or in the woods. And you do it alone.
Within a week, I was taken to my Grandparent's home in Kittery Point, Maine. It was explained to me that dad
and grampa had business to attend to and I was to remain in the house for a short time. When I was told I could
come out, dad said he would return for me later in the day and that I could visit with gram and gramp in the
meantime. I did not see him in the immediate area and so decided to amuse myself in the driveway area, as I so
often had done in the past. Shortly after I began drawing pictures in the dirt with my favorite stick that I kept hidden
in the garage, I heard gramp calling out to me. I walked to the area between the side of the garage and the front of
what we all called the wood house. I spotted him standing in an open, grassy area. There were three cardboard
boxes on the ground near him. He instructed me to stay at the spot I was in, and just observe. He explained that it
was time I learned a few things and that this event would help me in becoming a man . He then proceeded to reach
down into the nearest box with his left hand, and pulled out a light brown rabbit. He was holding the animal by the
hind legs, and it was squirming and trying to get free. Now, at this point, I thought it must be one of his own bunnies,
because I knew he raised them in a nearby hutch. I had often been allowed to feed and water them when I was
visiting, and when gramp had to be at his job at the Naval Shipyard. Being young and naive, I just assumed that he
gave them away when they were grown enough, or maybe he sold some. I had no emotional attachment for this
rabbit, nor was I yet aware of what was about to happen. With his right hand, he then reached down to grab a solid
metal bar which was about an inch thick and two feet in length. He quickly raised the bar high into the air and with a
swift and carefully aimed blow, he struck the kicking animal on the back of the neck. Quickly convinced that no more
blows were necessary, he casually tossed the hare onto the ground behind him. I froze with disbelief, agony, fear,
and despair. I felt a sickness overtake me and I shook and trembled violently when the full realization of what I had
just witnessed settled into my young brain. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run. I could do neither. Gramp glanced in
my direction as he reached into the box for his next victim. Apparently pleased that I was still watching, another
whack from the bar took the life out of yet another poor animal. Again and again my grandfather pulled a struggling
figure from a box and the black bar was quickly brought down hard onto their necks, snapping them in the process,
causing immediate death. Then, it happened. The sight that became too much for me to bear. The sight that forced
me to finally run and scream and cry all the way to the porch door where I went inside and got so sick I had to sit on
the floor to keep from fainting. Gramp had lifted up a rabbit I recognized. He was pure white. My grandfather had no
white ones of his own . It was my friend, Pete. It took about 5 seconds for the realization to course through me and I
saw that it took two strikes on his neck. The first one caused the animal to make high pitched squealing noises and
he squirmed violently before the second blow was rained down on him. Then all was silent and the carcass was
tossed onto the pile with the rest of them.
As I sat on the porch floor, sobbing and shaking, the looming figure of my grandfather appeared at the
doorway. He stared at me momentarily in apparent disgust before he made just one comment to me. “You will never
become a man this way!!”Then he turned and walked out of sight.
He was wrong. I did become a man. But I became a different man with different memories than I would have had
if this incident had not taken place in my boyhood. Those types of memories never go away, never fade, and never
decrease in intensity. Animal cruelty, just like cruelty and abuse of another human, when witnessed and
experienced by a child, can result in bad behavior and a lack of values and morals for a lifetime. I was one of the
lucky ones. I did not turn into a violent and angry person. But the pain and agony that I suffered will linger until my
death.
New Hampshire Writers Pet Stories
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