“What do you do when one version of the future just stands up and walks away?” I asked Pepper as we checked on the baby oak and maple trees I planted late last fall. The maples have been showing the tiniest little red leaves – signs of life! – while the oaks keep any life within them hidden, still.
“Like when the baby rabbit gets away?” she asked. “The one I wanted to grip in my jaw, shake violently to death, decapitate and eviscerate? Of course it’s not walking away. It’s sprinting, bounding, on its little baby hind legs.”
“Yes, Pep, kind of like that,” I replied. “Also – gross! And awful!”
“That rabbit would have been absolutely delicious,” she stated with certainty. “But there’s another baby bunny. Everything in me just knows it. I keep hunting.”
I sighed. And frowned. “What if you never get a bunny, Pep?” I asked, almost cruelly.
She gave me her wounded look, like when I convince her to get in the crate using unjust means (treats are involved).
“I will adjust my goals as necessary and prudent,” she answered. “The main thing is that I never forget the power in my own legs,” she added, sprinting to the far corner of the yard to see her friend Hotch, the German shepherd.
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