Exeat Pieter

EXEAT PIETER

When I was about eight or nine, my dad brought home a beautiful black
buck rabbit which he said was for me. I had never been allowed to have
a pet before, and I was overjoyed. I loved the rabbit at once, and
named him Peter.
Although we lived on the top floor of an ancient Victorian building, we
were fortunate enough to have access to a flat roof. This proved a very
good substitute for a back yard, and this was where Peter was kept, in
his hutch.
My dad said I had to look after the rabbit all by myself, and I was
very glad to do this. No pet was ever more cosseted than Peter. I would
brush his fur until it gleamed like black velvet. And put fresh hay in
his hutch every day while I let him out for a gallop in his pen (this
was an old playpen covered in chicken wire which my dad had made). I
would have taken him out for a walk on a lead if I had been allowed.
And Peter had only fresh green food - nothing dried. On market days,
after school, I would collect from beneath the stalls parsnip and
cauliflower tops (discarded in those days). And between times, I would
forage in the bommies (bombed ruins of London) to find dandelions,
groundsel or clover. It was then that I began to study books about wild
plants to discover which ones were good for rabbits. Peter grew big and
strong, but he was still gentle. He would eat right out of my hand, and
always greet me with a soft woffly nose trying to poke through the wire
of his hutch. I was a lonely child, and Peter became my best friend in
the world.

Then one day after school, there was another hutch on the roof. This
housed a black and white female rabbit. I promptly named her Bonnie;
but my dad said I mustn't take her out of the hutch to play like I did
with Peter; she wasn't as tame as he, and might try to run away and
fall off the roof. This seemed like sensible advice and I obeyed. I fed
Bonnie just as faithfully as I did Peter, but my dad did all the
necessary hutch cleaning and exercising - never at the same time as
Peter, I noticed.

After that, Peter began to change. He seemed to become moody and
irritable; he wouldn't let me cuddle him any more. And one day when I
opened the hutch to lift him out, he kicked at me with his strong hind
legs and raked my arms with his claws, producing several nasty long red
scratches. I was naturally upset by this strange behaviour from my pet,
and thought perhaps he was jealous of the other rabbit. "But I still
love you, Peter," I told him. "You are my friend."
A few days later, Bonnie was allowed to play in the pen with Peter, and
after that he became gentle again, though not quite as friendly as
before. I was relieved. Peter must have been lonely - that was why he'd
been so cross. But a strange thought occurred to me: Why did Peter need
another rabbit when he had me? I didn't need other children, did I? I
had no friends at that age. I was a bit of a loner at school, and was
never allowed out to play in the evenings. My little sister was only
three at the time, and although I was very fond of her, she wasn't much
of a playmate as yet. There was only Peter. I began to feel a bit
jealous myself.

Then came the terrible day when I came home from school to find Peter's
hutch empty, and Bonnie playing alone in the pen. I hurtled down the
attic stairs, and had to go to the bathroom because I suddenly felt
sick with fear - Peter must have escaped and fallen off the roof. We
lived four floors up - he would surely have been killed. My fears were
realised in a worse way than I'd imagined. There in the bathroom, I
froze with shock. Suspended by its hind legs from the ceiling, right
over the bath, was a large black rabbit - quite dead. A small globule
of congealed blood glistened from its nostril. Surely this could not be
Peter? Not MY Peter. Not my beautiful warm cuddly little friend!
I think I began to scream and cry at that point, because my mum rushed
in and told me not to be silly. That wasn't Peter. Dad had bought that
rabbit at the butcher's for Sunday dinner. Peter had run away into the
park and was now happy with lots of other rabbits. I shouldn't be such
a baby.
I almost believed her because I wanted to; I couldn't bear to think
that Peter was dead - yet I didn't quite believe her; I held my agony
inside for two days.

Sunday dinner was duly served in the form of casserole, which we often
had. It was chicken, my mum tried to tell me. But in my heart, I
instinctively knew this tender white meat was Peter; and I could not
have eaten a single bite without choking to death. I glared at my dad
with the first open defiance I had ever shown - HE was the murderer.
All of the times he had beaten me were nothing compared with this. At
that moment, I hated him.
I was duly slapped and sent to bed for this sullen behaviour. But it
didn't seem to matter. I just wished childish curses upon my dad and
cried for Peter..

A few days later, my mum tried to explain to me. Peter had only been
bought to make baby rabbits. Bonnie was soon going to have babies -
we'd have lots of new rabbits - I could have another one.
I didn't understand how grown-ups could be so cruel. Why had they told
me Peter was mine? Why had they given me that wonderful gift just to
snatch it back again? Didn't they understand about love?

The baby rabbits were born, and at first I thought they were horrible -
naked and squirming - like sausages with tiny feet. But in a few weeks
they were furry and cute. There were two white ones, two black and
white like Bonnie, and one - only one, black like Peter.
"Would you like that one?" my dad asked me.
"No!" I told him curtly. "I don't want ANY. They are all yours." And I
swore to myself at that moment that I would never ever keep another
pet.
For love brings only pain...