We used to have rabbit for dinner at Easter, at my dad's request.
Yep.
It was really, really yummy.
I guess that made me feel a little bit guilty, but not guilty enough to stop eating it.
Everyone who knew my dad knew he was a flea market addict, and he would come home with all manner of treasures: craftsman furniture in need of a little love, baseball memorabilia... well, one day he came home with a rabbit. We named it Rosebud, for reasons I no longer remember, and he built a hutch underneath the porch for it. That thing grew to the size of a Westie terrier and terrorized everyone. Loved my dad though. All the animals always did.
And we never ate rabbit again.
Rosebud is buried in the backyard, alongside Molly the cat, Rupert the chinchilla, and his final cat, Fighty-Bitey, who turned out to be a helluva lot nicer than the rabbit.
You know, rabbit stew is quite delicious.
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