the puffy pillow that my grandmother had bought for me, I tried to make the worry go away by praying, but the persistent thought that somewhere out there my rabbit was walking upright to his doom, his knees bent, his body straight like a Cossack dancer, strolling blindly into death, denied me the comfort that prayer sometimes provides.
On the second night, there was a thunderstorm, a violent one, with lightning illuminating the sky. One especially impressive bolt shook the house when it crashed into a tree in the park. The winds blew hard. In the far distance, where sometimes I hear the sounds of trains, a tornado siren cried.
It was not the kind of night to be outside.
When Lewis and Clark pushed up the Missouri, across the Continental Divide and down the Columbia through the great forests of the Pacific Northwest, they endured every kind of weather I've ever seen. Surely a rabbit, born and raised outdoors, could make it through a night or two. Surely. That's what I told my brain to think about.
Where was Orwell? What was he doing? And how was I to go about finding him? Losing a wild rabbit is not like losing a dog or a cat. You can't post signs around the neighborhood or run an ad in the newspaper and expect to get results.
If ever a private detective were needed, I told myself, it was now.
I got out of bed and turned on the light. I sat down at my desk with pen and paper and began to make a list.
EXPLANATIONS FOR ORWELL'S ABSENCE
Gone to seek his fortune.
Got lost while exploring.
Got bored and left.
Got mad and left.
Got feelings hurt and left.
Had to deliver a message.
Off on a secret mission.
Remembered something and went to get it.
Had to meet somebody. Be back later.
Playing a practical joke.
These were the most likely explanations that came to mind. Others, like "abducted by space aliens" or "kidnapped, held for ransom" I dismissed as being too far-fetched.
The problem with my list was that, because I had no clues, I couldn't with certainty eliminate any of it. The case of the disappearing rabbit was, as the French say,
impossible.
No real detective would take it.
I wondered, What if this had happened in a movie on TV? What would the movie detective do if he had no clues?
He'd question people, that's what he would do!
And the first person he would question would be me.
I sat at my desk in the middle of the night, an angry thunderstorm carrying on outside to beat the band, trombones and all, and began to question myself. "Try to think," I asked. "Did you notice anything unusual about the victim that day?"
"Everything about the victim was unusual," I replied. "From the moment he arrived in my yard."
"Very well, then. Let's try it a different way. Did anything happen that day that seemed strange?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Everything."
"Try to be specific."
"All right. My father was painting upside down."
"Very good. Anything else?"
"My mother went to work and none of us knows what she does."
"Good. Good. Please continue."
"My sister and I have been turned into maids, school has been temporarily canceled because spring is just around the corner, and my rabbit walked out the back door, standing upright, with white paint on his feet. Is that strange enough, or shall I go on?"
Lightning flashed through the corner windows, illuminating Orwell's empty cage.
"Thank you very much," I told myself. "I will get back to you."
"But wait," I pleaded. "What about my rabbit? Can you find him for me?"
"I will do my best," I replied. "First, I must examine the clues."
"What clues?" I asked. "There aren't any clues."
"There are always clues," I insisted. "Everything that happens leaves clues. I just haven't found them yet." But I would, I vowed silently. I had to! I had come too far with Orwell to let him simply vanish from my life.
Perhaps if I gave my brain time to rest, I'd figure this one out. I switched off the light and climbed back into bed, remembering that somewhere I had heard it said, "Sufficient to the day
On the second night, there was a thunderstorm, a violent one, with lightning illuminating the sky. One especially impressive bolt shook the house when it crashed into a tree in the park. The winds blew hard. In the far distance, where sometimes I hear the sounds of trains, a tornado siren cried.
It was not the kind of night to be outside.
When Lewis and Clark pushed up the Missouri, across the Continental Divide and down the Columbia through the great forests of the Pacific Northwest, they endured every kind of weather I've ever seen. Surely a rabbit, born and raised outdoors, could make it through a night or two. Surely. That's what I told my brain to think about.
Where was Orwell? What was he doing? And how was I to go about finding him? Losing a wild rabbit is not like losing a dog or a cat. You can't post signs around the neighborhood or run an ad in the newspaper and expect to get results.
If ever a private detective were needed, I told myself, it was now.
I got out of bed and turned on the light. I sat down at my desk with pen and paper and began to make a list.
EXPLANATIONS FOR ORWELL'S ABSENCE
Gone to seek his fortune.
Got lost while exploring.
Got bored and left.
Got mad and left.
Got feelings hurt and left.
Had to deliver a message.
Off on a secret mission.
Remembered something and went to get it.
Had to meet somebody. Be back later.
Playing a practical joke.
These were the most likely explanations that came to mind. Others, like "abducted by space aliens" or "kidnapped, held for ransom" I dismissed as being too far-fetched.
The problem with my list was that, because I had no clues, I couldn't with certainty eliminate any of it. The case of the disappearing rabbit was, as the French say,
impossible.
No real detective would take it.
I wondered, What if this had happened in a movie on TV? What would the movie detective do if he had no clues?
He'd question people, that's what he would do!
And the first person he would question would be me.
I sat at my desk in the middle of the night, an angry thunderstorm carrying on outside to beat the band, trombones and all, and began to question myself. "Try to think," I asked. "Did you notice anything unusual about the victim that day?"
"Everything about the victim was unusual," I replied. "From the moment he arrived in my yard."
"Very well, then. Let's try it a different way. Did anything happen that day that seemed strange?"
"Yes."
"What?"
"Everything."
"Try to be specific."
"All right. My father was painting upside down."
"Very good. Anything else?"
"My mother went to work and none of us knows what she does."
"Good. Good. Please continue."
"My sister and I have been turned into maids, school has been temporarily canceled because spring is just around the corner, and my rabbit walked out the back door, standing upright, with white paint on his feet. Is that strange enough, or shall I go on?"
Lightning flashed through the corner windows, illuminating Orwell's empty cage.
"Thank you very much," I told myself. "I will get back to you."
"But wait," I pleaded. "What about my rabbit? Can you find him for me?"
"I will do my best," I replied. "First, I must examine the clues."
"What clues?" I asked. "There aren't any clues."
"There are always clues," I insisted. "Everything that happens leaves clues. I just haven't found them yet." But I would, I vowed silently. I had to! I had come too far with Orwell to let him simply vanish from my life.
Perhaps if I gave my brain time to rest, I'd figure this one out. I switched off the light and climbed back into bed, remembering that somewhere I had heard it said, "Sufficient to the day
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