I was a young woman in an empty warehouse or counting house with another woman. A man, one of our employers, came in and asked me in a whisper to make sure of some numbers he believed to be off. He seemed sad. I thought, “He doesn’t trust the other man.” He looked at me oddly and I sensed that he did trust me and was counting on me to do this right for him.
After he left, I looked at the other woman as I had no idea what I was supposed to do and didn’t want to be caught letting the young man down. She helped me to escape.
My way lay in front of houses fronted by water — lots of water. I couldn’t run but had to pick my way carefully between the patches of water because I didn’t know how deep they were. A river ran beyond the front yards, and water was everywhere.
A boy spotted me and invited me into his house. I needed to keep moving and didn’t like that he’d seen me, but I needed the break.
I came to a train that had open-air cars. As it sped though sunny fields and even forests, I felt horrible and guilty because I had not been able to help the young man. I began to cry because I knew he loved me, and maybe I loved him, too.
I was a young man, and my college roommate had promised an elderly Jewish woman that I would perform the music at one of her family rituals. I was horrified because I knew I was no musician. I dug around in our dorm room, looking for the instrument I would play. I found it in one of the many backpacks in the closet — an accordion.
I met the woman at midnight in the rain. I knew I was not a good musician like those who play by ear and from memory, so I asked for sheet music. My roommate produced a single sheet that somehow contained the music for nine tunes; I was to play eight of them.
He held the music up for me to see, but I was too nearsighted. I felt that this didn’t bode well for this rainy midnight audition or my future performance.
I was a girl at a church service. It had been raining. During the service, someone moved a pillar, and a torrent of water poured from under it. I assumed that the books kept in it had stayed dry and wondered how. More water ran out from within another pillar.
I noticed a man and recognized him as my future lover. Did he know me, too? I watched him discreetly, looking him over and thinking that someday all of that would be mine. It was a delicious thought.
The minister was talking about a heroic bird that had performed a brave deed. I found the bird, which was a wooden statue of a one-legged robin, near a verdant ditch. At first I thought it was dead, but when I realized it was only a representation, I began to stroke it.
I was aware that my mother was glancing at me with disapproval because she believed it to be a dead bird, but my thoughts were only of my future lover and his attention. I dreamed that I had it. I began to sense his growing interest and need.
As I reported earlier, I decided to explore the possibility of a UFE, or uterine fibroid embolization, procedure. On Tuesday, July 22, I took the first step with an MRI scan and a consultation with Dr. V., an interventional radiologist.
Despite my best efforts to be late, I arrived a little early. After I’d been chided for standing in the wrong line (I was supposed to intuit the process) and after being asked for the insurance card I’d handed over three minutes earlier, I found myself with a pager. I wondered if I was in a hospital or the Cheesecake Factory.
I’d settled into a chair and cracked a book for the wait when it dawned on me I didn’t know where to go when called (in hindsight, it was very obvious, but I wasn’t thinking straight that morning), so I backtracked down the hall to the information desk. Just as I was asking, the pager buzzed and lit up impatiently. That was quick! Mr. Information told me to retreat the way I had come and to go to the double doors. “If you don’t respond to the pager, they call you, and then . . .”
I was slightly panicky because, according to the paperwork, I should have verified with the [new] insurer that the MRI scan had been pre-certified. Now they tell me. Or remind me. I think that I will never master the art of adulthood and responsibility, and wonder how many hundreds this particularly dimwitted oversight will cost me.
A young man, the first of many people whose names I didn’t catch or remember, told me how and where to undress and stash my stuff. When he called me, now fashionably dressed in matching back-and-front gowns and green booties. I called back for help. He found me wrestling with the locker key, which it turns out requires a token that had fallen to the floor. My blood was definitely bypassing my brain.
Next stop: Blood tests and IV needle. This MRI scan requires the use of contrast dye, which in turn requires healthy kidneys. I acknowledged that I’m not on dialysis (“that I know of”). After running my contribution through a desktop gizmo, the cheery nurse reported that my kidneys are “working well.” “Too well,” I muttered, as I was hit by another urge. (This proved to be a day of frequent urges.) Next, I was taken to a waiting room where I had just about enough time to notice the House Beautiful pile before another woman came for me. I don’t think it was even 9:30 yet, and already I was in the MRI room.
She plugged in the IV tube, gave me a cool rush of saline, and told me what to expect:
The MRI scan would take 30–45 minutes.
I should lie as still as possible.
I would have a squeeze ball to alert her if I needed anything (I took this to mean, “If you become claustrophobic and panicky”).
She would be able to see and hear me (camera).
The table would move, but I shouldn’t.
During the scan, she would tell me through headphones to hold my breath until instructed to breathe again. Oh, the power!
I lay down on the table like a sacrifice as she and another woman put a heavy band across my mid-section, stuck a cap on my head, and propped my calves over a large pillow (even a sacrifice needs blood flow).
All set?
Let the games began.
I’d read that the technology has improved since my last MRI scan (of my head) and that the equipment is larger (obesity epidemic) and more open. Previously, I just fit, with my arms pinned to my side, my nose nearly touching the top, and no leverage to back out. It was like being in one of those coffins with the split top, only with the head covered and the legs exposed. I’m not particularly claustrophobic, but that time I did start feeling trapped and unable to escape at about the 25-minute mark.
By comparison, this was great. My forehead was sticking out one end so I could see a bit of the ceiling, I had room to move my arms (even if I couldn’t), and I didn’t feel like there was no way to get out without help in an emergency. (With a lot of effort, I think I could have backed out because more of my legs were free.) The squeeze ball nurse call is a bit of comfort, I suppose.
The hard part was holding my breath as many times as she asked me to, for up to 20–25 seconds. It wouldn’t be bad sitting up, but it’s a little problematic at my size in the prone position (one of the forms had a question about breathing issues lying down, but I didn’t think it would be one — but then I didn’t know about holding my breath). When I did hold my breath, loud, rhythmic sounds would kick in — not the same sound or rhythm, but different ones at different times. I distracted myself from the feeling I was suffocating myself by counting to the rhythm and trying to visualize it. The mind has many coping mechanisms, even for coping with something as unnatural as an MRI scan.
Finally, she told me that this was the last time I would have to hold my breath and that they were almost done. The timing was perfect, because I imagined I was feeling the effects of diminished oxygen.
After completing a survey, dressing, and asking Mr. Information the way, I made it to the next stop: the heart/vein area, because, I suppose, that’s where most embolizations are performed. I checked in with my insurance card and received another pager, which buzzed and lit as soon as I had settled on a seat. Such efficiency!
I’m not sure who picked me up; she may have been one of those mentioned on Dr. V.’s Web site. She confirmed my information and left, to be succeeded by Dr. V.
Dr. V. asked about how and when I discovered Ignatius and the grief he gives me, and how much I know about UFE. He gave me a folder with more information. I asked if fibroids were causing my urinary problems. “I think so. Look at this,” he said, as we got down to the business of checking the bastard out.
It turns out ultrasounds aren’t very reliable for pinpointing fibroids. There, on the computer screen, was Ignatius, a single 13-centimeter fibroid perched on top of my uterus, not far from my spine. There were no others. Just Ignatius. His weight is pressing down, flattening (“pancaking,” as Dr. V. put it) the oval of my bladder so that it’s a little bubbled on one end. Dr. V. said, “Here’s a more dramatic view,” adding, “There’s not a lot of capacity there.” He can’t be sure, but agreed that Ignatius could be affecting my lower back.
The images were fascinating. How often do you get to see your own innards? There mine were — dominated by a chunk of slowly growing muscle tissue.
Dr. V. told me what to expect from the procedure, described the pain management options, and talked about the logistics. He was open about the risks, mentioning “death” first, and covering infection requiring hysterectomy, premature menopause, and so forth. He answered the questions I remembered to ask about UFE (I forgot several) and reminded me to read the material and the Web site. I asked him about particle migration, and he told me a joke about why doctors cost so much. I must have been distracted and not laughed, because he told me it was just a little joke, and the point is that, having performed more than 3,000 UFEs, they are experienced, and that a complication like that is usually the result of inexperience.
He thinks I’m a good candidate and that infection is unlikely because of Ignatius’s location. (Apparently, the combination of his size and location is a bit unusual. Typical.) I asked about the likelihood of recurrence given my age and proximity to perimenopause (I don’t think I’m quite there yet, but am probably close), and he said that Ignatius didn’t happen overnight — he’s been growing, in his estimation, at least 10 years. Ten years! 1998 was a bad year in many, many ways. He told me to contact his patient access representative to schedule the UFE. I checked out then, hoping that the last person I talked to really did change my status on the printout from “self-insured.” Yikes.
I’m still mulling and still looking at discouraging photos, still thinking that my symptoms aren’t that bad, still thinking that it’s possible I could feel a lot better with a tamed and reduced Ignatius. To celebrate surviving the MRI scan and the consultation, I splashed boiling water on my bare stomach above the navel and then did everything wrong, from not applying a cool cloth and then opening the blister to using antibiotic and an improper bandage. Now I have a lovely second-degree burn that, fortunately, is healing in spite of my ignorance. And a little decision.
Priestess of Avalon by Marion Zimmer Bradley and Diana L. Paxson. New York: Penguin Putnam Inc., 2002. 416 pages.
Set mainly outside Britannia, Priestess of Avalon marks a departure from Bradley’s Avalon series and the buildup to the Matter of Britain. Bradley and Paxson trace the acceptance and spread of Christianity to the goddess through the travels and actions of one of her Avalon priestesses — Flavia Helena Augusta.
For the first time that I remember, astrology plays a significant role in the series. When Helena is born, the Merlin consults the stars, but his words are strangely misinterpreted. “. . . the maid shall hide the moon she bears upon her brow” inexplicably leads the priestesses to murmur, “He prophesies greatness — she will be Lady of the Lake like her mother before her!” The Merlin’s reading of the stars proves accurate in every detail, but Helena discovers that prophecies are problematic. Convinced that she is destined to bear the “Child of Prophecy,” she remembers only years later what she as a priestess should have always known — that prophecy and its interpretation do not always take the expected path to the anticipated end.
After defying her hated aunt, the High Priestess Ganeda, so that she may bear the “Child of Prophecy,” Helena drifts through life just as she and her lover Constantius drift through the Empire. She carefully describes her son’s innate leadership talent and his developing personality, but she does little to shape or understand either. Even before he is taken from her, she is oddly passive toward the boy she is sure will change the world — he is born at the end of one chapter of her narrative and is 10 years old at the beginning of the next. When requested, she foretells the future for Constantius and his friends, and later she takes the place of the sybil at a shrine. She makes no effort, however, to see what lies ahead for her “Child of Prophecy.” She says, “‘All the gods are one God, and all the goddesses are one Goddess, and there is one Initiator’ . . . Somehow I must get its meaning across to Constantine,” but she refuses to reveal the mysteries to him. It should be no surprise that Constantine fails to follow an example never set for him, yet Helena finds him and his choices strange and disturbing.
In the acknowledgments, Paxson sets Helena up as a mythological figure associated with Christianity and relics such as the True Cross. In the novel, the Helena’s life and opportunities are remarkable, but Helena herself is surprisingly ordinary. Helena tries to reconcile paganism and Christianity, but each new epiphany contradicts those that came before. While the spiritual ideas underlying Priestess of Avalon are intriguing, they are wasted in a rambling, undisciplined story that needs a firmer hand to keep it tight, free of unnecessary detail, and consistent.
Set in the expanse of the declining Roman Empire, Priestess of Avalon is interesting and compelling at times, but ultimately it’s unsatisfying. More Paxson’s work than Bradley’s, the novel never connects the parts of its premise, including Helena’s belief in Constantine and her emotional distance from him. It also fails to bridge the gap between the fall of paganism and the rise of Christianity.
Avalon is missing here, and so are the mysteries, the magic, and Marion Zimmer Bradley.
Late yesterday afternoon J. and I finally made it to the Morton Arboretum — finally, because he has wanted to go for a couple of months. After a morning of solid rain, the weather brightened but remained humid.
On the way, I noticed several electronic signs that read, “State police enforcing motorcycle reckless driving,” which of course implies that reckless motorcycle driving is required by a law that state police enforce. I imagined the scene for J.: A state trooper pulls over a motorcyclist and says, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ticket you. You could have weaved in and out of traffic in that jam a mile back, but you stayed in your lane and, even worse, you rode at a safe speed for conditions. Next time, drive recklessly, okay?”
A car in the parking lot was sporting a “Cthulhu for President” bumper sticker, complete with a red, white, and blue, stylized, round-headed octopus. Later, we spoke to a priest or minister whose bumper sticker advertised, “Rev for hire.”
He was there because, like the Chicago Botanic Garden, Morton Arboretum hosts weddings, receptions, and other events, This day’s events imposed some restrictions (no conifer way), but we managed to get into the visitor center just before it closed to the public. A man at the counter helpfully lent J. a pair of scissors so he could open an over-packaged camera card. We also raided the gift shop before it closed (in J.’s case, also after it closed because he’s hard to budge from any store or spending opportunity no matter the hours).
The “Big Bug” exhibit by David Rogers closes today, so we saw the welcoming praying mantis as well as the ants, grasshopper, daddy longlegs, and dragonfly, all crafted from various woods. While we were admiring the dragonfly and the scenery around Meadow Lake, I heard a boy, probably 11 or 12 years old, complain repeatedly about the exhibit. “What kind of gratification are we supposed to get out of wooden bugs?” Clearly, he is one of those sadly cynical children who have much and appreciate little. One of the two girls with him, probably a sister, replied disgustedly, “Why are you being such a p . . . p . . . pe . . . pessimist?” After all my observations of poorly behaved or out-of-control children who seem alien to my own experience, it was a relief to see that sibling relationships haven’t changed. Charlie Brown’s Lucy lives.
Even better than giant insects are the real thing. I spotted a monarch flitting among the trees on its remarkably rich orange-and-black wings. Then we found a patch of prairie flowers buzzing with bumblebees of all sizes — some almost as small as the few honeybees among them, and a few robust giants whose wings even I could hear with my better ear. They scrambled quickly and deftly over the purple flowers, their pollen baskets loaded and their legs busily rubbing. Tomorrow when the destructive vortex of human ego threatens to suck me into its evil core, I must fight to remember the lovely, poetic toil of dozens of beautiful bumblebees.
Closer to Crowley Marsh, we encountered real dragonflies darting about like insect helicopters. Like butterflies and hummingbirds, dragonflies move so quickly and erratically that the beauty of their colors can be seen only in painfully brief flashes that leave you longing for move. I attribute this to Nature’s sadistic sense of humor — the same sense of humor that makes the stationery and easy-to-observe fly unappealing in appearance.
The other insect in abundance made itself felt when J. tried to take a photo of me with the “tree of the day” along one of the hiking trails. He had no idea why I was hopping from foot to foot, twisting, and squirming; he couldn’t see (or feel) the mosquitoes that were attacking my face, hands,legs, and rear. It will be interesting to see how those photos turn out — and I meant to be cooperative for a change.
Although we didn’t observe any birds of note — we saw mainly healthy-looking robins, including a young one posing on a sign — we did witness a turf battle between two male red-winged blackbirds. I imagine the secretive, demure females were watching the skirmish from hidden branches and saying apologetically to one another, “Boys will be boys . . .”
At about 7:45 p.m., an employee discovered us resting on a bench and let us know that closing time was nigh. I told J. that he’d found us so directly that I wondered, somewhat seriously, if there are strategically placed cameras. Even in a peaceful arboretum, I feel surrounded by the prying eyes of civilization.
Confusing construction threw us off our route, so we were at O’Hare before we knew it. The plan was to go to the Silver Palm, which J. had gotten into his head was near North Avenue and which I thought was closer to Chicago Avenue (judging by the address). During our rambles, we noticed Exit Chicago, a windowless punk and rock club painted black and sporting studs around its forbidding door. I envisioned a tough, intimidating, scary crowd. Look up their Web site and judge for yourself.
After a lot of driving around and a little tension fed by growing hunger, frustration, and, in my case, pain (Ignatius and fibroid friends were making their constricting presence felt), we finally found it — only to learn that the server he knows there had changed shifts and had the night off.
The dining part of the Silver Palm is an old rail car, which seems to me to be the place’s main attraction (the food being average). Nearly everyone, however, had opted to dine al fresco, which in Chicago is usually not as charming as it may sound. The Silver Palm’s outdoor clientele were seated on a cracked, uneven sidewalk just feet from busy, noisy Milwaukee Avenue. At least I could imagine the glorious days of train travel and service — or try to.
After J. left me with a pile of gifts (T shirts, note cards, postcards, a wooden spoon, etc.), I stripped and lay down, feeling tired but very relaxed despite pain and discomfort. Just as a feeling of well being and peace was threatening to take over, I heard an explosive sound and wondered if the end were nigh and whether I should get up to be sure. More followed, and then the lightning arrived — a 1:30 a.m. thunderstorm. At last it put me to sleep.
Monday, July 7, 2008, was like Christmas in July at the house of Slywy. I came home to four packages. I’d ordered all of them, but it’s always fun to get mail — even if it weighs more than 30 pounds.
The biggest and heaviest box was not for me, but for Hodge — 24 cans each of chicken and turkey cat food. He can take comfort in knowing that he’ll be fed for another 48 days, at least.
A second heavy box contained a case of Bob’s Red Mill Kamut hot cereal and an electronic pedometer. I had given up the hope that Treasure Island might carry Kamut, which is more flavorful than your ordinary whole grain cereals. The pedometer, which counts steps, distance, and kilo calories whether you clip it to your waistband or carry it, is part of my effort to walk more and to track how much walking I do.
A smaller box from Amazon held another health-related item, Insulow, which purports to help shuttle carbohydrates into your muscle cells instead of your fat cells by increasing insulin sensitivity and the uptake of glucose. I haven’t tried it, yet, however. I’m almost afraid to.
Finally, the first book I’d ordered last month during a buying spree on ABE was the last to arrive, on the last day of its expected delivery range — A Celtic Childhood by Bill Watkins.
The landscaping at the Hyde Park Shopping Center was changed earlier this week, and I haven’t see Peter Cottontail in the three times I’ve looked since. I’m hoping that he left on his own or, at worst, the landscapers humanely trapped and relocated him to a better habitat. I was moved to see that someone had thrown baby carrots into the planter on the off chance he was still around.
It was an interesting week, but not in a positive sense. Fondly do I recall the days when I was blissfully unaware of the “control freak” type (there must be a psychiatric term and diagnosis code). Once I met one and began to understand the affliction, I realized how rampant among those least qualified or able to manage or control this is. It’s disturbing.
I have lost the equilibrium and sense of well being I had after my four days away.
That it should rain on the day J. wanted to visit Morton Arboretum fits in with the general tenor of life these days.
On the other hand, I did get an outdoor table at the bakery, and it’s soothing to see and hear the rain from the shelter of the overhang.
I am afraid of losing my intellectual, creative, and managerial talents and skills through disuse and misuse. I feel have regressed 20 years and lack the energy, confidence, and hope to try to recoup what I have lost.
I have to measure the exact length of my stride, but even if it isn’t yet calibrated precisely, the new pedometer shows that I walk more than I thought — often more than two miles a day. Four would be better.
Two weeks ago when I was walking around Promontory Point a little after sunset, I looked up and beheld the crescent moon overhead and to the west and remembered that in some ways that that beautiful soft glow and what it represents make life worthwhile. I wish others could understand that.
The people who bring their children to The Flamingo pool leave a lot of stuff behind — noodles, toys, floats, goggles, towels. I think of a photo of a baby, under a year old, surrounded, almost crowded, by his roomful of toys. I recall my toy box (actually a tan plastic washtub) in which most of my toys fit with room to spare. I loved everything I had, perhaps because I had so little. All of it meant something — a gift from my aunt, a surprise from my parents. Once I experienced the purest joy when a tiny glow-in-the-dark skeleton came with a necessary bottle of school glue. As small as it was, I treasured it for years. Now children are so used to having so much that they leave things behind or lose them as though they were no more than used paper towels. We and our children falsely believe that things can be replaced infinitely. Do we believe that about our world, our environment, and our wildlife? Is the culture of consumerism and waste etched on our psyches? And are there left any middle-class children who still feel a thrill over the smallest of things?
I must stop procrastinating about getting my nearly 35-year-old bike fixed. Returning to the road, even if only around here, might give me a boost and help me put some of the issues into perspective. As for the bike, it is heavy, rusty in spots, and not entirely straight, but I don’t think I could ever discard my old friend.
A young woman opened a door set in a wall on a narrow European-style street to a tall man in cavalier dress. He held and kissed her forcefully — too forcefully — and they disappeared inside. I wondered if all was well, or if I should have intervened.
Although I didn’t know her or the man — I thought they might be college students — I went in later to check on her. She was in a large, claw-footed bathtub, but the man in the tub with her was younger and smaller than the cavalier and was intellectual in appearance. In every way he was the opposite of the other man. I stared, unable to understand and afraid of something indefinable.
I saw a young man in an outdoor warehouse area, then heard a loud sound as a can of olive oil was punctured. Against my will, I began to imagine that the young woman and intellectual in the bathtub had knocked out or even killed the cavalier, using the brief sound of the olive oil can puncture to mask the deed.
I could sense that the young man I now saw was wondering the same thing and whether he had been duped. He was horrified by the possibility because the woman seemed to be a victim, but he was being overcome by a sense of sexual longing that made him hope he was wrong. His mind was trying to form alternative scenarios that did not lead to murder. His feelings were so strong that it occurred to me he may not have been a third man, an accomplice, but that he may be the young man who had been, or would be, in the bathtub. I wondered if I were seeing backward in time.
I felt such a strong sense of his guilt, confusion, and longing that I realized I may be him as he would be in the future, trying to parse the past. Perhaps he and I were the same person.
James Bond was being pursued through a large building, most likely a hotel. He stopped to remove his socks, probably just before he was captured. When I found them, I had the presence of mind to pick them up, realizing later that they were the reason that he was being hunted.
He escaped and found me, and I thought I was about to learn the secret of the socks when we heard a woman outside screaming, “Help me! I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!” A man in the room threw something to her — an inhaler? — but when she reached for it she lost her grip on the building and plummeted. A suspicion about the man flashed through my mind.
I couldn’t bear to look, but at the last moment I saw her hit a very crowded pool. The idea that she had been 14 stories up came to me, and I hoped that she would survive, unlikely as that seemed.
The swimmers had scattered with the impact, and when the body surfaced it was headless. Instead of a neck, however, there was a peg like the Fisher-Price Little People have.
To my horror, the body climbed out of the pool and — sadly and desperately, it seemed to me — began to look for its head, although it would do it no good. It found it, but instead of the head of a young woman, it was the distorted, plain head of a toy. Fretfully and absentmindedly, the body cleanly pulled off one of the puffy, exaggerated ears and seemed anxious to do more to it, but was stumped. It was awful to see and worse to think about, but I wondered what it could mean.
Last year I began to wonder how much space an urban cottontail needs when I spotted a mother rabbit and two friendly offspring in The Flamingo’s garden. I grew up seeing rabbits emerge from several acres of woods at dusk to browse the field next to us and probably unthinkingly assumed they need lots of space because they had it. The Flamingo rabbits — at least one of which remains, presumably the mother — made me think that rabbits may be able to get by on very little indeed, if that very little offers them what they need.
The courtyard at the Hyde Park Shopping Center is dominated by a tree of respectable girth and crown, centered in a raised planter and surrounded by wood chips and flowering and nonflowering plants.
And a tiny, quarter-grown rabbit.
I first noticed the little bunny a couple of weeks ago when I made my habitual visit to Bonjour. Generally, small children spot it before their more distracted parents do. When you get too close, which is easy given its space, it either freezes or hops away. But it can retreat only so far, because the tree planter is only so big — perhaps 25′ by 25′ with the corners cut out to form a cross. It’s not as shy as my old woodland rabbits; this morning it hopped to within a couple of feet of me, but a noise or movement spooked it, and it flew off — to the center of the planter, where it is furthest from the people sitting around the edges.
I wonder if it has gotten out, or even if it can. The planter is about two feet off the ground with a ledge that invites you to sit on it, as I am now. If it could escape, where would it go? The courtyard is bounded by 55th Street on one side and stores on three, with a walkway out to a large parking lot. If it crossed 55th, it would find town homes with shady yards. If it crossed the parking lot and Lake Park (or took the sidewalk along 55th east), it would get to the railroad embankment. If it traveled west on the sidewalk, it would find a lawn and then more town homes.
Perhaps it hangs around the planter by day and hops off at night. I don’t know.
I wonder about this because, come winter, its cozy little planter won’t support it. Yesterday, a man, his little boy, and I watched it as it neatly nipped off and devoured a half dozen flowers (decorations to you, food to rabbits). It seems to have eaten many but not nearly all of this particular flower. Is that really all it gets to eat? There will be no flowers soon enough.
Of course it had to have come from somewhere. I doubt it was born in that planter and hope that a human didn’t put it there. For all I know, it could wander afield in the evening and at night. It would be interesting to know just what it does and where it goes.
Rabbits are adaptable creatures that are able to live in unusual places. While they may be pests to gardeners, they also serve as ambassadors of nature for the urban child, who finds them just as fascinating as I do wherever they are found — in a garden, among the rocks at Promontory Point, or even in a shopping center planter.
