When: 1994
Where: "The old house", Kenmore, WA
It's late. It's pitch black outside. Nina can't sleep. She's never been big a big believer in the full eight hours. Even these days, I'll get up to pee at 3 a.m. and hear her upstairs, flipping through the pages of the New Yorker while she waits for the bathtub to fill.
So, on that night back in 1994, it's not unusual for her to be up out of bed. She's milling about the house, getting herself a glass of water, loading the last few dishes into the dishwasher, when suddenly she spots something through the living room window.
Small, white, round. Hunched in the tall, dewy grass.
The rabbits.
It's one of our rabbits—Rudolph or Frosty (aka the replacements). How did it get out of its cage? She needs to act fast, before it can hop away, down the ravine, never to be seen again.
Carefully, she pulls open the sliding glass door.
Quiet, Nina. Soft steps, Nina. Stay calm, Nina.
She's only 5'1", but her feet are a size 10. They used to be an 8.5 but, under the weight of four pregnancies, her arches melted like butter and spread the surface area significantly. Despite the flippers and a natural impatience, she creeps up on the rabbit like a black panther stalking its prey. Slow. Steady. Controlled. One step in front of the other.
The closer she gets, the more likely the rabbit will dart away. But luck's on her side. The rabbit never even flinches.
Is she close enough? At what point does she pounce?
About ten minutes passes and finally, she thinks, it's time. Adrenaline bubbling in her veins, she leaps! She dives! She lands, arms out, scooping up and locking in the rabbit before it has time to react. Success!
But wait. This doesn't feel like Rudolph. It doesn't feel like Frosty either. It's not soft and furry, but hard, like plastic.
Oh dear.
It can't be.
Is it?
Yep.
THE VOLLEYBALL.
Goodnight,
Margaret
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