A letter from Cassandra

Dear Bunny, Where to begin? If you are reading this, most of my distress will be alleviated, for it means that you are alive and well, or at least well enough to read; despite what I have done. I will start from the beginning, that is, when we last saw each other; We set up camp near that big tree. You talked a lot, I talked a lot. You sang that Missy Elliot song and I laughed because you messed up the beatboxing in such a funny way. You’re such an artiste. Then it was late, and you fell asleep. At least to me it appeared as such. The next day you wouldn’t wake up. You couldn’t. I thought you were dead. I almost ate you –such is my instinct after all-, but then I sensed a weak pulse about your neck. I tried everything to bring you back; Meowing very loudly, playfully tapping you on the head, gently biting your ears. It availed nothing, as if you’d been turned off like a robot, or better yet, alive but like a zombie, impervious to outside stimuli. So I dragged and pushed, pushed and kicked and found that you could be moved in that way, albeit very slowly. We went to the closest human settlement where I hoped to find friendly reception. It’s not unheard of for sick animals to be taken to a doctor and nurtured back to health. Of course there is an inherent peril in this, for not all people are quite like this. Considering my options I decided to take the risk. What was I to do? Through the copse wood I spotted a wispy plume crawling up against the sky and I resolved to bring you there. With much difficulty –you are not an easy patient Mr. Bunzenburner- we arrived. You were impassive and I out of breath. This is when the drama happened. I should have known when I saw those green gummy boots approach on the wide courtyard. A rough-hewn farm lady with rubescent cheeks and no teeth whisked you up by the ears (you told me how much you hate that!). I protested the procedure and continued to petition the edentulous hag until she kicked me so hard in the ribs that I couldn’t breath for ten minutes. When I regained myself you had disappeared along with your harridan abductress. Soon after, a vicious cat named Albert, the feline master of this bucolic stage, chased me off the yard with threats to “round up the boys” as he put it. I relented. Shell-shocked I roamed the environs for days, begging animals of forest and village alike for assistance. “I’m not going anywhere near thát place,” said Jake, the town rooster. “Wouldn’t touch it with a discarded TV antenna,” went Felix, a retarded Dachshund. “Do you speak of Bunzenburner, the famous finance-mogul slash celebrity producer from the north?” hooted Greg, the owl of the great forest (I’ve learned that all animals in all forests big or small call their own sylvan home “the great forest”). “Yes,” I said, “do you know him?” “Nope, never heard of…” “What?” “Kidding,” he chuckled with a little owly ruffling of the feathers, “only recently a fulmar form the north, an animal of lesser wit than me by the name of Svenbärd passed by, inquiring after Mr. Bunzenburner.” It was only after promising never to hunt for birds again, that I managed to convince Greg to fly out and track down your friend, bearing this message. I hope it reaches you, and that we might meet again in happier times.

Despondently yours, Cassandra