The grievous rabbit

The grievous rabbit could not be called a predator. It is scared by almost everything, but incapable of rapid escape: so heavy is its fur, the creature does not lollop so much as drag itself from hole to hole. This also renders it incapable of subtle movement. Although timid, it loves affection, and is won over by the slightest prospect of human contact. It is exceptionally tasty.

The grievous rabbit ought to have been gobbled into extinction aeons ago. Its survival is owed entirely to its singular talent – to make itself resemble, precisely, whichever living thing its observer most dreads.

The partners in crime

They had chased the rabbit across the field and lost it shortly before the wood. Possibly it had escaped down a hole, but the three of them swore it had vanished into thin air. One moment, all white tail and frantic zigzags; the next, gone.

There was no hole to be found, that was for sure. They had searched with the dedication of men in determined pursuit of a pickpocket after four pints of strong cider.

“And you’re quite certain the rabbit carried your wallet in its mouth, sir?” the constable had asked through gritted teeth.

He was positive, yes.

The prop

The days of the green rabbit were numbered. It knew it; the other rabbits knew it, not least the purple ones, who had been there themselves.

“Oh dear,” said the green rabbit, as the moustachioed man approached. It cursed its parents, who had bravely pursued a mixed-race union in the face of considerable prejudice from the rabbit community. “Why didn’t they listen,” lamented the green rabbit, although it was actually still rather proud of them, “to the old rabbits lamenting the impropriety of yellow and blue rabbits falling in cross-spectrum love?”

On balance, it was good they hadn’t, it supposed.