Mopsy and Flopsy

Flopsy was a bad rabbit, this was beyond dispute. Flopsy was my sister’s rabbit. My rabbit was Mopsy, and she was white and friendly. Flopsy was black and male and prone to acts of violence. I don’t wish to sound prejudiced but in this case it seemed to be a clear case of good versus evil.

The man in the pet shop told us they were dwarf rabbits and both female. He was wrong on both counts. Within a couple of months they had grown to the size of small Shetland ponies and Flopsy was taking an unhealthy interest in his sister. We bougt bigger hutches and kept them apart. Mopsy became quite agitated by the attention. We turned their hutches away from each other so that she would not be perturbed by Flopsy’s malevolent stare. Flopsy soon became strong enough to escape any prison we devised. He scratched and bit us if we tried to pick him up. We would find him in the shed, jumping up and down on the meshing of a terrified Mopsy’s hutch. I’d chase him away and stroke Mopsy on my lap, her heart beating like the pitter patter of rain.

Soon it seemed that the inevitable had happened. Mopsy began pulling out her fur. We read in library books that this meant that she was pregnant and building a nest for the babies. We became experts on rabbit childbirth. We were extremely excited. My mum was not. On a Saturday, after my ballet lesson, I went into the shed to see if the babies had arrived. Instead I found Mopsy cold and stiff in the hutch. Flopsy lurked in the shadows, eyes gleaming like a murderer. They could hear me screaming in the house. It turned out that Mopsy’s pregnancy was in fact a nervous breakdown.

We buried Mopsy in the garden using an upturned wooden sword for a cross. I thought tht Flopsy should stand trial for his crimes but my mum explained that the ideas of rape and murder did not exist in the animal world in the same way as ours. Within a week foxes had dug up Mopsy and my brother and his friends dissected what was left with the wooden sword.

After that Flopsy lived in the garden. We tried to keep him in a hutch but even with bricks piled up in front he would barge his way out, so we gave up. He was a strong rabbit. He used to hide under the foundations of the shed, and when we couldn’t find him we’d shine a torch into the gap under the step and see his big eyes reflecting the light. It ended up being a cold winter and we thought he wouldn’t survive, but in the worst snow storm I went to the back door and called his name and out he came from the bushes like a dog. We gave him food and he destroyed all the plants but in the end we were all rather fond of him. He followed my mum around when she put the washing out and I used to watch him from the window terrorising next door’s cat. I think he was just a free spirit, and maybe Mopsy was too delicate for this world.

In the spring, he disappeared. We looked in the bushes and under the shed, and waited for him to come back. He’d been on adventures before. But this time he never did come back. I always hoped he had made it across the main road to the woods on the way to school and lived there with the other wild rabbits, ruling them like a king.