Alice's Farm

by Maryrose Wood

  There was only one problem left: How would they travel back and forth every night to care for their new, tender green responsibilities? Two small rabbits crossing the meadow after dark were easy pickings for the night predators, and though they knew that rabbitfolk don’t live long, these two particular rabbitfolk had a job to do. Being careful was no guarantee they’d make it to harvesttime to finish what they’d started, and finish they must. They hadn’t forgotten about the Mauler for a second.

  “I wish I had an answer for you, but there’s many who prefer to dine by starlight. Especially the owls,” Lester said. They were talking it over at Split Rock while enjoying the warmth of the sun-warmed stone. “May the luck of the Great Rabbit be with you!”

  “We were hoping for a more practical solution,” Alice said, watching a family of lizards sunning themselves. They nested in the cool damp earth beneath the rock and spent the day sunbathing on the stone, a near-perfect match to their mottled gray skin. “What if we disguised ourselves as something predators don’t eat?”

  “If it’s alive, they’ll eat it. That’s what predator means.” Lester thumped the rock and sent the lizards scattering. “And two hopping rocks zigzagging through the meadow wouldn’t fool anyone. Bleh! That’s a foul stench in the air all at once.” Lester’s tail flashed, ready to bolt. “Smells like we’re about to have company.”

  Alice and Thistle smelled it, too. It was the stink of carnivore, and the cottontails’ feet vibrated with the rapid approach.

  “Friend rabbits, friend rabbits!” a joyful voice cried, getting closer. “How delightful to find you once more.”

  “Run!” Lester yelled, already bolting. But Alice and Thistle stayed put. Seconds later, a furry orange face loomed before them.

  Alice didn’t move, except for her quivering whiskers. “You smell different,” she said.

  “I’ve been swimming in the stream, that’s all. It’s quite muddy. And those geese! They’re everywhere.”

  Thistle hopped forward, delighted. “Hello, friend dog! You found us! Do you want to chase me now?”

  Those thin lips spread into smile. “Well, all right, since you ask! How about I give you a head start? You go, and I’ll count to three before I follow.”

  Thistle thumped his feet in pleasure, as all young rabbits love to play chase. “Wonderful! Okay, here I go!”

  With a mighty push of his strong back legs, Thistle bounded into the meadow.

  “One.” The animal gazed at Alice with amber eyes. “Two.”

  “Hey,” Alice said, her fur bristling. “You’re not Foxy, are you?”

  “Oh, but I am,” the creature said. “I am as foxy as foxy can be. Three!” It tore off into the meadow after Thistle.

  “Thistle, come back!” Alice cried, but a rabbit’s voice is not a loud one. “Thistle! Thistle!”

  The real Foxy had spent nearly as many hours watching Carl play Attack of the Zombie Dinosaur Skeletons as Carl had spent playing it, which meant that, despite her excellent diet, she was not in the best of shape. Heavy-footed and panting with exertion, the exhausted dog finally came galumphing through the grass.

  “Alice, is that you?” she said, her tail rocking back and forth in weary victory. “I nearly gave up, but now I’m glad I didn’t. My friend Doggo offered to help me find you, but he’s so quick! I couldn’t keep up. And he can climb trees, too! It’s practically catlike. I was very impressed.”

  “Doggo?” Alice repeated. She too was winded, from calling for Thistle. “He’s your friend and looks like you?”

  “Almost exactly like, yes. Have you seen him?”

  Alice’s heart slowed with relief. Another dog like Foxy was probably fine. “Yes, he’s here. He’s playing chase with Thistle.”

  “Chase! Do you think that’s wise?” Foxy’s regal expression grew suddenly fierce.

  “Well, all dogs are not as bad as we rabbits think,” Alice replied, now confused. “You said so yourself.”

  “On a case-by-case basis, that is surely true … but Doggo is no dog.”

  Alice’s paws clenched. “What is he, then?”

  “He’s—oh dear!” Foxy exclaimed, and raced off into the meadow herself.

  Alice hopped on Split Rock, stood tall, and yelled as loud as she could. “Thistle! Thistle!”

  “What?” Thistle was back, breathless and thrilled. “Well, I’ve never run so fast in my life! Zigging and zagging! I tell you, Alice, it’s a whole different experience to run when someone’s really chasing you. You find speed you didn’t know you had! But now my legs are absolutely limp.” The happy kit rolled onto his side, spent.

  Doggo trotted up right behind him, panting hard.

  “Well, friend rabbit—quick friend, quick rabbit!—that was a marvelous adventure! Lucky for you I’ve eaten recently. A big meal makes a slow fox, as my mother always said, and a wise vixen she was, too.”

  Moments later Foxy appeared, her fur so stiffly bristled with outrage it flared around her neck and shoulders like the mane of a miniature lion. “Doggo, how could you! It seems you’ve had some fun at the expense of my friends. I am not pleased about it, not one bit! Why can’t you learn to chase a ball, for heaven’s sake? Thistle, poor fellow, are you all right?”

  But at the sight of both dog and fox Thistle finally realized the truth of things; now he was fear-frozen and on his way to worse. “A big meal makes a slow … slow … oh!” he stammered. Then he fainted.

  * * *

  He hadn’t gone dark, but he’d come close. Foxy scolded Doggo roundly as Alice huddled with her brother, nuzzling him back to life. After a few minutes Thistle was fine, and the rabbits weren’t nearly as upset about the incident as Foxy was. Rabbits are used to fear, and they don’t think of it as a bad thing. As Thistle himself said, it puts a bit of extra kick into the legs when needed.

  And fear doesn’t stick to rabbits. Even if a cottontail’s been frightened half to death, when the danger’s gone, the fear goes with it. Once Thistle awoke and realized he was still alive, with Alice right there and Foxy, too, while a guilt-ridden Doggo stood nearby, wearing the most hangdog expression ever yet seen on a fox—why, he thought it was all quite hilarious.

  “And I thought Doggo was Foxy, and … well, all I can say is, if I live to be as old as Lester and tell an old rabbits’ tale like this one, the kits won’t believe it for a minute! ‘Hey, young ’uns! Did I ever tell you about the time I asked a fox to chase me?’ ‘Why’d you do that, Old Thistle?’ ‘Because I thought it was a dog!’ Oh, my! Can you imagine?” His little body shook with silent laughter.

  “All right, I heard my name mentioned—and I’ll thank you not to make fun of me,” Lester said, slowly hopping toward them. His attempt at bolting hadn’t gotten the old trickster too far, and he’d quickly found the courage to come back, which was no small thing. “And here I thought we’d lost you two young ’uns.” Bravely, he looked Foxy and Doggo in their near-identical eyes (Doggo’s were more amber-colored, and Foxy’s were brown). “All right, tell me: Which one of you is the good dog?”

  “I’m a good dog, I’m a good dog!” Foxy blurted, out of habit. Then she regained her composure. “That is, I am Foxy, resident dog of the farm across the meadow. You have nothing to fear from me, as I’m on a special rabbit-free diet. And this is my”—friend seemed too intimate a word, given Doggo’s recent behavior—“fellow canine, Doggo.” Her ears swiveled forward, signaling full alertness. “Full disclosure: Doggo is a fox, and not entirely in control of his impulses.”

  “I’m just wild,” Doggo explained. “Not tame, like Foxy.”

  “I would not describe myself as tame,” Foxy said haughtily. “However, I am domesticated, and proudly so. Good manners are a virtue.”

  Doggo sneered. “Well, I’m neither. I’ll do my best, but no guarantees, rabbits! A fox has to eat, just as you do. I see no reason to change my ways.”

  Lester took another hop, right up to the fox’s pointed snout. “Understood, fox. It’s the way of t
hings. Even so, I’d appreciate it if you’d pick on the older rabbits first. A young fellow like Thistle here deserves a little more time in the meadow, if you get my drift.”

  Doggo seemed unmoved by this argument. “And which do you prefer, old rabbit?” he retorted. “The tough bark of winter, or the tender green grass of spring?”

  “Speaking of tender greens,” Alice interrupted, for she felt no good could come of Lester and Doggo arguing about which rabbits to eat and in what order, “Thistle and I intend to visit the farm tonight after dark, to plant the garden. Foxy, could you travel with us, to make sure we don’t get taken by owls on the way?”

  “I’d be delighted,” Foxy said. “But I won’t be able to bring you back again. Once the Harveys find me, I’ll likely be tied up again for a good, long time. But perhaps our wild friend here could help? As a way of making amends for today’s poor choices?”

  All eyes turned to Doggo. The fox gaped at them, disbelieving.

  “Do you honestly expect me to escort rabbits?” he exclaimed. “At night? Those are my prime hunting hours! I’ll be hungry by then, too.”

  “My dear Doggo,” Foxy said, “it’s the least you could do, after frightening poor Thistle half to death. However, I am prepared to offer a further incentive.” The dog’s manner softened, and her eyes grew bright. “Have you ever tasted a Spearmint-Flavored GlitterTooth Chew-Bone?”

  “No,” Doggo said, wary. “Should I have?”

  “Oh, friend fox! You have no idea.” Foxy closed her eyes and waggled her tail in bliss. “Absolutely the most delicious thing in the world. And I will be blunt, for what is a friend, if not someone who will tell you the uncomfortable truth? You need them.”

  “Why?”

  “To make your teeth white and your breath smell nice.”

  “But I don’t care about that.”

  “Well, you should. Didn’t you tell me that having a strong smell was bad for hunting?”

  “All foxes stink,” Lester said, full of scorn. “They’re almost as bad as skunks.”

  Doggo’s pupils narrowed into slits as he stared at Lester. A thin strand of drool dripped from his mouth.

  Dainty as a dancer, Foxy stepped between them. “I realize personal hygiene is a sensitive subject! Even so, Doggo, you will not be sorry to taste these GlitterTooth treats! You’ll love them, I promise. But in exchange, you must promise to escort the rabbits safely to and from the farm, whenever they need you. Do you solemnly swear?”

  Now, as he himself had admitted, Doggo was a wild creature driven by his appetites, and unused to negotiations at this sophisticated level. And Foxy was charming in a way this country bumpkin of a fox had never seen before. He found himself being persuaded in spite of himself.

  “Are there any traps?” he asked, quite practically.

  “Traps? Heavens, no! My humans are not the trap-setting kind.”

  “Maybe I’ll do it, then,” the fox said, beginning to yield. “When can I have one of the treats?”

  “Very soon! I’ve trained Carl to fetch them on demand. As soon as I get home I’ll start begging for them, and I’ll put some aside for you.”

  “We’ll need to visit the garden most nights,” Alice said quickly. “From now until the autumn harvest. That’s a lot of treats. Do you promise?”

  “Autumn harvest!” Doggo objected. “It’s barely springtime now.”

  Foxy came so close to Doggo, their noses nearly touched. “Time flies, dear fox! It’s a modest and dare I say noble commitment, to protect these sweet bunnies for a few short months! All in exchange for that rarest of pleasures, the finest of treats, the best of the GlitterTooth product line. It will take all my willpower to part with them, Doggo! Those spearmint Chew-Bones are—ahhh! Words cannot begin to describe.”

  Then Foxy drew back her lips, and the light glinted off her smile. Her once-perfumed fur now reeked of dirty, wet dog, but her breath was minty fresh, and her teeth glowed like a moonlit bone.

  Doggo not only found himself agreeing to this absurd schedule of rabbit-escort duties, but feeling deeply pleased with the new arrangement without even knowing why.

  You might say he’d been outfoxed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The night of the great planting.

  Carl sat on the back steps, waiting. There were two things on his mind which at first seemed unrelated, but the longer he sat, the more he suspected that maybe they had something to do with each other after all.

  One was his missing dog. The other was Janis’s chickens.

  That’s what sitting in quiet rumination will get you. For the first time in his young life, Carl suddenly found it strange that he should care so deeply about the well-being of one particular animal, while shamelessly dipping batter-fried parts of others in barbecue sauce and chomping away.

  Dogs were more lovable than chickens, of course—or were they? Maybe he only felt that way because he didn’t have a pet chicken, while he did have a pet dog. He used to, anyway. At the moment, he didn’t know whether he’d ever see Foxy again.

  And why would Farmer Janis name her chickens in the first place? Didn’t that just make things worse, in the end?

  Every now and then, one of his parents would come outside to check on him. They’d offer snacks and glasses of lemonade. He’d refuse. If Foxy hadn’t yet come home to eat, he wasn’t going to eat anything, either. Inevitably, they’d suggest he wait inside, where it was warmer.

  “Not yet,” he said, hunkering down. “I’m waiting for Foxy.”

  His stomach was sure feeling empty, though. Finally, Brad ventured out with a jacket on, all premeditated, and sat down next to Carl. There was a bag of pretzels in Brad’s coat pocket but he didn’t make a fuss about it; he just put it there on the steps between them and matter-of-factly tore it open.

  “I’m not coming in,” Carl said, stubborn as a post.

  “I know. I’m just keeping you company.” Brad thoughtfully removed a pretzel from the bag and stuck it in his mouth. “I thought maybe we could talk about school. Spring break’s almost over. All the local kids will be going back next week.”

  “I’m not going to a new school,” Carl said.

  “Champ, I thought you were on board with this—”

  “I changed my mind.”

  “Well, you can’t go back to your old school,” his dad replied, quite reasonably.

  “That is correct,” Carl said in his robot voice.

  Sally opened the door. “Hey, men,” she said, with false cheer. “Anybody interested in dinner?”

  Carl leaned back on his hands and talked straight up. “Mom. I’m not going to a new school.”

  “That’s a big statement right out of the blue—”

  “I’m the one that brought it up,” Brad began, like a man confessing to a crime, but Carl interrupted.

  “Dad just asked me about it. I changed my mind. I’m not going.”

  “I see.” Sally looked at Brad with lifted eyebrows. “Maybe this is not the best time to talk about it?”

  “CORRECT.” Carl’s robot voice settled the matter.

  Sally pursed her lips until they looked like they’d been through the dehydrator twice. Then she dropped whatever she’d been thinking and spoke, pleasant as can be. “Well, Marie’s napping. I only wanted to know if I should start dinner.”

  As ever, Carl marveled at how hard it was for grown-ups to stay on one subject. “I just want Foxy to come home,” he muttered.

  “We all do. But you must be hungry, honey. At least let me bring you a snack.”

  “I already brought him snacks. See?” Brad crinkled the pretzel bag, as if to demonstrate that he’d gotten something right.

  “Snacks! That’s a great idea.” Carl jumped to his feet, inspired. “Mom! Can I have some treats?”

  Sally frowned. “Do you mean Goldfish crackers? I stopped buying those, you know that.”

  “No, Foxy’s treats. Those minty Chew-Bones that she loves. I need a whole box.”

&nbs
p; Brad nodded. “Interesting, champ. What do you plan to do with them?”

  Carl helped himself to a pretzel. “You’ll see.”

  * * *

  Hunger was a curious sensation for Foxy, who’d been bountifully fed all her life. It seemed to sharpen her senses, which was interesting. The strong rabbit aroma surrounding Burrow became ever more pleasing to her, although she certainly didn’t plan to do anything about it. It was along the lines of how bacon sizzling in the pan is universally delicious-smelling, even to a stalwart vegetarian.

  Foxy envied the casual ease of the rabbits’ dining habits. They just nibbled on the grass whenever they chose, no can opener required. Soon she began wondering about this “hunting for prey” activity that Doggo had mentioned, and how that experience might compare to the satisfying but monotonous nutrition offered by her daily prescription diet from Dr. Yang, can after identical can.

  She would have liked to ask Doggo more about it, but he’d already left to spend the rest of the day in his foxhole, alone. Resisting temptation takes effort, and the poor fox had quickly grown exhausted from it. Foxy didn’t mind; in fact she’d encouraged him to go have a nap. “Make sure you eat something, too!” she called, sounding like Sally. She wanted the fox well-rested and well-fed before he saw Alice and Thistle again.

  The afternoon sun was low in the sky. It would be hours yet before she could bring the rabbits across the meadow. The chipmunks wouldn’t arrive until after dark with the seeds, and the farmer-rabbits would have to work at night, after the Harveys were indoors for the evening.

  So Foxy napped, or tried to, a little ways off from Burrow so as not to frighten anyone, empty belly rumbling, smell and sight and ears razor keen, the rabbit scent making her drool, as if Brad had thrown a steak on the grill.

  She wouldn’t have minded a biscuit, and the minty-fresh quality of her breath was already starting to fade. Let freedom ring! That’s what John Glenn had said. But it would be good to go home, she decided. For now, she would just have to wait.