Fluffy Bunnies: Redux

Boris twitched his rabbit nose and took in the fresh aroma of dew in the air. It washed through him, piquing his senses, allowing him to feel every drop that brushed against his legs and soaked into the fur on his paws. Morning grass was always the sweetest, and on any other morning he would have been bounding across the field in the cool sun until he had his fill. But today was not a day for such idle pleasures; today was a day for action.

Scanning the long grass that edged the field, Boris saw two sets of ears poke out and flick each way in signal. That was Fletchwood and Symonds - good strong names those, names you could trust - telling him that the trap was set.

Lumbering in the distance was their target: a human male. The creature stamped its way through the field, crushing the grass and ruining the dew with his tread, his hands wrapped possessively around a rifle: the tool of death that had ended the lives of too many of Boris' brethren.

Boris kept low, taking cover behind a ridge of earth, and patiently watched the human approach - thirty metres, twenty-eight, twenty-six, there!

Leaping onto the ridge Boris stood up on his hind legs, flicking his ears as he exposed his body and stared the human down. The human, the deathmaker that haunted the dreams of every rabbit, stood still and brought his rifle to bear. Even at this distance, Boris' dew cleared perceptions could pinpoint the exact spot on his belly that was about to be torn and mangled by a crude scrap of lead.

The human held his breath, gently pulled the rifle into his shoulder, and began to squeeze its trigger.

Boris watched as a hot shell tore out of the long grass and slugged into the man - an explosion of sticky flesh and soil. His nose picked up the scent of blood that drenched the air; at first it was tantalising but it soon built into something sickly and disorientating.

It had been a risky plan, but as expected the had human stood still for a moment to line up his shot, savouring the moment, and that gave Fletchwood and Symonds time to line up the cannon. Revenge had been satisfied and the field would be safe again, but Boris had lost his appetite in the process. His delight of the morning grass would have to wait until tomorrow.