It was winter when Michelle went back to work and Christopher started childcare.  He hated it.  He screamed when we dropped him off and leapt into our arms whimpering, ‘take me home,’ when we came to pick him up.  Then he’d whinge and whine and throw tantrums half the night.  But after a few weeks he reconciled himself to his fate.  I wouldn’t go so far as to say that he loved it, although many parents do, but he certainly adapted to it – and as winter thawed, I could honestly say that he frequently enjoyed it.

By the time spring had sprung, peace and harmony had returned to our household, and we were surrounded by beauty.  Flowers bloomed, birds sang, the lawn went berserk and my sperm swam like Olympic champions.  It was no surprise when we discovered that Michelle was pregnant, and for several weeks our hearts bubbled over with love and joy.  But at our first ultrasound it was revealed there was nothing there.  The child had stopped developing soon after conception. 

A blighted ovum, the doctors called it.  It was just a part of the body that wasn’t fully functional – like a grazed knee or a sprained wrist.  But to us it was a dead child – cruelly taken from us.  Seeing the radiologist’s blank screen was like witnessing our baby being run over by a train or ripped apart by dogs.  Our hearts, filled to bursting, were crushed like aluminium cans.

But life goes on.  I still had to work, though it seemed utterly pointless.  Michelle still had to work, though she could barely drag herself out of bed in the mornings.  Christopher still had to go to childcare and we still had to find the time and the energy to drop him off and pick him up.

One day, one beautiful spring day, when the blossoms were at their peak, I walked in the park at lunchtime and just couldn’t bear going back to work.  I was overcome by the disparity between the beauty surrounding me and the emptiness within, so I went home.

I spent a couple of hours in the backyard, on the verge of tears, before deciding to take the dog for a walk, up to the childcare centre to pick up Christopher.  He was really pleased to see us, it was an hour and a half earlier than usual and I’d never taken Gemma there before.

We walked home, hand in hand, enjoying the sunshine and chatting about what he’d eaten and who he’d played with.  Gemma pranced around us tangling us in her lead.  ‘Stop it, you dog,’ we shouted at her and we laughed and laughed.

It was such a gorgeous day that when we got to the railway crossing I decided we’d take the track behind the lines so I could let Gemma off the lead.

‘This where we used to walk,’ said Christopher.  ‘Daddy, Gemma, Chrispher.’

‘That’s right,’ I said, as Gemma trotted off ahead.  ‘That was a long time ago, when you were very little.’

‘A very long time ago,’ said Christopher.  ‘I’m a big boy now.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, so proud of him – my grown-up little two-and a half-year-old.

‘Look!’  shouted Christopher, suddenly.  ‘Gemma chasing rabbits.’

It was true; she was indeed chasing rabbits, dozens of them, mummy rabbits, daddy rabbits and lots of little baby rabbits.  It had been a year or more since the council had stopped putting down baits and the population had exploded.

‘Gemma!’  I called as she bolted.  She was a couple of hundred metres away and disappearing into the undergrowth.  ‘Gemma!’ I screamed again louder, and more sternly – but it was pointless: she was too close to the scent of rabbit; her instincts were far stronger than her loyalty.

‘Where Gemma gone?’  asked Christopher.

‘I don’t know, we’ll have to find her.’

‘She chasing rabbits.’

‘Yes, she’s chasing rabbits.’

‘Why?   Why she chase rabbits?’

‘She thinks rabbits are food.’

‘Rabbits aren’t food,’ he said laughing.

‘Yes, but Gemma thinks they are.’  I scanned the scrub, searching for her.  I could hear her crashing around and the tag jangling on her collar.  Every so often I’d see rabbits darting off, giving some indication of her whereabouts. ‘Gemma!’ I screamed but there was no response.

‘Why Gemma thinks rabbits are food?’

‘I don’t know – that’s just what dogs think. Come on we better find her.’ 

I took Christopher’s hand and dragged him in the direction Gemma had gone.  It was hard work once we got off the path: the ground was uneven and weeds and nettles had grown almost waist high – nature gone berserk.  I had to pick Christopher up and carry him, watching out for holes and bits of jagged metal and broken bottles – this place used to be a tip.  ‘Gemma!’ I screamed, over and over again.  I was getting hot and Christopher was getting heavier and heavier.  I carried him for two or three hundred metres, over humps and potholes and a rusty car body.

‘Ow,’ squealed Christopher, as I accidentally brushed him against a thorny bush.  My back was aching with the effort of carrying him, and I was sweating and fuming, and still there was no sign of the bloody dog.  I was on the verge of leaving it.

‘I have to put you down,’ I told Christopher, selecting the clearest spot I could find.

‘Ow – spiky!’  he yelped.

‘Yeah, I’m sorry.  It is a bit spiky here but I need a rest.’

A train rushed past in the distance and then, much closer to us, a rabbit, with Gemma in hot pursuit.  I grabbed her collar and twisted her onto her back, where she lay, panting and whining submissively – her snout covered in drool and scratch marks.  I clipped the lead onto her, picked up Christopher, and headed for the track.

‘You dog,’ scolded Christopher.  ‘Rabbits not food.’ 

He looked to me to back up his statement but I was in no mood to continue the conversation.  I ignored his comments, his questions, his protests and his crying – totally preoccupied with task of lugging a fourteen-kilo child and dragging a twenty-kilo dog through the wilderness. 

The council should do something about this place – it’s a bloody disgrace.

When we got back onto the walking track, I put Christopher down.

‘This where we used to walk,’ said Christopher.  ‘Daddy, Gemma, Chrispher.’

‘Yes.  This is where we used to walk.’

‘Too spiky over there.’

‘Yes, it’s much too spiky over there.’  I sat down on the pipe that runs from the oil refinery, to catch my breath.  Gemma nuzzled her saliva-drenched snout into my hand.  ‘Piss off, dog!’  I shouted and unclipped her lead: I didn’t want her anywhere near me.  I hated her.  I felt like kicking her senseless – but not in front of Christopher.  She gazed up at me and whined apologetically.  She flopped her ears over and crept closer.  I growled.

‘You dog,’ said Christopher.

She turned her head away, caught sight of a rabbit and was off.  I didn’t even bother calling her.  Let her make her own way home. 

I stood up. ‘Come on Christopher, let’s go.’ 

We made our way along the path, hand in hand, while Gemma raced around and Christopher prattled on about rabbits not being food, then Gemma appeared beside us, a baby bunny in her mouth.  She dropped it at my feet.  A gift: her way of making amends.  The bunny twitched its nose in pain, its eyes swung around crazily, desperately searching for its mummy.  Its body lay limp, its back broken.  Its breathing, rapid and shallow, hissed through its teeth. 

‘What rabbit doing?’ asked Christopher.

‘Not much.  Let’s go.’

‘We better bring rabbit.’

‘No we can’t bring rabbit, let’s go.’  I clipped Gemma’s lead onto her collar and we made our way home, Christopher dawdling behind, constantly looking back.

‘What’s wrong with rabbit?’

‘It’s sick.’

‘We better take it to hospital.’

‘You can’t take rabbits to hospital.’

‘We better give it some medicine.’

‘We can’t get rabbit medicine – they don’t make it.’

‘We better buy some, from the shop.’

‘You can’t buy it.  They don’t make it.’

‘Yes you can.  At rabbit shops.’

‘The rabbit shops are closed now,’ I snapped.  It was a stupid argument and I could see there was no way I was going to win it.

‘No they aren’t.’

‘Yes they are!’  I screamed.

Christopher thought for a second or two, looking back at the white spot of fluff behind us. ‘We’d better kiss it.’

‘We’re not kissing it!  It’s a filthy fucking rabbit.  It’s vermin; it’s full of diseases and parasites.  Forget the rabbit.’

‘It’s dead,’ said Christopher.

I didn’t know he knew about death.

‘Yes,’ I agreed.  ‘It’s dead.’

‘We better bury it.’

‘Yes.  We better bury it.’ 

Where did he learn that?

‘With a spade – from the shed,’ he continued.

‘Yes.  With a spade from the shed.’

I picked Christopher up and carried him home; it was only a couple of hundred metres.  We dropped Gemma, picked up a spade and made our way back to the spot of fluff.  As we drew closer, it seemed like an adult rabbit bolted from its side – its mother, I presumed – but maybe I imagined it.

The poor thing was still alive, when we reached it, but only just.  I dug a hole, in a soft looking spot, a little off the path – the baby bunny watching my every move.  I suppose I should knock it over the head with the spade to put it out of its misery – but how can I do that with Christopher watching?  

I dug a little deeper, then picked up the limp, white body on the end of the spade and dropped it into the hole.  Its eyes fixed onto mine, pleading for mercy – to no avail. 

Christopher and I sat down by the hole and pushed the soil over the edge, with our hands, until the pleading eyes were covered and the hole was filled.  And when we finished tapping down the soil, we stared at the mound we’d made and cried for the life that could have been.