I blame television.
Not just any television.
I’m talking full-immersion, Saturday-morning, sugar-fueled, Looney Tunes indoctrination. The kind that wires your brain so deeply that, decades later, you can’t see a rabbit without immediately hearing:
“Shhh… be vewy, vewy quiet…”
So there I am.
Fresh off a full lap around Trustom Pond—feeling outdoorsy, accomplished, borderline National Geographic material—when I decide to pause.
You know the pause.
The “if I stand perfectly still, nature will reward me” pause.
It’s a lie, of course.
Nature usually rewards you with mosquitoes.
But on this day…
Oh no.
On this day… I got a wabbit.
Out of nowhere—poof—a little cottontail hops into view like he just stepped off a Warner Bros. soundstage.
Hop.
Pause.
Stare.
Hop.
Pause.
Stare.
Then—this is key—he grabs a blade of grass…
…and chews.
While staring at me.
Now we’re in it.
This is no longer a wildlife encounter. This is a psychological duel.
He’s thinking:
“Is this guy a threat?”
I’m thinking:
“Don’t move. Don’t breathe. Don’t ruin this. You are now part shrub.”
He chews.
I freeze.
He chews again.
I mentally rehearse my Pulitzer acceptance speech.
At this point, I decide to elevate my game.
Because any seasoned… cough… wildlife professional knows:
Eye-level is everything.
So I begin the slow descent.
Not a crouch.
No, no.
This is a full Elmer Fudd tactical maneuver.
Knees bend…
Back lowers…
Camera comes up…
I am now 83% photographer, 17% cartoon character.
And just as I hit peak stealth—
BOOM.
He’s gone.
Not “ran away.”
Not “hopped off.”
Vanished.
Like a furry little magician with a carrot-based exit strategy.
And that’s when it hits me.
Rabbits… are birds.
Not technically. Stay with me.
But they share that exact same “we were just having a moment and now I’ve teleported to another zip code” reflex.
One second: soulful eye contact.
Next second: empty field and I’m questioning how he could move out of view without a sound.
So now I’m creeping forward like a man who has fully committed to the bit.
Tiptoeing.
Scanning.
Half expecting orchestral music.
And in my head—clear as day—I hear it:
“Be vewy, vewy quiet… I’m hunting wabbits…”
Except here’s the twist.
I am hunting wabbits.
Only instead of a shotgun…
I’m packing a Nikon D850 with a long lens and wildly unrealistic expectations.
Eventually, I spot him again—tucked just enough into the brush to remind me who’s actually in charge out here.
Click.
Got him.
A tiny, twitchy, grass-chewing superstar.
And just like that…
The wasculy wabbit becomes a headliner.
Me?
I walk back to the parking lot looking like a grown man who just lost an argument with a rabbit…
…and enjoyed every second of it.
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