Maybe Carnival, Maybe Carnivore

A wind blew north towards the warren. It was not a harsh paint-stripping desert wind, nor a cool breeze from the sea. Caused by the higher temperature of Luton over the surrounding farmland and, so, a small area of low-pressure. The wind blowing from Luton has the smells of Airport and Factory, but not this wind from the south. The wind gusted over the south-warren entrance and picked up a piece of paper that had been dropped by a careless coney. It can't have been a very interesting scrap because the wind dropped it soon after.

The paper fell gently to the ground, and managed to aim perfectly for a small ventilation shaft. It bounced off the walls of the shaft as it made its way down into the warren. A few letters could be made out as it fell, a bold title: maybe CARNIVAL, maybe CARNIVORE.

The paper fell to the floor and a back-paw immediately stepped on it. The paw slipped, and boxes fell out of the paw's owner's arms in a cardboard shower. A word that I shall not repeat was spoken.

"Now that's a good start." The doe said with as much iron as irony.

Let's step back for a moment and take in this scene. This is a young doe; that much you can see, but the brightness of her youthful eyes is dimmed by an all-abiding sadness. She has the determined look that would cause many a predator to think twice about assailing her. She's a little over the ideal weight for a doe of her height, but think about those eyes again - I'm not about to tell he she looks fat!

We know this rabbit. Or at least I do. She has a name, but I'll wait for that to become apparent. I'm a narrator not an address book.

With a few well-chose mutterings under her breath the doe picked up her boxes, re-balanced them as perfectly as she could and began her waddle along the burridor again. I'm only calling it a waddle because she's not listening, you hear. And it's because of the boxes, not because of her weight.

It was quite a comical sight - all you could really see were her toes and fingers poking around the boxes. It could be anyone really.

She made her way around the living burrows and entered the administrative area of the warren. She padded past the first few burridors leading off. She was about to stop when a voice from in front of her shrieked out "Ma'am!" (Which is a pretty difficult thing to shriek, but the new voice gave a good go at it) "Ma'am! You shouldn't be moving your things yourself!" A box was removed from the top of the pile from the centre and a doe's face was revealed, eyes wide.

"Lotte," Our doe said, "Thank you for your suggestion." She put an emphasis on the thank, "but there isn't anyone to help."

"Bu-bu-bu-bu-but you're the Head Buck, oops, Head Doe!" Lotte said, "You could just ask anyone!" I hate to make generalisations, but, if you want, you can look at Lotte and see a young girl with curly blond locks.

"Oh, don't worry Lotte." Our newly crowned Head Doe said, "When I need help, I will ask for it and I will get it."

Lotte took another box off the top.

"And, Lotte," she said as the third box was removed from her arms, "I've still got a name you know."

"Yes, Ma'am." Lotte dipped her head, "Ooops! Yes Cola."

---*---

Two ageing bucks were seated on what amounted to luxury for a rabbit; a beanbag seconded from some luckless human child many years ago. In front of the two bucks was a small table made from the lid of a shoebox. Sat upon it was a (rabbit scale) bottle of South Slope '92 Wine Of Origin: Carrot.

One took a sip of wine and nodded sagely. His eyes unfocussed and you could almost see him reminiscing about carrot-picking in his younger years.

"I said, 'Do you think she can cut the mustard?'" Said the other. "Come on, Phearson, don't go addled on me now.

"Sorry, Cadam, old boy." I was a hundred yards away." He took another sip of his wine. "She's intelligent."

"And so was Herbert. Didn't do him much good in the end. And," he paused; you could see he didn't want to mention it, "She is a gel, for Bug's sake!"

"Oh really, I hadn't noticed."

"You know what gels are like these days, running around from one buck to another, not staying at anything longer than one litter."

Phearson smiled; "Just like they were in our day."

"Too right. Not the right stuff to make a Head Buck."

"Of course not, she is called the Head Doe for a start."

"You know what I mean."

"Then why did you vote for her?"

"Ah. There you have it." Cadam took a sip. He glanced at the glass, "Wonderful vintage." He said with more feeling than anything else he'd said so far. He looked up at the other greying buck and smiled a thin smile. "Because I think she's the best man for the job. I mean look at the others."

"The youth of today, eh?"

"Um. I mean.. None of them have got the balls that gel has. I hear she carries that staff everywhere with her."

"Not true I'm afraid. I spoke to her about it and she's scared of touching it." He smiled, "But I liked the idea of spreading a rumour or two about how she's going to keep the unruly elements of our society together." Sip. "So why have you been saying she can't do it?"

"The best of a bad bunch isn't necessarily a good carrot."

This elicited a sharp (and deep) intake of breath from Phearson, who then shook his head. "Let's let her make mistakes before we go looking for them, old man."

They chinked wineglasses and laid back.