When I was a grade school student, our cub scout den met at The Dugout. The Dugout was a kind of community center. It was a simple log building across the street from the city park. It was also right next to where my friend Davy lived, which was convenient, because Davy’s Mom was our Den Mother. A short time later, Davy’s family moved into their own log building a couple of blocks from the Dugout, on the other side of Main Street, but this memory is from when they lived across from the park.

We did Cub Scouts by the book, mostly. While there were some Cub Scouts who had full uniforms, our uniforms consisted of a Cub Scout shirt, a kerchief and clasp, and a cap. I think that one of our friends had an official belt, but I never had one. We were allowed to wear our scout uniforms to school on the day when the den met. On those days, we scouts would salute the flag with two fingers when we said the pledge in school. Other days, we held our hands over our hearts, but on scout day, we saluted. I felt very official, and was confident that people were paying attention to my progress through the ranks. Bobcat and Lion were earned the same school year. That was the year we attended a half day kindergarten in the basement of a house that also was across form the park. Tiger, Wolf, and Bear ranks followed. I know that when this story took place, I had not yet earned my Webelos or Arrow of Light.

Sitting around the Dugout in my uniform before or after a den meeting one day I discovered that over in the corner of the room was an old manual of some kind. I think it might have been for one of the boy scout ranks, or perhaps it was from some other source. I can’t even remember what the cover looked like. There was a stack of old Boys’ Life Magazines in that corner and an assortment of other books. Whatever the book was, it fascinated me. It has instructions about how to survive in the wilderness without regular supplies. There was an illustration in the book of someone roasting a rabbit on a spit over a campfire. And, as I paged back from that illustration, there were instructions for how to build a rabbit trap with a cardboard box, a forked stick and some string. I looked at all of those pictures and memorized the construction guidelines.

I knew where there were lots of rabbits - at the airport where my dad worked. One Saturday, I described my plan to him as we drove up the hill to the airport. He offered a couple of suggestions. First of all, he said that he didn’t think a carrot was a very good bait for the trap. He suggested some fresh alfalfa hay instead. Secondly, he said, simply, “Your mother is not going to cook the rabbit.” That didn’t deter me. I proceeded with my plan. I set up an empty box from a case of motor oil with my forted stick, sharpened with my pocket knife and driven in the ground with a rock. I attached a string to the stick and ran it around the corner of the building where I could hide and observe. I placed the hay in the box and waited. And waited. And waited. No rabbits came the first day.

The next week I was armed with real rabbit food, salvaged from my father’s feed warehouse where a bag of pellets had been nicked and spilled a few onto the floor. It was my job to sweep the warehouse, so I filled a paper bag with the pellets which I had carefully separated from other sweepings.

This worked. A small cottontail smelled those pellets and crawled under the box to investigate. I pulled the string and the box fell exactly as illustrated in the article I had read.

I had absolutely no plan for what was to come next. I don’t even think I even read beyond trapping the rabbit in the book at the Dugout, and, since the book was not mine, I never removed it from the building, so didn’t have access to it up at the airport. In triumph, and flush with adrenalin, I ran to the box. I could hear the rabbit scratching at the box. I put my hands on it to hold it down to the ground as I formulated my plan. I could see the rabbit through a small hole in the top of the box, so I formulated my plan. I could enlarge that hole enough to slip one of my hands through it by bending the cardboard. I thrust my right hand into the box. Actually grabbing the rabbit proved to be a lot harder than I imagined. I tried again and again. Once I got ahold of the creature enough to feel its heart rate. That little heart was thumping so fast I couldn’t count it. After several attempts, I had a firm grasp of a back leg. My hand was starting to cramp as I carefully tore away the rest of the box with my left hand so I could lift the rabbit and leave the box around.

There I was, with the rabbit pinned to the ground, held by both hands. I thought that perhaps I should get my pocket knife out of my pants pocked and use it to skin the rabbit, but I had never skinned a rabbit before and this one was sill pretty much alive. I had no plan to dispatch it. I just let go.

The little creature just lay there for a few minutes, panting. It didn’t jump up or run away. I was afraid I had killed it. Finally it stood tentatively and soon ran out into the middle of the field out of sight. That was the end of my experience as a trapper. I resorted to beans and weenies for camp fare as I grew older.

I thought of that experience yesterday when there was a small cottontail sitting at the edge of our lawn. When I approached it, it didn’t run away. I could see that it was breathing. Its eyes were open. There were no obvious injuries, but it didn’t seem to have the energy to leave. I decided to leave it untouched and see what would happen while we took our walk. Fortunately for me, when we returned a half hour later, the rabbit was no longer visible. I sighed in relief.

I prefer rabbits in the wild who run away before I am within six feet.