I had a beautiful Maine Coon cat, the Bellhop, with the most easy-going disposition you could ever find, yet with an overwhelmingly adventurous spirit. He was always surprising and delighting my 15-year-old son Chris and me. He also unintentionally horrified us a couple of times.
The original name I gave the cat was Bela, like Bela Lugosi of 1931 Dracula fame. That name just didn't stick long, especially after I had the cat's tail bobbed (that's another story) during his neuter surgery a couple weeks after I got him. He was certainly more suited to be the Bellhop, as he knew his way around the place, and around us.
I used to, during pleasant days, prop the back storm door open so the Bellhop could freely come and go as he liked. See, if you didn't get to the storm door fast enough to open it, he would wildly jump up on it when he wanted in, to the point that I worried he would injure himself. Also, if you didn't let him out when he wanted, he would scramble across bric-à-brac tables, breaking stuff as he obsessed with whatever was out the windows. He wasn't deliberately destructive. He was just oblivious to anything in his path during his urgent exit modes.
One nice afternoon, we had the door propped open and all the windows raised so we could enjoy the weather. I was sitting on my living room couch and Chris was standing directly in front of me. We were involved in a conversation. I don't remember what the topic was, but we were focused on it.
The Bellhop had run into the house and was on the floor in between Chris and me. He was throwing some item up into the air and was grabbing it as soon as it landed, then repeating the action--like a kid throwing a ball up in the air over and over. He did it a couple of times without our paying attention because we were used to his antics, plus, we were involved in our conversation. You could be conscious of the Bellhop's behavior without looking straight at him. You know, his actions weren't registering at first even though he was directly in front of us.
About the third time the item landed on the floor, Chris and I looked down and saw it was a baby rabbit. It was around 4 inches long, typical brownish-white, and very much alive. It also looked physically unharmed as yet, although I was sure it was emotionally quite scarred at that point. I screamed, "Christopher, get it away from him!!" Chris quickly tried to grab the thing, but the Bellhop, being familiar with my panic squeal, clamped it firm in his mouth. Christopher tried to softly retrieve it but the Bellhop wasn't going to let him have it. I moaned "just take him outside with it 'cause we're gonna' kill it trying to get it out of his mouth!" Christopher, though quite enamored with the Bellhop, gingerly picked him up and, holding him at arm's length in front of him, escorted the rabbit-mouthed villain to the outdoors.
I said in a defeated tone, "he's gonna' kill it and there's nothing we can do about it."
We composed ourselves, as this really was a day in the life with the Bellhop; always adventure. We resumed our conversation in the same positions in the living room--shifted back to normalcy. In he came with "it" again! Chris hadn't closed the storm door. The little rabbit was still visibly unharmed, but the Bellhop was not gonna' let go of it. Same motions as before: I wail loudly and avert my eyes; Chris marches out with rabbit-toting cat at arm's length. This time he shuts the door behind him. The Bellhop and his pitiful little play pretty would stay out!
A few minutes later, Christopher had gone to a neighbor's house, and I sat on the living room couch reading a book. I started to hear loud screeching-screaming sounds going on outside. I was reminded of the Bellhop's prey, and knew immediately that he was torturing the thing. If you've never heard a rabbit, even a small one, screaming in fear and pain, you don't know what horrors you're missing. It is really loud. It's overbearing when it is right in your yard and you are helpless to rescue it from its captor.
Needless to say I couldn't concentrate on my book anymore. I sat there on the couch, and heard that poor rabbit screaming around and around the house for 30 minutes. I yelled out to the Bellhop "KILL IT! KILL IT!" so it would stop suffering. Now I know he heard me, but he just kept running around the house with it in his mouth. An adrenaline-pumped bobtail Bellhop with a screaming baby rabbit in his mouth. I knew it would do no good for me to go out there and chase him, since the damage to the poor thing was done. But why was he dragging this out so long??
The screaming abruptly stopped. He had killed it, and I felt a sigh of relief for that poor little rabbit.
I shifted gears and started puttering around the house doing some chores. A couple of hours went by and I went outside--just out my back door, and got down on hands and knees to begin pulling up a few weeds around some flowers. The Bellhop was a few feet away, shuffling leaves, ignoring me, and every once in a while banging something up against the side of the house. I concentrated on weed-pulling and was likewise ignoring him. He habitually spent a lot of time batting rocks or acorns about, similar to his frenzied slamming of Brazil nuts around in the kitchen as if they were hockey pucks. So, no, I didn't notice him right off.
I'm intent with eyes 12 inches from the ground, while the Bellhop is busy slam-banging a "thing" three feet over from me. Suddenly, the "thing" rolled right under my face in front of my eyes--a little bitty rabbit head, smaller than a golf ball, tiny ears and all.
Instinctively thinking "how cute", and simultaneously jumping back in horror, I yell out "Bela..!!" He didn't care, he just came over there and started slamming it around and up against the house again. I got up off the ground to go inside--to get away from the wildlife horrors.
As I rose, I looked over to my left and saw, half buried under some leaf litter, a small pile of soft brownish-white fur, two miniature front bunny paws, and a rear rabbit's foot--a teeny weeny unlucky rabbit's foot.
What a busy day the Bellhop had. What a worrisome day I had. One of many worrisome days, courtesy of that beautiful and beloved Maine Coon cat.
The poor little rabbit.
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