Jesus, we knew it. Even as we aimed our slingshots at the base of its lopped ears, whiskers wet with dew—still we called it a wild hare. Imagined an entire past for it—cabbage raids at dawn, strong legs rocketing across the knoll, boxing potential mates—while we knuckled off its pink-belled collar and flung it into the yellowed field, peeled back the soft pelt, whittled sticks and lit the stove. We hailed ourselves huntsmen, prehistoric, holy men. And when Ronnie Fitzroy started wailing, we heard him, sure. But by then what could we do except bow our heads and eat.