We’ve named the rabbit Thistle. Or he named himself: that was the one name he responded to at all. Smart bunny: the second-runner-up name was “Stu.”

Thistle was running around in the back yard this morning. We’re trying to acquaint him and Zeke in a controlled fashion, so that they can keep each other company without us watching every second. But it seemed, this morning, like several million years of racial memory were manifesting themselves in Zeke’s pointy little brain. The rabbit would run up the cinderblock path, and every hair on Zeke’s body would stand at attention.

I trust Zeke not to inflict deliberate harm: we’ve had a dozen small pets since we got him, and he’s always been very gentle. But after a couple laps around the garden, nose just inches behind Thistle’s tail, I started worrying about the accidental stomp… not to mention inflicting too much stress on the rabbit. Rabbits do die of fright.

So I called Zeke, and after a minute, when the commands finally registered on his rabbit-addled mind, he came running toward me.

With Thistle in hot pursuit, nipping at his heels. I think they’ll be fine.