Curtain up on a rabbit Woodstock

From a young age, rabbits have been part of my life, even within strange family mythologies dreamed up by my older brothers. I was one of eight children, so we were often left feral among the golden, long-grassed summer fields surrounding our home. As the sun dipped in the early evening, my father’s voice would bellow across the countryside calling us back to our beds.

My brothers would set off at a sprint for home, leaving the younger runt of the litter to follow behind. They would turn back, faces pale, with a scream of “Rabbit Black!” and fear would run through my system. Rabbit Black was a beast from the depths of nightmares conjured up by my brothers. Though it seems ridiculous now, I had been