It was about this time a couple of years ago that I first saw him. I was driving home from a pet-sitting job in the pre-dawn chill, shivering and waiting for the station wagon’s heat to kick in, when I caught something out of the corner of my eye. It was just a glimpse, but enough to make me mark the spot in my mind for a later inspection.

The next morning I made it a point to slow down when I passed by, and sure enough, there he was, alone and exposed to the elements. He stood by the curb, his little paws held in front of him, an expression of curiosity on his worn face. My heart hurt for him, all alone out there in the middle of winter, but I went on, because he obviously belonged to someone, and Lord knew I didn’t need to bring anything else home. I told Hubby about him over breakfast. He awww’d and mmm hmmm’d absently, having heard the same story with different characters for years by that time.

Day after day, I passed by the poor old thing. After about a week, I got the courage to stop and look at him. He was a beauty, plump and dignified, and with the wonderful quality of age obvious on his little features, he should have been beloved by his family. It was plain that he’d loved them for many years.

But they’d tossed him out.

When I stopped, I noticed that he wasn’t really standing by the curb in front of his house, but at the very edge of the property. It was as if his people didn’t want anyone to know he’d been theirs. My heart broke, and I promised him that I would take care of the situation. He merely looked at me, his opinion of humanity stamped on his round-cheeked face.

It was easy to make my case to Hubby. I just casually drove by and pointed the poor abandoned thing out to him, and Hubby announced that we had to save him. It was his ears that won Hubby over. Poor broken things. Both of them were just … gone. Once he saw the sad earless bunny, Hubby was as ready as I to make room for a new friend at our house.

Still, it took me a few more days to work up my courage to rabbit-nap the little guy. I passed him by several times, promising silently to help him.

On the day that I saw his replacement, though, my Ford station wagon stopped on a dime, and I didn’t care if the neighbors were peeking out of their blinds, writing my tag number down for the police. His family had tossed my little buddy aside because he was less than perfect, and replaced him with a girl bunny, who wore a goofy hat and carried a big old basket in her paws! She held a place of honor right in the pine and azalea island in their front yard.

I snuck, as much as a little round lady in pajamas whose car stereo is blasting Ray Wiley Hubbard at 7 a.m. can sneak, up to the bunny. I acted casual, pretending not to see him, and then, too quickly for anyone to see, I lugged 20 pounds of cement rabbit back to the car.

I buckled him into the passenger seat and away we drove. He kept his gaze to the front as I told him about his new home. I didn’t blame him. He’d put his trust in people before, and look where that had landed him. I assured him that I found him the handsomest creature ever, and that without his ears, he was even better. He was like one of those ancient statues, all missing some part or other, but amazing and revered just the same.

At home, I knew right where he’d be happy. He left dirt and moss behind him in the car seat, but I forgave him his little indiscretion; he’d had a hard couple of weeks. I showed him the hydrangea hedge in front of the house. They were kind of straggly looking, because it was winter but, I promised him, come spring the large bushes would be covered with broad green leaves. And in early summer, he’d be living in a sea of blue blossoms.

Two years later, Mr. Bunny is right at home in his hydrangea nest. He peeks through the winter branches, waiting for spring, and from his place of honor he welcomes visitors with his brave, curious gaze.