Everyone has something or someone that sets them off.

Dogs have them too.

I have a nemesis. You might ask what is the object of my ire. The answer is easy: rabbits.

My favorite place on this earth is our family home up the country. It is one of the constants in my human’s life, as well as the lives of many other family members.

Since 1829, our family has been there, with the main house dating to 1839. My human knows nearly every stretch of the property and every quirk of the big house. Not only is the place beautiful, it affords ample recreation.

My human spends far more time outside than inside when “home.” Mowing, weed eating, leaf blowing, raking, picking up limbs, weeding – there is always something to do. He likes to think of himself as head groundsman.

I consider myself his overseer, that is when I am not rabbit hunting.

Even before we arrive, I am ready. Crossing the front cattle gap and driving up the lane to the house, I begin jumping up and down and yapping up a storm. The moment the hatch stops, I am out and running. My snout is down.

I am sniffing for rabbits.

Rabbit hunting requires skill and perseverance.

First, you must be in shape. Though you can often find me resting on my Brunschwig & Fils–upholstered settee as if I were Pauline Borghese reclining on her Canova recamier, I am one fit lass.

I run at the speed of lightning. But running only gets you so far in the art of rabbit stalking.

You must also have a good sniffer. My nose is up, down, and all around when we are up the country. A good rabbit dog must be fully present – and it is that aspect of the hunt that most often gets the better of me.

Saturdays are my free-range days at the place, and I take full advantage of roughly fifty acres of pasture surrounding the fenced yard of the big house and old orchard. Once park-like, the pasture is now home to a herd of cattle.

I like to roll in their refuse. Bovine droppings also taste good.

My human calls both the rolling and the digesting of dung disgusting. Go figure. I say he lacks both a true spirit of fun and any sense of cuisine.

During late mornings and early afternoons, the pasture is my playground. Early mornings and dusk find me in the yard.

Mornings begin on leash while I assess where the rabbits have been in my absence. I know their spots. When released, I return to those places first before heading back into the pasture. Later, after I have been bathed and the humans gather on the porch, walk the grounds, or retreat to the cooking shed, I keep one eye on the rabbit zones once again.

Even when indoors, I remain vigilant.

Security doors allow the old paneled and leaded doors to stay open, giving me a floor-level view of the yard and surrounding pasture from four directions.

I am always on the hunt – if only for treats.

Oftentimes, I see rabbits inside the house and alert family and guests to the presence of these terrorists.

Yes, rabbits look cute, but do not be fooled. They are furry little assassins sent by the devil.

They will get you. It is one of my life’s jobs to rid the world – or at least my little corner of it – of them. Pointed ears and cotton tails be damned.

My humans often wonder what I would do if I actually caught one. My reaction is debated every time.

Once, I nearly did.

My human was mowing the backyard – a sizable space filled with camellias, some predating the Civil War, along with azaleas, altheas, wisteria, fringe trees, and towering pecans. A lovely setting and my rabbit preserve.

That day, my human saw a rabbit. So did I. To my advantage, the floppy spawn of Satan did not notice me. I launched from beneath a Formosa azalea and charged across the yard. The idiot was eating grass. Dogs eat grass as medicine; I only eat it when I need a cleanse. That day, fueled by last night’s dinner and a few choice servings of bovine dung, I was not thinking medicinal thoughts.

I closed in fast.

The chase was on.

The rest of the world faded away.

My human even stopped mowing – something he does not do unless there is a Bloody Mary or a cold beer involved.

Just as victory was within reach – ka-boom – I hit the fence at the back of the yard and bounced back a good two yards. My human ran toward me in horror. Dazed for only a moment, I recovered quickly. Before the tubby one could reach me, I was off again, wiggling under the fence and right back on the devil bunny’s scent.

The fluffy fiend escaped that day.

But I will be back.

If I do not get him, there will be others. Rabbits will be rabbits, but he must know that his children, grandchildren, and so on are unwanted trespassers on my turf.

It is my mug that should be on the family crest – a rabbit in my mouth, perhaps with a tasteful pile of bovine droppings at my feet.

Cartledge Weeden Blackwell III, “Cart,” is a historian and a curator. Blackwell was born in Selma, Alabama. He obtained an undergraduate degree from the College of Charleston and his graduate degree from the University of Virginia. He authored Of People and Of Place: Portraiture in Alabama (1870-1945): Reconstruction to Modernism for the Alabama Chapter of the National Society of Colonial Dames of America (NSCDA). His second book, Of Color and Light: The Life and Art of Artist-Designer Clara Weaver Parrish, is to be published by the University of Alabama Press in the winter of 2025.