As Lambs to His Fold

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  All Creatures Great And Small....

  Queen Ann’s lace foamed along the ditch banks, goldenrod flamed beside the road, and Mamma was canning apricots.

  We had no idea, as we trotted down to Grandpa’s that July morning, that we would be met by tragedy. A pack of wild dogs had attacked the rabbit cage in the night and had sent Brother and Sister Hopper and all the little Hoppers to the Hereafter.

  We asked Grandpa, tearfully, if we might hold a funeral for the Hoppers.

  “No,” he said shortly. “They’ve already been buried.”

  It was not like Grandpa to be insensitive. I realized, later, that he must have buried the rabbits hastily so we would be spared the sight of all the carnage. But Grandma, sensing our need to make some kind of gesture to the memory of our rabbit friends, said kindly, “Why don’t you put some flowers on the grave?”

  We went out by the pasture, to the plot of freshly-turned earth, and placed bluebells and bleeding hearts above the Hoppers’ resting place. We also made a little headstone from a smooth piece of wood we found in Grandpa’s wood pile and wrote on it in crayon:

  The Hoppers. They wur very good rabits.

  We wondered about saying a prayer but decided that Grandpa probably took care of that when he buried them. Grandpa was a good prayer. We didn’t know what went on at a real funeral, never having been to one; but we sang a song, “Jesus Wants Me For a Sunbeam.” Then we sat down and cried.

  Something was worrying me.

  “Lee’triss,” I said, “where do you s’pose the Hoppers are right now — their spirits, I mean?”

  “Oh, prob’ly in the spirit world, wearing little, white robes, an’ jumping all over, an’ eating lettuce an’ stuff.”

  That sounded hopeful, but I needed more than a “prob’ly.” The Hoppers had been our friends. They had been as good as rabbits could be. How could I be sure they weren’t shut up in some spiritual rabbit hutch? Could they be resurrected, and go to heaven, and be rabbit angels with Jesus?

  Not knowing what to think on the subject, we discussed the probable fate of other animals — certain dogs, for instance. We knew they were not going to make it. We wondered about cows and sheep. Sheep, definitely. Sister Woolsey was assured of a place in heaven. Jesus liked sheep and was always talking about them. We weren’t so sure about cows. They could be mean, like Mooey Moocher; but they did give you milk and cream.

  I had a deep need to know about the Hoppers; and so I went to ask Daddy, who knew just about everything. He was out in the garden running irrigation water down the rows of vegetables. I watched him use his hoe to make little channels here, little dams there to direct the flow of water.

  He became aware that I was standing near, fidgeting first on one foot, then the other.

  “Yes, Beth?”

  I decided to go at the subject in a roundabout way.

  “Daddy, why don’t we have any pets?”

  “You know that Mamma gets asthma when she’s around animals.”

  “Well — uh, do you like animals?”

  “I don’t dislike them. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, I just wondered.”

  Daddy paused in his work and leaned on his hoe. “It’s a sad thing, but I never learned to be fond of animals. When I was a boy on the farm, my father was a very stern man. Oh, I don’t blame him for it. He grew up under very harsh, pioneer circumstances. He could never see past raw necessity.

  “Father wouldn’t allow the animals on our farm to be abused, but he absolutely forbade us to make pets of any of them. They were there either to work, or be sold, or to be raised for food. And so, as a boy, I never got close to any animals the way some people do.

  “It’s something I’m really lacking in, I know,” he added apologetically. “But, that’s how it is.”

  That wasn’t the way I’d wanted the conversation to go.

  “Do you want a pet, Beth? Is that why you asked?”

  I shrugged offhandedly.

  “Oh, not ‘specially. I was just — wondering.”

  I strolled off and left Daddy to his watering.

  Why hadn’t I asked Daddy the question that was so vital to me? I knew he would be kind — especially if he had to give me a negative reply, that rabbits did not go to heaven. But I was afraid that he wouldn’t understand, not being an animal lover. It wouldn’t be as important to him as it was to me. And so I kept the need to know to myself.

  __________

  Irene was at girl’s camp with Dorajean. So I had Daddy all to myself. The Ringling Brothers, Barnum and Bailey Circus was coming to Salt Lake, and Daddy said he would take Leatrice and me. We had seen prize animals at county fairs; also bucking bulls and broncos at a rodeo; we had seen the beasts at the Liberty Park Zoo in Salt Lake. But we had never been to a circus.

  I asked Daddy, “Can we buy some popcorn and candy there?”

  He replied, “It costs too much when you buy it there. We’ll take some with us.”

  In those Depression times, the cost of things was always a specter at the celebration. We bought some Milky Way bars at the Piggly Wiggly store. The circus tents were pitched out west of Salt Lake City at the state fair grounds. Daddy parked the car and, as we walked toward the big top, we were aware of increasing excitement around us. Animals in cages paced up and down and roared. Monkeys were a whirl of little paws, and feet, and tails as they swung and leaped at the bars. Elephants trumpeted and pulled at their leg chains fastened to stakes in the ground. Men selling balloons and cotton candy shouted their wares. And over all was the fierce, jungle smell of the big cats.

  The Greatest Show On Earth! Who wouldn’t want to buy a ticket and go in? As we entered, I kept my hand tight on the candy bar in my pocket, so the man selling tickets wouldn’t see it and be mad that I hadn’t bought it there. We selected seats right in the middle, where we could see what was going on in all three rings.

  We emerged two hours later dazzled by the lights, color, and the never-ceasing movement. The ringmaster had been dressed splendidly in a red coat, riding breeches, a top hat, and boots. There had been galloping horses with beautiful ladies standing up on them, balancing on one foot; little dogs in frilly skirts standing on their hind legs and doing a sort of dance round and round; amusing clowns; a seal that sang — sort of, and balanced a ball on its nose; high wire artists and trapeze performers defying death from far up near the roof of the tent.

  Most impressive to us was the wild animal performance. A big cage was wheeled into the ring and a man in a sparkly gold suit entered it. Another cage was brought in, a door was opened, and down a ramp into the first cage flowed two tawny lions, a dusky leopard, and three tigers, their orange stripes rippling and their sharp teeth showing in a most unfriendly way.

  The animals snarled, bared their fangs, showed their claws, roared. But, amazingly, when the man cracked a whip they performed, running around the cage at the trainer’s command, jumping up on stools, and, most wonderful of all, leaping through a flaming hoop.

  As we emerged with the crowd, Daddy hurried on ahead to unlock the car doors. Leatrice and I strolled along, discussing the marvels we had seen. The thing uppermost in our minds was, can certain animals go to heaven?

  I was of the opinion that wild animals would definitely not be admitted through the pearly gates. What if one of them up and bit you? It certainly wouldn’t be heaven if you were afraid of them doing that.

  Leatrice argued that if they could be trained to do all those wonderful tricks we had seen, maybe they could be taught other things, too — like being nice and not biting. And hadn’t we heard somewhere about lions lying down with lambs?

  I pictured all those lions, and tigers, and leopards in a Niceness School, bending over their desks with pencils in their paws, writing fifty times, “I will not eat people.”

  That satisfied my curiosity about wild animals. But what about rabbits?