What was I to do with Candytuft? That was now the burning question. He had to come out of that barrel, anyway. His little owners would be shocked if they should see him in it, so I turned him into the aviary and awaited developments.
They soon came. Delighted with his freedom, he stamped his soft paws on the earth, and bounded to and fro, making an occasional vicious onslaught on poor Raggylug, who hid behind the guineapigs’ barrels.
This would not do. I must try a new combination, so I put Candy out in the furnace-room, and took Spotty in with Trixy. The usually good-natured Spotty flew at Trixy, kicked her, tore out great bunches of her hair, and in much trepidation I had to run and catch the furious Spotty, who was breathing spasmodically, and push the terrified Trixy in a corner to recuperate. She was twice his size, but he had beaten her. Now she would understand how Raggylug felt when she bit his ear.
I had forgotten that rabbits quarreled so much. When I was a girl my elder brother kept sixty of them together in a carriage-house loft, and in looking back, I could not remember hearing of the dreadful fights my few rabbits had had. My curiosity led me to interview him on the subject, and he laughed, and confessed that in his youthful days his loft was the scene of many woolly battles and hair-breadth escapes, when his boy friends brought their rabbits to pit against his.
I had to come back to my rabbit problem. As the days went by I was no nearer its solution. Trixy and Candy both whipped the model Raggylug. Trixy bit him, and Candytuft kicked him. Candytuft also bit Trixy. Rab and Spotty bit and kicked all three. Finally, to give myself a breathing-spell, for I did not propose to spend the rest of my life in the basement, settling rabbit quarrels—they used to bite me too—I put Candy in a box.
The king of terrors, who solves so many problems, came to my rescue. One morning Lizzie ran upstairs and informed me that Spotty was “stiff.”
I hurried down to him and finding him swollen enormously, I rushed castor oil down his throat, and got him into a hot bath. I was too late. He died—surprisingly strong and struggling to the last, though at first he was patient and quiet. Probably the bath was not a good thing. I was puzzled as to the cause of his death, until I found some decayed potatoes that had been put by the furnace to be burned.
We had a post mortem examination, and my supposition was found to be correct. Poor, inoffensive Spotty had been killed by greediness. I knew he had not been hungry, for I always had plenty of food lying about. I believe in giving pet creatures plenty of exercise and an abundance of food. I rarely find that they eat too much.
To my great uneasiness Trixy fell ill after this, and I was obliged to have recourse to my oil bottle. I felt thankful that the children could not see their fresh white beauty with her dejected air and oily, dirty face. This time I evidently did the right thing, for Trixy pulled through.
After I had had these rabbits a few months the time came for my trip to Europe, and I was not surprised to hear that my family would take care of my birds and guineapigs, but utterly refused to have anything to do with the quarrelsome rabbits.