That’s when I knew

I must have been about six years old. Dad had found a little bunny, God knows where. He brought it home, and the three little brothers went wild. We were fascinated by that little creature with the long ears. It moved its little nose up and down very quickly. I remember when I held it, its heart was beating very fast. Poor furry little guy, he must have had a heart condition; the tiny little pump in his chest was going faster than his life, and a few days later he kicked the bucket—or rather, died.

Tears, snot, and bawling flooded the house. Three inconsolable children mourning that big-eared fellow lying lifeless in a shoemaker's box that, by the way, was way too big for him. Somebody had to bury him; the parents weren't around, and the dirty work had to be done. Of course, I volunteered. I felt it was my civic and moral responsibility.

I took him out of the box with tenderness and wrapped him in the sweater I was wearing; it was cold that day.
The funeral march to the vacant lot behind the house began. I promised myself not to cry, out of respect, out of honor for the furry guy; he didn't need my pity. But feeling him like that, so limp, such a little bag of bones, almost made me break my promise.

I was right in the middle of it... when suddenly a dog crossed my path! I don't know which of the two of us got more scared, the dog or me—poor ragged and starved dog; anyway, I almost peed my little pants.
In a reflex action, not knowing whether brave or cowardly, I hurled the only thing I had in my hands to defend myself at that beast with scared eyes and its tail between its legs. Poor little bunny, he ended his days among the brush turned into a cannonball.It worked, it's true: the dog took off running. I had won that battle. It started to rain a little; I prudently checked to make sure my pants were