One of the members of the rugby team was a small, rabbit-like man, the son of the local hay and feed dealer, who owned a car and drove most of the team back and forth from the games. One night he nearly killed himself and about six of us when a rabbit got into the lights on the road ahead of us and kept running in front of the car. Immediately, this wild Frenchman jammed his foot down on the gas and started after the rabbit. The white tail bobbed up and down in the light, always just a few feet ahead of the wheels, and whipping from one side of the road to the other, to throw the auto off his scent: only the auto didn't hunt that way. I just kept roaring after the rabbit, zig-zagging from one side of the road to the other and nearly spilling us all into the ditch.
Those of us who were piled up in the back seat began to get a little nervous, especially when we observed that we were coming to the top of the long steep hill that went winding down into the valley where St. Antonin was. If we kept after that rabbit, we would surely go over the bank, and then we wouldn't stop turning over until we landed in the river, a couple of hundred feet below.
And it started this evening, when I went to see a great production of the musical Matilda by the Superior Arts Youth Theater at the university where I teach. I attended with one of my best friends, and, for a few hours, I was able to forget all my troubles. For that I am truly thankful.
I took some pictures with a few of the cast members that I knew. Then, I drove home and had some quality time with my puppy. It was a perfect ending to a really crappy week.
Saint Marty is going to sleep well tonight. It's been a while since that happened.
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