A couple of weeks ago, Monet was given a little lamb to raise. Monet thought the scrawny runt looked more like a rabbit and, in fact, I've held rabbits that have weighed more, so the bundle of wool and blood and goo was given the name Rabbit. Six times a day, Monet feeds Rabbit from a bottle, a task that takes just minutes per feeding. Rabbit guzzles down the warm liquid and nuzzles the baby bottle for more. Now that he's older, he's become much like Mary's lamb, following Monet everywhere he goes, acting more like a dog than a farm animal. When the children run out to play, there's Rabbit, hopping and leaping along, kicking his feet up under himself and twisting in the air. When I see him, I can't help reciting this poem:
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee,
Gave thee life, and bade thee feed
By the stream and o’er the mead;
Gave thee clothing of delight,
Softest clothing, wooly, bright;
Gave thee such a tender voice,
Making all the vales rejoice?
Little lamb, who made thee?
Dost thou know who made thee?
Little lamb, I’ll tell thee;
Little lamb, I’ll tell thee:
He is called by thy name,
For He calls Himself a lamb,
He is meek, and He is mild,
He became a little child;
I a child, and thee a Lamb,
We are called by His Name.
Little lamb, God bless thee!
Little lamb, God bless thee!
Poem by William Blake
