Even though our back yard is fenced, the occasional rabbit will become captivated by the voluptuous virgin sod–grass seldom sullied by lawnmower blades–and will burrow beneath our fence so it can lunch on our lawn. 

I had just let our dogs out in the yard and was standing at the kitchen window to watch when I saw a small brown bundle dart past, closely followed by an equally fast-moving gray blur. I’d seen the dog and bunny show a few times before, with our gray terrier, Chewie, in hot pursuit of the invading wild rabbit, but this time, it was different. A few seconds after Gray chased Brown into the weeds, out of sight, Gray shot back out like a bullet, this time with Brown in hot pursuit. 

Apparently the rabbit, unable to quickly access his exit, chose to change gears from flight back to fight. Unaccustomed to being the chase-e, Chewie beat a hasty retreat. Like my bunny-fleeing dog, I never knew rabbits could be aggressive.

Since Chewie already has image issues, rather than risk his massive male ego being damaged by a wascally wiolent wabbit, I hurried outside and called for the dogs, distracting Chewie long enough for the rabbit to find his hole and escape. 

Just a short while later, after returning to the kitchen, I picked up a book my husband was reading, The Book of General Ignorance, and began flipping through the pages, stopping on a dog-eared paged where the word “rabbits” seemed to leap off the page. The timing seemed curiously coincidental, so I read the passage.

“What’s the word for Napoleon’s most humiliating defeat?”

The answer was “Rabbits.”

According to the book, in 1807, Napoleon was in high spirits, having signed a landmark treaty between France, Russia, and Prussia. To celebrate, he suggested the Imperial Court enjoy an afternoon of shooting rabbits.

The Imperial hunting party was large enough it could have been mistaken for a regiment, and Napoleon entrusted the arrangements to his chief-of-staff, Alexandre Berthier.  Berthier was an energetic, detail-oriented person, one who normally managed the Emperor’s affairs flawlessly. Not wanting to leave anything to chance and fearing that nature might fail to provide the hunting party with enough adorable little targets to shoot at, Berthier “bought hundreds of rabbits to ensure that the Imperial Court had plenty of game to keep them occupied.”

And so, on the designated day, the hunting party, led by Emperor Napoleon, arrived at the appointed place, escorted by Guardsmen, Equerries, and various others of his household, and followed by a host of kings, marshals, barons, generals, counts, and lesser folk.

But then, when the gamekeepers released the quarry, rather than flee in all directions, the rabbits–hundreds of rabbits–made straight for Napoleon.

It turns out that Berthier had purchased tame-not wild-rabbits, and those tame rabbits mistakenly believed that instead of being hunted and killed, they were about to be fed.

“Rather than fleeing for their life,” the book continues, “they spotted a tiny man in a big hat and mistook him for their keeper, who they happily thought was bringing them food. The hungry rabbits stormed toward Napoleon at their top speed of 35 mph.”

Unable to stop the stampeding rabbits, Napoleon had no choice but to run, beating off the hungry hares with his bare hands as he fled.  

“The rabbits did not relent and drove the emperor back to his carriage, while his underlings thrashed vainly at the rabbits with horsewhips. The Emperor of France sped off in his coach, comprehensively beaten and shamed.”

So apparently, the aggressiveness of rabbits is not something new.

And if it weren’t for Waterloo, Napoleon might’ve gone down in history as the first man embarrassed when his hare line didn’t recede. 

It’s hard to remember which of the recent stock market crashes it was that had my bosses bemoaning their losses, but while they were grumbling I realized my own mood was completely unaffected by Wall Street. I suppose there’s something to be said about having so little to lose, about having hovered so close to the ground that these often-scraped knees have developed thick skin.

According to David Henry Sterry in the Huffington Post, one of the “unexpected benefits of the worst economic depression in a century is that for the first time in history, poor people are happier than rich people.”

Since the lifestyle of many lower-income people barely changed with the downturn, some are taking some pleasure in the misfortune and misery the previously wealthy are suffering. Although I’m not enjoying the distress the once-golden are experiencing, having the playing field even a smidgen more level does seem to make my own struggles less demoralizing.

Writes Sterry, “Many rich people … have lost boats, airplanes, luxury automobiles, jet skis, two or three homes, and large portions of their wealth. Certainly many have been the victims of their own greed, but many have also been swindled, deceived and lied to. And many rich people have never been poor, so they have no idea just how hard it is to be an American without money. Whereas poor people, having been poor most of their lives, are used to it.”

Most of those who lost fortunes still have ample cash to live comfortably, just not as much as before. Tough times for them are still far more secure than many of us will ever be blessed enough to experience. Before this recession began, those who lost sleep worrying about where to get the money to fix the furnace or pay crazy deductibles are still losing sleep for the very same reasons, but knowing some overpaid financial guru no longer has a vacation home and matching Hummers lessens the sting.

I’ve reached an age where my rose-colored glasses have bifocal lenses, but I can’t help but hope we’ll be able to find ways to force positives from this downturn, to have it serve as an awakening to reassess our priorities, learn lessons in restraint, appreciation, empathy, and compassion. To recognize that while money can buy security, happiness is something we choose.

While appearing on Good Morning America this week, actor Michael J. Fox was talking about his battle with Parkinson’s disease and how he’s managed to maintain such a positive outlook.

“It’s all about making choices,” Fox said. “The only unavailable choice was whether or not to have Parkinson’s. Everything else was up to me.”

Wealth can’t protect us from being dealt a bad hand. How we choose to play it is our decision to make.

Making the news this week was a story about South Korean scientists who, through cloning, have produced four beagles that appear normal in daylight, but put the pups in the dark or under ultraviolet light and the Rovers glow red.

Surprisingly, growing glowing cloned creatures isn’t unheard of, as scientists in the U.S., Japan, and Europe have already managed to clone fluorescent mice and pigs, but this glowing litter of “Ruppies” (a combination of “ruby” and “puppies”) is a first. 

Frankly, luminous dogs are the only laboratory creation that makes any sense. Where’s the need for a pigmented pig or a radiant rodent? Speaking as one who shares her quarters with three canine speed bumps, a dog I’m less likely to trip over on middle-of-the-night trips to the bathroom has some appeal.

The actual scientific reasoning behind creating fluorescent dogs has more to do with developing the ability to insert genes with specific traits that could lead to the development of new treatments for certain diseases, but I can’t help imagining the possible scenarios that might’ve inspired the scientists to start with glow-in-the-dark dogs.

I wonder if those scientists might not have had a dog like Molly, a solid black German shepherd I had as a teenager. Molly was likely still cutting puppy teeth when she first realized that, after dark, she was undetectable to her visually inferior human companions. 

Take Molly out in the yard at night and she’d sometimes race far ahead, beyond the reach of the porch light. I would relax, often strolling down the yard to await her return, believing she’d gone far enough that she couldn’t possibly have slipped into the shadows, then backtracked. Yet time and again, that devious dog would lurk in the darkness, stealthily stalking her target until the moment was perfect for her to spring. She’d allow weeks to pass between scares, always just long enough for me to let down my guard before striking again. 

Molly got such a kick out of her little game that I suppose even if I’d had the ability to make her glow in the dark, I wouldn’t have used it. With Murry, however, I’m not so sure.

Murry is the most loyal of dogs, taking his job as my constant companion so literally that, day or night, he’s seldom more than a few inches from my side. The problem is that the side he’s no more than a few inches away from constantly changes–front side, left side, front side again, right, back, left, front-and while that’s manageable during the day when I’m fully awake, if I get up at night he changes positions nearly as often, except instead of standing, he flops at my feet.

Imagine walking down a dark hall, pausing to turn on the light, then taking a step forward only to find that a 40-lb. lump has soundlessly materialized in your immediate path.

It’s easy to see how a dog that glows in the dark would have some appeal.

Perhaps I’ll get lucky and the scientists will develop a pooch that, when it’s about to abruptly and unpredictably change its direction, will beep.