She hated rabbits. Every time she would see one she would shriek. We would be playing ball somewhere and little cottontail, innocent as he is, would hop out of some shrubbery or a woods and she'd just go off. I tried to change her; I did. I tried to get her to see that rabbits--all of them--are perfectly harmless unless you maybe try to pick one up or rub one a little too hard, but otherwise they're the safest little creatures in the whole wide world. It did no good. Rabbits were the one animal she simply couldn't stand.

For me it was snakes. Well, that's believable. But rabbits? I had never heard of anyone who was afraid of rabbits until I met Alice.

Okay, her name isn't Alice, although that would be pretty neat. It's actually a different name, one that has nothing to do with rabbits. It's Felecia.

Felecia Andrea Roberts, age 32.

And for all I know she grew up in a childhood permeated with normalcy. I could deduce no reason why rabbits would be a problem for her. But they were.

One day I had this terrible urge to go buy a pet rabbit--yes, even with the knowledge of Felecia's fear. My motive was good: I would buy the pet rabbit, bring it home in a sturdy, escape-proof cage, and voila! Soon her fear would diminish into nothing. Soon she would be able to reach in and even touch it. Soon she would agree that rabbits are lovely little creatures and worthy of human connection.

The pet store lady was nice. She showed me a couple of specimens. I bought one and brought it home. Felecia was still at work. I knew she would be home soon. I put a large white towel over the cage which sat in the middle of the living room. It was very conspicuous, but this, I felt, was part of the plan to rid her of her fear: a kind of shock-therapy technique.

At 5:07 she walked through the door and, like I figured, saw the big thing with a towel over it. A big white square-shaped object that never had been there before. Immediately I could tell she was apprehensive; she hated surprises.

'What's that?' she projected, dropping her purse. She looked as if the white thing were some forbidding monster, ready to pounce.

I said nothing. Well, actually, I said something; I had to. I couldn't just say nothing. I said, 'I have something for you, Felecia. Something absolutely wonderful.' Then I whisked off the white towel, revealing the rabbit in the cage. He was perfectly still, his little nose twitching, his eyes unblinking--completely without threat.

Or so I thought.

Felecia screamed louder than she had ever screamed before. Louder even than the time the roller coaster seemed to come off the tracks seven years prior, and the attendant said that Yes, it was possible, since there was a 'slight problem' they had detected earlier. We wanted to sue.

Felecia screamed louder and more blood-curdlingly than the time I took her to a macabre horror flick and the demon-villain cut open the woman's throat with a big silver butcher knife, the blood spurting out all over his face and down her dress, drenching them both.

Felecia screamed louder than I could imagine anyone ever screaming. It was a scream almost superhuman in its delivery, as if she were screaming the scream of some wild beast--a mutant wildebeest from another planet, equipped with an anatomy unknown to scientists worldwide, baffling even the top researchers and biologists and physicists and high-positioned zoologists.

As you probably have already construed, Felecia and I are no longer together. All of this happened about a year ago. I still have the rabbit, though I'm told it has some sort of disease. The vet says there's really nothing that can be done. I asked her what she thought was its cause, but she didn't know that either. Suffice to say that the rabbit and I will live out our respective existences--the rabbit to die first, hopefully, not to be disrespectful--and me to prosper as long as is humanly possible.

Felecia, if you're reading this, let me say now--as I have many times before, if not to you directly, to your spirit presence--that I am truly sorry for the pain I caused you by bringing the rabbit home that day. I knew it would be difficult for you but had no idea your reaction would be so visceral. I hope you too will live a fruitful life despite the past events.

Please call sometime, even though I know you wish I would die, or would have died by now. We don't have to meet here, where the rabbit is. Just call me. We'll talk about anything but rabbits. Promise.

My nose seems to twitch when I think of you. Just kidding.