Not game to slaughter rabbits

To paraphrase George Bernard Shaw: Those who can hobby farm do; those who can't, because they fell off a saw horse and sprained their ankle, read about it instead.

When I open this book on small farming, it's like a whole raft of ideas jumps out. Cider making? Raising game birds? Rabbits?

Raising rabbits is something I know a bit about. When I was 10, my country-bred father finally managed to coax his townie wife into a fling at rural living. In response to my moans about losing my newspaper route, Dad pointed to a rural alternative.

Leon up the road made heaps of money raising rabbits; why couldn't I?

Dad used his skills as a carpenter to turn out two neat little hutches. Leon was happy to sell me two does and a "spare" buck. This vicious monster more than once savaged me with his huge front teeth, and he kicked like a mule with claws. But he did live up to the name I gave him – Father of Millions.

Soon I owned not three but 11 rabbits; then 18. By midsummer, my 53 rabbits took over the temporarily empty corn crib. Never mind, said Leon. He'd had a letter – the rabbit buyer was coming. All we had to do was skip school the day before to get the rabbits ready. My mother, a school teacher, wasn't happy about the truancy but Dad overruled her. There was more to learn about life than what was in books, he said.

Too true: Tuesday was a day of horror. In 10 gore-saturated hours, Leon and I killed, skinned and gutted 87 young bunnies. Leon anticipated wealth. I was ready to face a lifetime of poverty – no more rabbit breeding for me. Back to the book. Okay; how about fish? Bottom paddock's always full of water; I reckon I could kill any number of fish.

- © Fairfax NZ News