A few years ago I was out on a gravel run with my pal Johnny. I've known him my entire life, and his, and I thought I knew him pretty well.
Johnny was a hunting and fishing and hockey-playing kinda guy. Decent chap through and through. Always there to lend a hand if you have to move a piano or something.
I was therefore shocked when, as we were cresting a hill on a gravel road somewhere north and east of Fergus, a rabbit ran out into the road in front of us.
Now if I'd been driving, I would have braked and swerved to miss it.
Johnny stepped on the gas and swerved to hit it.
I was dumbfounded. My pal Johnny a cold-blooded bunny killer?
Johnny pulls over, grabs a knife out of the glove box, and by god, he's got Mr. Rabbit skinned and gutted in five minutes, right there on the side of the road.
Drops the bunny in the beer cooler and heads into town.
We grab a roll of Alcan foil and a fistful of those little salt and pepper packets they give away at fast food joints. Rubs up Mr. Rabbit with salt and pepper, wraps him in foil, opens the hood, and deposits our road kill on top of the engine block.
We pick up another case of Chrystal and hit the road.
Two hours later we're sitting in a farm field somewhere south of Caledon, the Toronto skyline in the distance, Pink Floyd on the stereo, chowing down on some of the tenderest roast rabbit I've ever had.
Four stars, Johnny!