Little Bunny Foo Foo hops through the forest, scooping up the field mice, and bopping them on the head. The squeak of outrage, the writhing body, the inevitable bop, the limp figure tossed away after, like the skin of a popped grape. He wipes tears and snot from his nose with a bloody paw. He wonders where he is on the count: does it go by mice, or by the number of times that SHE has noticed?
The first time was an accident. Heading out to work at dusk, alert for foxes and that damn owl, relieved to be out of the warren, he mistakes his buddy Mike for a shrew. Sharp-toothed murderous little bastards, the shrews, and more than happy to gnaw on a nest of pinklings. Do a lot more than bop ‘em on the head, given half a chance. Foo Foo, seeing what he thinks to be a serial killer climbing out of Mike’s home tunnel turns around and wallops him a good one. A hard hit, with the back legs. Foo Foo could have been a contender once. But, well, that was before the missus and all the little Foo Foos.
The field mouse reels, falls over like a rotten mushroom in the rain and Foo Foo, realizing his mistake, runs to his friend and calls for help.
Down comes the Good Fairy—a cascade of stardust, a burst of fresh dandelion shoots, a fog of fairy pheromones—and she says, “Little Bunny Foo Foo…” The tone is reproving, but a velvety tease he hasn’t heard from a female in years. His own name, uttered by those succulent crocus-petal lips. His nose twitches, his ears flop. He has been cradling Mike’s head but drops it back in the gravel with a thump, eyes only for the Good Fairy. “Little Bunny Foo Foo, I don’t want to see you hopping through the forest, scooping up the field mice and bopping them on the head.” A delicate hand, a caress between the ears, and Foo Foo’s heart beats in time with the fairy’s pulse, visible on the elegant neck.
He is hooked.