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While modest in scope, “Dan and the Rabbit War” provides a compelling meditation on the intersection of nature, effort, and community. Through effective use of setting, symbolic imagery, and grounded character interaction, the story elevates a seemingly trivial inconvenience into a narrative about human adaptability and the quiet power of support. The story reminds us that even small acts—pressing a help button, offering advice, or remembering someone’s herbs—can carry deep significance.

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Dan and the Rabbit War

By Harry Arabian

It was just past sunrise when I pulled into the Home Depot parking lot. The sky hovered in a soft wash of lavender and gold, the pavement still damp with dew. I stepped out into the cool morning air, clutching the last bite of my breakfast bar, and muttered under my breath as I pictured the latest garden carnage.

My herb plot—once orderly and fragrant—had become a feeding ground for rabbits. What started as two fluffy trespassers had grown into a bold, nibbling horde. This morning, I counted six. Six squatters. Mint? Gone. Basil? Mowed down. Even the lavender, which I’d once believed unpalatable, was no match. I loved that garden. It gave me quiet, a sense of purpose. Now it was just a chewed-up patch of dirt.

Inside the store, the gardening aisle smelled faintly of cedar mulch and fertilizer—fresh, earthy, and oddly comforting. But the aisle itself was empty. No staff, no fellow early risers. Just shelves of seed packets, stakes, and fencing supplies I didn’t quite know how to use. I hovered there a moment, overwhelmed, before spotting a red button labeled “Request Help.” I pressed it.

A few minutes passed before I heard soft footfalls and the clink of a coffee cup. Then came a familiar voice.

“You back for more basil and rosemary?”

It was Dan—the bearded, cheerful garden clerk I’d met last spring. He was short, warm-eyed, and always seemed to smell faintly of potting soil and peppermint. Today, he looked especially at ease, sipping coffee from a mug that read Grow With Love.

I smiled, but it didn’t reach my eyes. “My spice garden… it’s being eaten alive. I think it’s time to start over.”

Dan nodded, and the usual twinkle in his eye softened. “Ah. The rabbits found you.” He glanced toward the rolls of chicken wire stacked along the shelf. “You’re in the right aisle for defense. Wire, stakes. Maybe a motion sprinkler if you’re feeling fancy.”

I exhaled, somewhere between a sigh and a chuckle. “I thought two was bad. Now there’s a whole colony. My garden can’t feed them and me.”

He leaned his elbow on the cart. “Rabbits multiply like—well, you know. But herbs are tough. We just got a fresh shipment this morning. If we put up the right barriers, they’ll bounce back.”

Something about the way he said “we” made the idea feel possible. Not just a loss, but a chance to begin again—with reinforcements.

I grabbed a roll of wire and a few stakes and Dan helped me pick out new herbs. Mint, basil, lavender—like old friends returning from exile. The scent of the fresh rosemary made something ease in my chest.

As I pushed my cart toward the register, Dan lifted his cup and winked. “Don’t worry. You’re not the first to go to war with rabbits.”

I smiled, for real this time. Perhaps not. But I intended to be the first to win.