Although this happened many moons ago (norhtern Maine around 1960), I remember it well:

It was a crisp fall day when my neighbor and woodsman guru Hank Ferguson took his two sons (Gus and David) and me for a hunt in the woods. We were on the lookout for squirrels and rabbits. So, armed with our single-shot .22 rifles, we took off for a spot just outside of Loring AFB.

The usual protocol was that we boys traveled abreast, muzzles pointed skyward, fingers off the triggers. Mr. Ferguson trailed us, making sure we would not accidentally shoot each other, I suppose.

When one of us spotted game, he would signal by stopping. He had the first shot; Mr. Ferguson would move into a safe position for a follow-up shot, if needed.

David stiffened suddenly. Gus and I stopped and looked to our left. And then we saw something that we had never before witnessed -- an albino rabbit, his white furriness blending with the crust of snow that covered the ground.

David lined up his shoot and -- pow! -- the rabbit dropped, blood flying from its skull.

Excited as he was (Gus and I were quite envious), he walked over to it, abiding by his father's dictim never to run with a firearm. Transferring his rifle to his left hand, he bent over and smilingly snatched up the rabbit by its hind legs, brandishing it, his rare trophy for all to see.

And then the bunny woke up.

(Much later we would figure out what happened -- his head had been merely grazed by the bullet, not pierced by 40 grains of copper-coated calamity.)

Rather miffed at the creature that had made a loud noise, thunked it in the head and now was dangling it upside down, the rabbit proceeded to jerk itself loose from David's grasp. But fear had locked it tight and David, frightened as he was, could not figure out how to let it go.

And let it go was what he wanted to do because he, along with his brother and I, had figured out why the bunny was all white -- he was a Ghost Bunny and could not be laid low by mere lead.

The bunny was thrashing, David was screaming and sobbing, Gus was screaming, I was screaming, but Mr. Ferguson was laughing. He leaned over, grabbed his son's arm and directed it at velocity toward the nearest tree trunk. Whap! The bunny's head smacked into the trunk and all signs of a struggle ceased. The Ghost Bunny had indeed given up the ghost (along with some blood and brains).

At the end of that particular day, the back of our pants probably needed cleaning more than the bores of our rifles ...

Scribe