So you probably and understandably thought that Shadow, the bunny who was lost and then miraculously found (though minus his reproductive organs) during Stormageddon, had his 15 minutes of Andy Warhol fame — blanket coverage of his adventures on radio, television and in The Telegram — and then retreated to a life of carrot-munching anonymity.
But you’d be hoppin’ wrong.
In fact, my always reliable source, Harbour Deep Throat, informs me that Shadow — having heard that a surgeon and a former deputy minister of health are the only two candidates (as of this deadline of mine) vying to replace the most unpopular premier in Canada — feels his own time in the medical field, albeit a brief and traumatic few minutes on a veterinarian’s operating table, makes him just as credible as Andrew Furey and John Abbott to become the next Liberal leader, and the next premier.
Harbour Deep Throat tells me, as well, that the recent news about the Growlers hockey team looking for a new Buddy the Puffin to back up the incumbent’s activities at Mile One Centre failed to disclose the actual reason for the search. It seems Buddy the First, the character at least, is also thinking about running for the Liberal leadership, and needs some time off from the rink to pursue his political goal.
Buddy, a longtime observer of the behaviour of Mile One rink rats, a microcosm of the general Newfoundland electorate, believes the field (or the ice, as it were) is wide open, and that he has just as much experience in electoral governance as the doctor and the one-time civil servant—in other words, zilch.
“I can, at the very least, bring some entertainment value to this dull leadership race,” Buddy told Harbour Deep Throat. “And, besides, I’m cuteness personified — always an asset in the shallow world of politics.”
But it is Shadow, it appears, who has captured the attention of those Liberals seeking an alternative choice, a candidate who can split the vote and hop up the middle at the leadership convention to become Premier Bunny.
And believe it or not, Harbour Deep Throat managed to arrange a meeting for me with Shadow, an awkward get-together — at least initially — since I had to confess to the wannabe Premier Bunny that I had personally killed a couple of thousand of his cousins during hunting trips on the Avalon Peninsula over the decades.
But he was a forgiving soul and we managed to communicate in bunny language, surprisingly so, since the only sound I had ever heard from rabbits was the squeal they make when set upon by beagles.
“Look,” he said to me, in between bites off a head of cabbage I had brought as a peace offering, “I can promise to diversify the economy and exploit our resources for the betterment of all Newfoundlanders; make the same dated promises Abbott and Furey will surely make, just as all past leaders have made, just as every single one of them have made.”
“I can, at the very least, bring some entertainment value to this dull leadership race.” — Buddy the Puffin
“So why can’t I become premier?” he asked rhetorically, as he chomped down on a carrot I had also brought to the table. “I can make vacuous promises just like two-legged candidates, then not keep any of them, and eventually head back to the alders with a fine pension, maybe even end up in that patronage trough, the Senate, like the good doctor’s father.”
It was hard to argue the point.
And he did note that he had a built-in lucky rabbit’s foot.
Luck, though, wasn’t with Shadow there a few weeks back. After all, the people who found him during our Super Storm handed him over to a veterinarian who unceremoniously ended his status as a “stud bunny” (that was Shadow’s official job, according to the news reports at the time).
But he told me he’s not bitter with the system.
“For sure, it was a delightful job,” he said, as he chewed away at the Brussels sprouts I had also provided as a means of ingratiating myself with this potential leader. “My entire existence involved sex, sex and more sex, a regular Frank Moores of the bunny world.”
And Shadow, this late-in-life politician, did recognize the irony — that what he had been doing for a living was metaphorically what so many politicians have been doing to Newfoundland for centuries.
“But I’m not gonna go to that off-colour corner,” he said. “I don’t wanna turn off the Christian vote in Newfoundland.
“Just look what that crowd did for Trump to the south of us.”
Asked what he might say to Furey, in particular, if they were ever to engage in a public debate, Shadow quipped: “Ah, what’s up, Doc?”
Incredibly, I’ve also heard this past week that our own beloved dog, Mister, might run for the Liberal leadership.
Blessed with the ability to talk with Mister on many existential matters, I was able to determine that he, too, feels as capable as the doctor and the former civil servant to run the province.
And, like Shadow, he has experience in the medical field, having also suffered through the horrifying process of being “fixed,” a “procedure” for which he has never, ever forgiven me, and says he never will.
Mister hadn’t thought about much of a platform, but said that if elected, he will insist that a pooper-scooper be placed at each desk in the House of Assembly.
“Because,” he said, “there’s so much, you know....”
But before finishing the thought, he drifted off to sleep in front of the woodstove.
Bob Wakeham has spent more than 40 years as a journalist in Newfoundland and Labrador. He can be reached by email at [email protected]
