Meet The Butcher

Growing up in Colorado was fun, until it wasn't. My mom and dad meant well when they bought a pet rabbit for my brother and I. If they had stopped there, we'd have been fine.

I named this first guy, "Tiny," and although he reached 7 pounds -- a huge hare indeed -- he got to keep the name. We convinced our parents Tiny should have some friends, so they brought home 2 more, Boxer and Millie, another buck and a doe, which we learned was a no no. 

The first day the new trio got together was easily the worst day of my life. I went out to the pen to find Boxer and Tiny having a go at each other, and screaming, I tried to break it up. Boxer got his chompers on my little finger, and things got worse from there: Within a few days, it was clear that I should have gone to the hospital, as a bad infection was raging against the sanctity of my 5th digit, and spreading quickly. It looked so bad we actually took an ambulance to the emergency room, and within minutes, the doctor told my dad they needed to immediately amputate my 4th and 5 fingers to save the rest of my hand and possibly my life. Yikes!

Fast forward through the next few years, into middle school — obviously, I was teased by almost everyone at some point. My three finger salute to penmanship, handshakes, and shoe tying simply looked different, and I got punished for this en masse. It was tough. My brother Steve generally tried to protect me, but honestly, even he wasn’t always saying the right things. I quickly acquired the nickname, “Robster Craws,” from a popular movie that came out during those years.

Yes. Everyone called me this, from teachers to coaches, and many friends from back in the day still do. See also: Lobster Lady, Clawfish, Crawfish, Clawfingers, Crawdaddy’s Girl, The Crustaceous Cutie, and so on.

Decades later, when I got divorced from a man who also sometimes called me “Rock Lobster,” my brother tried to help me through that mess. He jokingly suggested we buy a hobby farm together, change up my career at age 50, and just try to do everything completely different to shake my life past the past. All of a sudden, he started staring at me with that stupid look he gets when an idea is forming. It’s usually a bad idea, a prank or something dumb like that. But this time I had to hand it to him: Pure genius.

“Heidi,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “What if we started a rabbit farm. The way I see it, if you can’t take revenge on a specific rabbit that ruined your life 45 years ago, why don’t you take revenge on as many rabbits as possible?”

We started small, just a few animals. We learned fast, and the rabbits did what rabbits do best — each other. I learned how to use a cleaver with just 3 fingers, a poetic form of justice in my book. We learned to cull the bucks, process meat and fur, and how to present the best possible hasenpfeffer recipe to local restaurants, especially the German eateries found throughout the midwest. 

And that, my friends, is how I changed my nickname from “Robster Craws” to…

The Butcher.

PS: In case you’re wondering, Millie and Tiny lived out their best lives in Colorado. Boxer was delicious, on a plate we knew to be best if served cold. Very, very cold.