Rabbit Killer
- Jul 29
- 6 min read
by Brian R. Ritchie
July 29, 2026
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Who Am I (Galatians 1:10) An original song inspired by this week's episode.
While writing this episode, I knew it needed a song. Here it is!
Story
In the Wild West, someone’s reputation could strike fear, get them into the finest saloons, and close banks early. A hard-working outlaw would spend years building and refining notoriety as a mean, ornery, ruthless, cold-blooded, lawless, crooked, merciless, trigger-happy, no-account, yellow-bellied scoundrel. But let him get caught once showing a little kindness, and he’ll be back to rustling chickens and stealing knickers off clotheslines.
That’s why these gun-slinging men and women of ill repute were so reluctant to settle down and raise families. I mean, all Billy the Kid needed was for his kid to tell some other kid how Kid cuddled with him and read Little Lord Fauntleroy at bedtime. Then, quicker than gossip at a church picnic, he’d have the bank offering him a limited-fee checking account. So, to protect their repute, bandits have always been loners.
Occasionally, a person with no ill intentions will stumble into infamy by the sheer act of moving through their day, which isn’t fair to them or to legitimate ne’er-do-wells. Villainy is the sort of thing that should take effort, time, and fortitude to cultivate. So, to have some schmuck earn a reputation by accident goes against the natural order of things.
This is all to say that I never meant to be feared as a rapscallion; it just happened.
My first car was a classic. It was a 1976 Volkswagen Super Beetle in Lime Green Metallic. It had curves—lots of them—character—lots of it—and even a hand-crank sunroof. It was precision German engineering dipped in candy coating.
It was so choice.
One night, my friends and I were cruising the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains in my bad little Beetle. We had Gap Band VI loaded in the cassette player my dad had installed in the glove box. The sunroof was open, giving us a view of the vast, star-filled sky, and warm night air swirled through the cabin, carrying the cool scent of bucolic serenity.
This was one of those rare moments in my high school years when I actually felt like I was okay. Not cool, just okay. Which for a kid who hadn’t fully developed a personality yet and was built like the Hangman guy, wasn’t bad. I was okay with okay.
The mountain road rolled beneath us, and the dark forest on either side had softened into a warm, safe blur.
We talked about life, girls, sports, some other girls, and then got back to girls. The mood was bravado, a little fear, and a lot of laughter.
Suddenly, Eric yelled from the back seat, “What’s that?”
Something had darted from the brush into my path, either on a dare or because it had had enough of life.
I hit the brakes and tried to be a little evasive. But really I was distracted by Eric’s question. For some reason, identifying the creature seemed important in the moment.
It took a good twenty yards or so to come to a safe, responsible stop, and I looked at Eric’s concerned face filling the rearview mirror.
“I don’t know. It was beige,” I said.
“What?”
“You asked what it was.”
“Yeah.”
“It was beige.”
I had run the forest creature over. However, the important thing for all of us to understand is that I had played no causal role in the incident. I was minding my own business, obeying traffic laws, and there wasn’t a crosswalk for miles. The blame, therefore, lay squarely on the tiny shoulders of the beige woodland scofflaw.
I looked over at John, who sat stunned in the passenger seat. Later, I would learn that he had made eye contact right before I made bumper contact. He had formed a relationship and lost a friend in an instant.
Eric spun around to look out the back window, which cleared my view through the rearview mirror.
I will not describe what I saw, but will just say that everyone survived the crash. Also, I was able to positively identify it as a rabbit.
A beige one.
The car's cabin was silent, giving me time to decide what I had to do.
I put the car in reverse.
“What are you doing?” Eric yelled over his shoulder.
John just sat there. Nonparticipation was all he had to give.
I didn’t answer. I started rolling backward, adjusting my wheels to carry out a final act of mercy.
A moment later, we received audible confirmation that the job was done. And that sound would remain on a regular rerun rotation in my head for the next…well, there it is again.
We’ll call it 42 years.
That was the price I was willing to pay for a humane act. But you would have thought I targeted the poor creature like I was a mob bookie short on lunch money.
Eric said a bunch of words that sounded like a hyena giving birth to twins, and John even came out of his coma long enough to say, “You monster.” Then he lit a cigarette and rocked back and forth for the rest of the ride.
I was nonplussed. How could they not see the heroism, the sacrifice, the accurate backup steering? Sure, the world was a hare lighter after the event, but I had had no choice.
An hour later, everyone was home, in bed and crying themselves to sleep.
And that was the end of it.
At least until school on Monday, when I passed Tracy in the hall after first period, and she said, “Hey, Rabbit Killer.”
The rest of that day was a steady diet of “What’s up, Rabbit Killer?” “Way to go, Rabbit Killer.” “Whatcha doin’, Rabbit Killer?”
A smallish friend, Matt, even ran to the side of the hall when he saw me and said, “Don’t hit me, Rabbit Killer!”
And what’s crazy is that, with the exception of Geoff Bogart, I sensed a little respect in everyone’s tone. Plus, two of the girls we had talked about that night called me Rabbit Killer.
I’ll take it.
Thoughts
What happened that night on that country road was just an event. I did my best, with the circumstances presented to me, to do what was right.
What came of it was an unexpected reputation that got me unexpected attention.
And, unexpectedly, it felt good.
I walked a little taller. I actually looked people in the eye instead of at their feet.
It amazes me how quickly I was willing to trade shame for self-confidence simply because people presumed something about me that wasn’t true.
Galatians 1:10 says, “For am I now seeking the approval of man, or of God? Or am I trying to please man? If I were still trying to please man, I would not be a servant of Christ.”
Throughout my life, I can see where I have exaggerated parts of myself or allowed wrong assumptions to stand because they got me laughs, respect, sympathy, or a sense of belonging. But those things didn’t represent my true character. They were simply things I was willing to let people believe.
God knows our true character. He knows the distance between who we are and who we allow people to think we are.
And the harder we work to protect a false reputation, the harder it becomes to have honest relationships with each other and to serve our Savior honestly.
Reputation is the story people tell about us. Character is who God knows us to be.
It’s important not to mix the two up.
And that, friends, is how we keep it bright and hopeful.
Pray
Father,
You are holy, perfect, and just. Your understanding of us is complete, and You know our innermost being. We cannot perform for You.
Help us today to remember whose opinion matters. Help us love others rather than perform for them. Give us peace in who we are and confidence in whom we belong.
In Jesus’ name we pray,
Amen.
Going Deeper
Are there parts of yourself you exaggerate—or assumptions you allow others to believe—because they bring you approval, attention, sympathy, or belonging?
How might your relationships and your service to God change if you were more concerned with who God knows you to be than with how others see you?
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