I am walking home from Mary Anne’s coffee shop when I see the rabbit. One of those black and white pet-shop bunnies they used to call Dutch rabbits. I’d headed to Mary Anne’s after spending most of the rainy, bleak day waiting for my muse to arrive. That’s what I called it, or her, or whatever that thing is that makes me write. My muse. I was hoping for an insight, an idea, a flash of . . . something. But nothing had arrived. 

At the coffee shop, I’d surveyed the other customers, most of whom looked as vacant as I felt. Still, I began to turn over ideas for stories. What would it be like to wait tables there? What sorts of people came in every day? Oh, right—people like me. Was there a story here? Not that I could register. Paying my bill, I scanned the newspapers heaped up by the cash desk. Nothing there, either. 

It’s been more than six weeks since I sent off my last piece of writing, and closer to six months since I’ve felt that deep glow of enthusiasm that can keep me at the keyboard way past any reasonable person’s bedtime. I’ve tried all sorts of things to wake the creative spirit, even meditation. But I’m not much good at that, so I took long walks in the country instead. When the weather got too awful for walking, I started watching more movies, reading new books, giving myself room to ponder. But nothing seemed to wake my muse.

The winds are still gusting, though the rain has let up a little. And less than ten feet away from me now, the poor rabbit is cowering by the front wheels of a parked car. I can see its fur is drenched—and it’s shivering, too. It has to be somebody’s pet. What is it doing outside?  

I move a little closer. It doesn’t move, but it doesn’t seem to be hurt. I used to have a rabbit when I was a kid, so without even thinking, I bend down and carefully pick it up. The rabbit struggles a little, but I can tell it’s used to being held. I tuck the soaking creature close to my chest to warm it up, and pretty soon I can feel it snuggle into my sweater. 

I ring the doorbell of the nearest house. They must think I am completely nuts—I mean, wouldn’t you, if someone came to your door in the rain, holding a rabbit? Anyway, the rabbit doesn’t belong to them. I roust a few more people out of their Sunday night torpor, but no one claims the wet little bunny. I guess I’m taking it home with me.

At home, I put the little chap in a cardboard box and get some lettuce and stuff from the fridge. I set him—her—I decide the rabbit is a she—on an old towel to do a more thorough job of drying her fur. She doesn’t object. We look at each other for a while. 

I’d better put out a few ads: “Lost a rabbit?”

I put up a notice near where I found her, pinning it to a phone pole. Not a single reply. A week later, I decide I’d better give her a name. 

Obviously she has to be named Cynthia, after my childhood rabbit. 

I move Cynthia to a bigger cardboard box thickly lined with newspaper. I wonder: Can I fit a hutch out back in the tiny space I call the garden?

I begin to feel the joy I’d had as an eight-year-old caring for my first pet. I sing little songs to Cynthia when I clean her box or feed her lettuce. I find myself picking the leaves of any dandelions I spot on my way to the shops, because rabbits really seem to like dandelions, and Cynthia is no exception. In the evenings she scrabbles on the side of her box, asking to be held. When I pick her up, she sits on my lap, perfectly content, sometimes for hours, twitching her nose and nuzzling my hand. I am falling in love all over again, sensing my eight-year-old self standing beside me, smiling—no, beaming—at me.

A few days ago, I was sitting at my desk, the computer before me, when I decided to type out a few thoughts about the warm feeling of knowing Cynthia is near. And I realized—the muse doesn’t give us ideas for stories. Ideas come from the head, but it’s the heart the muse engages. 

Cynthia has the run of the house now. She uses her cardboard box as a litter tray only, and she loves to sit on the couch. She doesn’t like TV much (too noisy), but she loves to follow me around the kitchen. She sits on my lap when I write, and I like to think she approves of what I’m typing. She is uncomplicatedly loving. And everything I write is filled with that knowledge. Everything I write is a love note to this astonishing, magnificent, ordinary world that I so often used to take for granted.