Day Twenty-Seven: The Rabbit Fur Blanket

Perhaps it was because we hadn’t eaten meat for so long, but Little Black and I devoured the two plump rabbits down to the last bite, roasting the legs and making a pot of rabbit stew without leaving even a drop behind.

At dawn, I headed to the stone pit where we dried salt to add more seawater. The morning air was cool and perfect for activity.

Little Black accompanied me to the shore. Despite its injured leg, it chased crabs scuttling across the sand with remarkable vigor. I watched as it caught several trophies already. It would sweep the crab back and forth several times with its forelegs, then carefully pin it with one paw, biting down when the crab let its guard down, crushing it with a satisfying crunch before swallowing.

In my memory, dogs never ate crabs—supposedly they were afraid of being pinched on the nose. But for the sake of survival, Little Black had learned to adapt.

By the time the sun stood high overhead, the seawater I’d carried had just managed to form a thin layer in the stone pit…

The midday sun blazed, temperatures soared, and sweat began to stream down my forehead.

I was determined not to put myself in danger again, so I stopped hauling water and returned to the hut with Little Black.

I hadn’t had a proper rest in days, and my body was still far from recovered.

With nothing pressing in the afternoon, I decided to take a nap.

For lunch, I served fish I’d just caught fresh from the sea—Little Black was particularly fond of fish soup! It wanted the flesh too, but I dared not give it any, for fear the fine bones might injure it.

The fish simmered and tumbled in the pan. Without a lid, the aroma drifted everywhere, tinged with a faint brininess.

Little Black’s tail swept back and forth beside the fire like a city street sweeper, sending dust and ash flying with every enthusiastic wag.

“Little Black, stop wagging, you’re spreading ashes everywhere.” I coughed but could do nothing about it.

This tantalizing scent, to a creature with such a keen nose, was pure torment. Little Black stared at the bubbling pot as if it feared the contents might fly away in an instant.

Every so often, it would grin, tongue lolling as it circled its mouth, licking from nose to jowl.

It made no attempt to hide its desire—this was instinct. Saliva dripped from its tongue as the fish soup turned a rich, milky white.

I moved the pot aside, and Little Black immediately dashed over, circling my legs anxiously, desperate for a taste.

I stroked its head gently, signaling it to wait.

Using makeshift chopsticks fashioned from two twigs, I picked out the cooked fish and placed it into a coconut shell.

That was my portion—the belly meat, which tended to have a row of long bones. The skeleton was easy to remove, so after picking out the bones, I reserved that portion for Little Black.

Soon, Little Black finished its meal and proceeded to watch me eat, only turning its attention to the fruit once I was done.

Actually, those juicy fruits weren’t bad, just a bit cloying when eaten in excess.

Content and full, Little Black curled up in its little nest—the travel suitcase—and fell asleep.

But as I prepared to nap, my eyes fell on the rabbit pelts.

Four in total—we had eaten four rabbits. Two of the pelts had already been dried, growing rather stiff.

Suddenly, inspiration struck, and I sprang into action.

These two could make a small blanket.

But how? I was stumped again—I had neither needle nor thread.

As I pondered, the leftover rabbit leg bones from last night caught my attention…

“That’s it!” I ran outside excitedly and returned with two stones.

A needle!

Indeed, I was about to fashion a bone needle.

I placed the rabbit leg bones on one stone and struck them with the other.

Cracks appeared, and with continued tapping, the bones split into several pieces.

After careful inspection, I selected a slender shard that was just right.

Now, to polish it.

I rubbed the fragment gently against the stone, careful not to apply too much pressure and risk breaking it.

Such delicate work demanded patience; I must have spent nearly two hours.

The bone fragment gradually took on the shape of a needle—conical, much larger than a regular one, but serviceable.

Next, I needed my Swiss Army knife. Once again, I silently thanked Little Black’s former owner—without that knife, I would have been bereft of so much.

Using the file, I continued to refine the needle. I didn’t drill a hole at the end; instead, I carved a groove around the base for tying on the thread. I’d feared that drilling would crack the perfect piece of bone.

By dusk, the needle was complete—about five centimeters long, a quarter the thickness of my little finger.

The next requirement: thread. I had a substitute in mind—rattan bark, tough, supple, and easy to find.

The hut was draped with rattan. I picked one, and with a light squeeze, the outer layer peeled off in a long strip.

I tore the strip into several slender strands—my “thread.”

I secretly admired my own resourcefulness.

Joined together, the bone needle and rattan thread were a perfect match. I picked up the two rabbit pelts and began to sew.

I had to admit, these pelts were nothing like the ones I’d seen before—hard, pungent, and malodorous, likely because they were untreated. The ones I’d seen before were always soft, smooth, and pleasantly scented.

But my needle proved effective, piercing the stiff pelts with ease.

Soon, the two pelts were stitched together by my admittedly “skilled” hands.

Holding it, I was thoroughly pleased—the more I looked at it, the more I liked it.

At last, I’d have something to cover myself as I slept. It was a bit small, but enough to keep my belly warm.

The other two pelts were still drying; those would be used to make a mat for Little Black.

I discovered, to my dismay, that the lighter’s fuel was completely spent. I tried a few times, but it wouldn’t spark.

Fire was essential to my survival. Without it, I stood no chance.

I was anxious—no matter what, I must keep the fire alive. The pressure weighed heavily on me.

If only…

But there was no “if only.” I couldn’t be certain the fire would always stay alight.

…

That night, I woke more than ten times, each time instinctively checking the state of the fire, afraid it might have gone out…