A chat with jackrabbit on hot day

It’s been hot.

But that’s what happens here in the Great American Southwest in the summertime.

Every year, big heat, summer.

I’ve spent a few summers here in our part of the country.

I remember my first New Mexico summer, 1990.

About this time now, it wasn’t just hot here, it was blazing hot from west Texas to Phoenix.

It was 120 degrees in Tucson where it was reported the airport tarmac was so hot that as the big passenger jets rolled across it, the tires left ruts in the taxiway.

I was living in Roswell, where it got pretty hot, temps as I’d never experienced before.

And it was that dry heat I had heard about; it was hot but not a bothersome, smothering heat full of humidity.

That first Southwest summer I had a job as a country DJ.

The heat didn’t really bother me at 5 a.m. when I went to work ... the land had cooled down and the air before sunup was refreshing and cool.

It didn’t bother me at work because the radio station owners had sprung for a pretty decent air-conditioning system. Even though there were scorpions crawling around in the light fixtures overhead, it was a good place to be on a hot Pecos Valley day.

After work I’d return to my groovy bachelor pad on the north side of Roswell, flip on the swamp cooler, drop my apartment temp down from about 95 to 85, pour a refreshing libation then sit around and listen to music.

It continued to get hotter.

The day came when it hit 110 degrees in Roswell.

I had gotten off the air and went looking for my pals Wayne and Don around the station.

Wayne supervised things at the radio station, Don was the engineer … the Mr. Fix-it of all things radio at the place.

They were out back having a smoke.

I walked out the station back door into the blast furnace of the day. Even at 10 a.m. it was approaching 100 degrees.

Wayne and Don were having their smokes and staring at one of the satellite dishes.

I looked over at what had their attention.

Less than 15 feet away from us was a jackrabbit sitting in the shade of a satellite dish.

“He doesn’t care we’re here,” I said.

“No he don’t, bro,” said Wayne, laughing. “He’s hot.”

“You reckon he’s got rabies?” I asked. To me it was strange that he sat there while we weren’t all that far away.

“He’s hot, bro,” said Wayne. “He’s hot, he found some shade and he doesn’t care that we’re standing here.”

“Did you offer him a smoke?” I asked.

“He’d probably eat it,” said Don. “Waste of a good cigarette.”

“Whaddya think, little buddy?” I asked the jackrabbit.

“How come you’re sitting there and you’re not even afraid of us?”

There was no answer.

The jackrabbit blinked.

“Just as I thought,” said Wayne.

“What?” I said.

“You didn’t hear what he said? He talks real quiet-like,” Wayne said. “He said, ‘IT’S VERY HOT, STUPID HUMAN.’”

Well, that’s not exactly what Wayne said the jackrabbit said.

But it’ll have to do for a family newspaper.

Grant McGee is editor of The Eastern New Mexico News. Contact him:

[email protected]