My buddy Magnus and I hunted together religiously in the late 90s. One season, every outing we made, it did not matter the intended quarry, he killed a rabbit. Several times a season, we would have a game dinner and the rabbits became the source of much story telling. At the dove opener, he sits down at his peg and who busts out of the brush, but Peter Rabbit. Later, out for grouse, my GSP/DK pointed fur - Magnus took the lead, shot the cottontail in the grouse woods - retrieved to hand. Walking out from the duck blind with a limit apiece, he spies a rabbit 10 yards from the car, bang and his lab retrieves it. So, it's right at the end of legal light... December and I've just shot a fat doe, she's dressed and I'm dragging her to my truck and I hear a shot from Magnus's stand. Figuring he's also got one on the ground, I secure the doe and walk toward his stand (not cel phone texting yet) and I see him on the edge of the field. "Got one down?" "Yeah, Papi, it's right here" - proudly holding up a completely eviscerated fat rabbit. "I successfully missed every major muscle AND field dressed it. Later in January, we had about 10 people coming for dinner of roast venison, duck hams, broiled doves and rabbit confit empanadas, etc... When Maggi arrived, he produced a freshly killed rabbit that he's stunned w/his car on my driveway. "Too late to add this one to the menu?" Quite a topper to our season.