It was near the end of the third week that I was forced to award my wife the $100 prize. That's how long it took her to finally convince the tiny cottontail rabbit to take a slice of carrot from her hand.

It had not been easy. The cottontails around our house have a flight distance of about 20 feet. That's the distance they allow a potential predator to approach before fleeing. After six years of living in our canyon home, I was sure the flight distance would decrease as the cottontails learned we meant them no harm.

But it didn't. Perhaps we humans are so much bigger than cottontails that our size is frightening. Perhaps that was why my wife's sitting down on the porch steps was such a good strategy. In a sitting position, she is less than half as tall and probably less intimidating as a result.

In the beginning, she tossed the carrot slice to the rabbit. Each day she lessened the distance of the toss until she was finally placing the carrot slice at arm's length from where she sat. The rabbit came closer and closer to her with each passing day.

I am quite sure that her verbally coaxing the cottontail to take the carrot was part of her success. There is something very calming and soothing about her relatively higher, softer voice. Whenever she spoke, the rabbit stopped nibbling on the grass, sat up and looked at her.

In order to win the $100, my wife had to get the rabbit to take the carrot from her hand while I was watching. So it was on that late June afternoon, just after the sun had set behind the San Jacintos, she told me I had better get my money ready.

From behind the front door I watched as she sat on the front steps and began calling softly to the bunny. Instantly it appeared from beneath a shrub about 10 feet from where she sat. She continued her verbal coaxing while revealing a bright orange slice of carrot held between her fingers.

The little cottontail was 10 feet from where she sat on the steps but quickly lessened the distance as it loped to her in brief spurts then stopped 3 feet from her hand.

Then, after making sure everything was safe, it slowly walked over and took the carrot from between her fingers.

That was the beginning of what has become a daily ritual for the three of us. Except for an occasional brief vacation, early each evening my wife and I sit on our front steps, call to the bunny and watch it unfailingly arrive to receive its carrot. At first we thought that we had somehow trained the little cottontail to come to us. We soon realized we were confused.

It is the cottontail who has trained us. We buy carrots at the store, bring them home, slice them up and unfailingly deliver them. We are spending all the money and doing all the work. The only thing the cottontail does is show up on time and maintain an exceptionally appealing appearance. This includes properly maintaining its light brown fur, keeping its tall ears pink and erect and looking at us with big, brown eyes.

A series of nose wiggles doesn't hurt either.

Jim Cornett is a desert ecologist living in Palm Springs.