Little Rabbit Fru-Fru
A crisp, cool night. Half a moon to illuminate the neighborhood. A frosty beverage and a comfortable chair to enjoy it in.
It was Halloween night, and sitting in a chair in the lawn is just asking for trouble.
But since most of the neighbors are Christian types, their children weren’t running around the neighborhood begging for candy (they were at Harvest Festivals at churches, copping feels with the "bad girls" in the janitor’s closet).
(I kid).
Just in case, I had a garbage sack filled with canned goods – none dented – to hand out to all manner of greedy little aberrations. And really, what parent can’t appreciate a can of dolphin-safe albacore tuna packed in water, or a can of low-sodium garbanzo beans for their sucrosed-out little monsters?
Anyway, the girls and I were taking in the world, daydreaming really, when a bunny came hippity-hopping into the yard.
Not a wild bunny.
But a domesticated, lop-eared, white bunny with black spots.
Trin stared at me with a look of shock and awe and let her pink tongue roll over her canines.
Who was I to quash thousands of years of instinct?
“Go!”
She took off like a white, heat-seeking missile. And so did the bunny – toward the other neighbor’s house. And disappeared.
Trin was perplexed. Hell, I was perplexed. Rabbit just up and vanished.
The neighbor came out for a smoke, and I asked her if she had seen the rabbit (I know, strange opening question, but it’s a strange life).
“You know, it’s been hanging around for about a month.”
You gotta hand it to this bunny.
Granted, bulldozing and then paving 24 acres of wooded field has probably tipped the predator/prey continuum, but I live near the river. There are hawks and owls and feral cats and coyote and fox and God knows what else out there looking for an easy kill.
Like a little white, lop-eared bunny with black spots.
“Hell, I can’t even get close to it,” the neighbor said. “Cute little thing, though.”
So of course now I’m totally rooting for the rabbit to stick around.
It was Halloween night, and sitting in a chair in the lawn is just asking for trouble.
But since most of the neighbors are Christian types, their children weren’t running around the neighborhood begging for candy (they were at Harvest Festivals at churches, copping feels with the "bad girls" in the janitor’s closet).
(I kid).
Just in case, I had a garbage sack filled with canned goods – none dented – to hand out to all manner of greedy little aberrations. And really, what parent can’t appreciate a can of dolphin-safe albacore tuna packed in water, or a can of low-sodium garbanzo beans for their sucrosed-out little monsters?
Anyway, the girls and I were taking in the world, daydreaming really, when a bunny came hippity-hopping into the yard.
Not a wild bunny.
But a domesticated, lop-eared, white bunny with black spots.
Trin stared at me with a look of shock and awe and let her pink tongue roll over her canines.
Who was I to quash thousands of years of instinct?
“Go!”
She took off like a white, heat-seeking missile. And so did the bunny – toward the other neighbor’s house. And disappeared.
Trin was perplexed. Hell, I was perplexed. Rabbit just up and vanished.
The neighbor came out for a smoke, and I asked her if she had seen the rabbit (I know, strange opening question, but it’s a strange life).
“You know, it’s been hanging around for about a month.”
You gotta hand it to this bunny.
Granted, bulldozing and then paving 24 acres of wooded field has probably tipped the predator/prey continuum, but I live near the river. There are hawks and owls and feral cats and coyote and fox and God knows what else out there looking for an easy kill.
Like a little white, lop-eared bunny with black spots.
“Hell, I can’t even get close to it,” the neighbor said. “Cute little thing, though.”
So of course now I’m totally rooting for the rabbit to stick around.
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