On Friday night I got a call from my friend next door. There was something strange in her backyard that we ought to look at, she said. So Shawn and I tromped over and there munching on some weeds was the cutest little fluffy bunny you ever did see. It was a mostly-baby brown bunny complete with fluffy tail. Not a jack rabbit. This was someone's pet, clearly. In fact, it looked to be about the right size for a baby bunny that was given to someone as an Easter present.
I really wish people wouldn't do that.
So here's this rabbit. We can't just let it hop around the neighborhood. It's going to get picked off by a larger animal or hit by a car.
We three surrounded it and moved in to catch the bunny. I was expecting it to put up a fight, run, kick, something. Not really. I just reached down and grabbed it. It finished munching the leaf that had been working on in my arms, quite unconcerned about its change in situation.
I look at this tiny, soft bunny that clearly needs someone to care for it and Maternal Instinct momentarily takes the reins. Shawn watches my eyes glass over while I coo at the bunny, probably with great trepidation. Anyone who knows me knows that I have all the pet problems that I need with the two cats I already have. I don't need a bunny. I don't want a bunny. But when you've been reproductively mature woman for 10 years or so and still haven't reproduced, your hormones do weird things to you. They get less picky about what they consider a baby. I was standing there thinking of all the reasons why I don't need a rabbit and Maternal Instinct kept piping up, "But he needs you."
It's like Invasion of the Body Snatchers, I'm telling you. All your logic and sense goes right out the window the instant you see something small and soft with eyes set far apart.
So, my friend can't keep the rabbit for a few reasons, not the least of which is her crazy cats which, at least for the moment, are behaving crazier than mine. So I take home the bunny. We take a picture, make a flyer, print out dozens of copies and wallpaper the neighborhood with them.
FOUND
A very nice little brown bunny
For lack of a bunny hutch, we put the bunny in the cat carrier, with a towel, a water bowl, and a carrot.
The three of us (the fellowship of the rabbit) discuss the bunny's fate. We wait. I take the bunny out once a day and let it hop around a bit on the couch. It's quite friendly. Clearly it's handled a lot in whatever home it comes from. It likes people. It likes to nuzzle my neck and sit on my lap. My cat Meeko is not fond of the bunny. She doesn't seem to be interested in it as a predator is interested in prey. However, it's on my lap and that is Meeko's territory. She owns me. I am part of her entourage. This is clearly not acceptable. While I'm petting the bunny Meeko is glaring at it from the corner, humming "Kill the Wabbit" and devising schemes that the Wiley Coyote would be proud of.
The bunny cannot stay. It would ultimately be bad for the bunny. And I really don't want a bunny. Or so I keep telling myself.
On Saturday, a little girl arrives to collect the bunny. It's an escape artist, she says. I look at the bunny and have my doubts. Nonetheless, I'm extremely happy to see the backside of that bunny moving away from my door and down the street.
Big sigh of relief. Meeko reclaims her position as softest thing in the household. We take down the bunny flyers. Life returns to normal.
On Monday night I got a call from my friend next door. We tromp back over to her house and there's the damn rabbit again. This time she found it not munching weeds but her newly planted alyssum.
Arg.
Exasperated sigh. Picked up the bunny, took it home, pulled the cat carrier and the carrots out again. The flyers were retrieved from the recycled bin and ammended:
FOUND. . . AGAIN!
A very nice little brown bunny
The Fellowship of the Rabbit again discusses the bunny's fate. We wait. The bunny hops around on the couch. Meeko plots its grizzly death from the corner. Bunny does not heed her threats and continues to be soft and fluffy.
Last night, a small herd of children arrived at the door. I'm less friendly this time. Yes, I have the rabbit. Please KEEP it in its cage. The herd somberly accepts the rabbit and retreats. I carefully trace the herd back to their place of origin, just in case.
I really hope there won't be any more bunny tales to tell.