I have a sneaking suspicion that the funniest thing in my week just happened five minutes ago. When searching for a stock image for this blog post about yard critters, I typed into the search bar “a group of small wild creatures,” and the first image that appeared were four young girls standing at a bar wearing bachelorette accessories).
Last spring two fatalities occurred on my property. Two bunnies died on my watch, one adult, and one baby. The adult died in my flower garden, most likely the victim of a cat or a fox.
But the death of the baby remains a mystery.
For some reason that day I had gone into my sons’ man cave, a place I never, ever, ever, ever enter anymore. I stopped going in there a long time ago, for the same reasons I don’t patronize escape rooms, laser tag rooms, paintball fields, or Satanic ritual dungeons.
I don’t get it. I don’t want to get it. I will never get it. Leave me out of it.
On this particular day, all three of my boys were away living their lives, and I must have needed to get to the sprinkler system, or maybe my golf clubs. The door to their cave was slightly ajar, as my three sons have never shut a door or turned off a light in their entire lives. And there on the floor, next to a decorative glass vase filled with dirty water was a tiny dead bunny. It was so small that it looked like a stuffed animal. Distraught, I sent the picture to a friend, called her and asked her what I should do.
“Mary, um, that’s not a vase.”
“What? The glass thing?”
Silence.
“No,” she said. “Are you serious?”
Well, I’m not naïve, it just didn’t occur to me at the time. Nevertheless, I took a screen shot of the dead bunny next to the apparatus and sent it in a group text to my sons.
“Way to go. Murderers.”
A flurry of texts ensued.
“WTF?”
“Mom, what is that?”
“Why are you in there?”
“Yeah, why are you in there?”
“What are you implying?”
“Yeah, what are you implying?”
“Is that real?”
“Yeah, is that real?”
“What do you mean, calling us murderers?”
“Uh, yeah!”
And finally:
“Is that staged?”
“Staged?” I texted back. “You think that’s what I do for fun, stage rabbit murders? No, it’s not STAGED. Perhaps this bunny ingested something he shouldn’t have?”
Silence. Then:
“Are you trying to pin this on us?”
Me:
“I’m simply pointing out that because you left the man cave door ajar, a baby bunny got in there and is now dead on the floor of your Weed Den. I’m not implying anything, I’m stating outright that it is directly and absolutely your fault a mother bunny is waking up today with one less baby bunny.”
Disgruntlement followed, and plans for removal and burial of said bunny followed soon upon that. Stoic boy came home to remove bunny, and buried him in a respectful place in our garden, deep enough so he could not get unearthed by a nocturnal critter looking for a midnight snack.
Here’s the problem:
I have no bunnies this year. My ducks aren’t even here. Some squirrels and requisite birds, but where is my menagerie?
WHERE IS EVERYONE?
Did the bunnies eat poison? Were we directly responsible for their deaths? Has the critter world lost faith in us? Did a memo go out to avoid our property? Am I not their favorite anymore?
Where are Mr. and Mrs. Duck?????
Part II tomorrow.
