There is, in our back yard, underneath our deck, a rabbit. A tiny wee lump of bunny. Put your hands together, cupped, so your wrists meet and your fingertips brush against each other. Our bunny would fit in that space, and she would sit there and quiver, with eyes obsidian bright and fur so velvet-rich and soft it looks like the physical representation of a baby’s breath.
The other day Clay and the boys were out in the back yard, putting new bark down around the flowers. I’d been helping too, but I’d wandered off in search of some water or something shiny, I dunno. Anyhow, when I came back to the scene of the work, all four of them were standing there, staring. At the lawn, I thought.
“We have a bunny, living under our deck,” whispered Tre.
I turned and followed their line of vision, and there was the bunny. She nibbled on grass, she hopped a bit, she quivered.
All of my great big thundering man-beasts, from Clay right down to Raphael, were transfixed. Look at the bunny.
Looooook at iiiiiiit!
All of this was well and good. The bunny under the deck made for hours of crevice-sniffing entertainment for Carmelita, who raced back and forth and snuffled until I was certain she was going to end up with splinters in her nose.
We were bunny enchanted.
I went out to the garden this evening and saw spinach looking like this:
When it HAD been looking more like this:
And now I’m wondering: just HOW WRONG is it to kill tiny, quivering bunnies?