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In case you haven’t picked up on it, there’s a shadowy underbelly to my little Disney-esque cottage life. Sure, the birds chirp and the breeze gently sways the trees—but sometimes nature stops singing show tunes and reminds you it’s actually nature, red in tooth, claw, and beak.
Take our extremely fertile bunny population. For a while there, it was a bit of a situation. Flopsy, Mopsy, and their 800 cousins were frolicking around like they had a trust fund. Soon enough, however, the circle of life began to close in. Enter: the hawks.
Two of them, to be precise. Evil. Feathered. Vigilantes. One day, I looked up and realized we had become their all-you-can-eat rabbit buffet. The first time I saw one swoop down like a fighter jet and scoop up a fluffy snack, I screamed like someone had stolen my credit card. And that hawk? He didn’t care. Not even a nod of apology.
Now it’s a near-daily assault. I swear these two villains—who I’ve mentally named Hex and Havoc—have developed a taste for slow-moving woodland creatures and high-stakes drama. Nothing I do scares them. I’ve tried slamming every door on the property like a hormonal teenager. I’ve clanged barn doors like I was starting a cattle drive. They lift off their perch, give me the bird equivalent of side-eye, scream like a haunted saxophone, and then go right back to hunting.
Willie, ever the voice of unhelpful calm, says, “It’s fine. We still have bunnies.” Sure, maybe. But it used to be that our security cameras caught a rabbit rave every hour. Now? Maybe one bunny shows up every few days, looking nervous and traumatized. Willie likes the hawks, because they allegedly keep the mice, snakes, and other undesirables in check. I suspect he just admires their work ethic.
I kind of miss the crows. At least they just yelled at me without eating the neighbors!