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Our daughter just walked up the driveway, mail in hand, wearing the expression of someone who’s seen things. Nature things. She solemnly announced, “There’s a bunny in the driveway.” Pause. “A dead bunny.”
Cue dramatic music and my inner devastation.
Living up here on the ridge is usually a Disney movie. Deer frolic, birds sing, squirrels hold board meetings. I’ve waxed poetic (and often) about the joy of coexisting with nature. But lately? The bunnies have gone rogue.
This summer, they multiplied faster than bad reality shows. We went from “Aww, look, a bunny!” to “Oh dear, the Bunny Union Local #413 is meeting on the front lawn again.” Our security cameras constantly send alerts like we’re filming America’s Next Top Rabbit. I half expect to hear a voiceover:
“Can you give me fierce, Flopsy? Good, now tilt the ears. Perfect.”
Still… I didn’t want any of them to go out like this. So when we discovered that one of our fluffy freeloaders had met an untimely end—via car, foot, delivery van, or other unidentified moving object—I was crushed. Poor little guy. I feel partly responsible. I may have been irritated by their ever-growing numbers, but I didn’t mean that kind of population control.
Rest in peace, driveway bunny. You were part of the chaos, part of the magic, and definitely part of the footage.