28 May 2013
The folks who lived across the street from me had bunnies — two very adorable floppy white bunnies who never stayed in their bunny house but would instead hop around in the yard and look disconcerting, like two random pillows. Not wrong enough for alarm, but wrong enough for a “…are those bunnies?”
So one of the bunnies ran off/got eaten by something, and then there was only the one, whose name was Stella. Then the people sold their house, and they left Stella at the old house for a few days while they were fixing her new bunny house at the new place. The new people were hanging out in the yard the night they closed on it, and Spike and I were walking by so we stopped to chat.
Lady: So…the bunny? Is it…ok? Just hopping around the carport and all?
Me: Oh yeah! Stella’s fine.
Lady: Well, that makes me feel a little better, but it’s still stressing me out. I don’t want to be responsible for the bunny.
DEAR READER: THIS WAS FORESHADOWING.
The next day I was opening the front blinds and saw two random dogs hanging out in the driveway across the street. No collars. Then I noticed something in the yard 6 feet away. Something white. Fluffy. Motionless. A bunny, or a plastic bag, perhaps escaped from a Katy Perry simile? I texted my next-door neighbors: “There is something kind of deadbunnylike in the yard. I’m scared. Go look at it.”
“Y’all. Seriously, check out the deadbunnything.”
“Maybe it’s a bag.”
“Prob not a bag. Still lying there.”
“Ok, I went outside and it’s definitely the bunny.”
Then I started thinking about the new people who would be coming over to their new house in the morning, ready for their new adventure, and while they probably aren’t weirdos who see the world as a place ripe with symbol like I am, it would be gross as the least to find a dead bunny in your yard. So I resorted to an actual phone call to the neighbors next door, since they hadn’t responded to my 87 deadbunnyalert texts.
Me: STELLA IS DEAD IN THE YARD!
Me: The bunny. Across the street. You know, Stella? Hop hop? It’s dead in the yard.
Neighbor: Why would you call and tell me such a thing?
Me: Because you’re from the country!
So it turns out that she is very sensitive, despite growing up on a farm, and so her partner was designated dead thing scooper upper. I provided a box, along with the kind of moral support one can offer from inside the house at the window. She had kind of a time getting the back legs in.
[Sidenote: years ago, Mrs. Floon called me in a panic because the dog she was dogsitting brought in a dead rat. A really big one. At first I couldn't hear her and told her my phone was fucked up. Then I realized I was holding the receiver upside down. My solution was that I would not be able to pick the thing up, but that I COULD provide a box to place over it.]
So the bunny was put in her box, and lo, the box was duct taped closed for easy pickup by the old neighbors, and the sensitive farm neighbor was still mad so I gave her some powdered donuts as an apology. (Spike, by the way, was oblivious to all of this, except he DID notice that his favorite Sitting Box was missing.) Then a few weeks later one of the neighbors asked if I had a box about yea big and I asked if there was another dead bunny, and then one of them said, “I forgot about the bunny. I have to go have diarrhea now.”