bunny suicides

I was on the phone with a kind of casual friend and something I inadvertently said triggered her charitable instinct. "My husband will be home for lunch in about half an hour," she said. "Please let me send him over to help you." I was in my backyard at the time, hunting for the newspaper, and I was cranky.


Absolutely not, said I. I positively refuse to be one of those single women who wear out her friend's husbands with her household needs. I. Will. Not. Do. It. I was climbing on my soapbox when something caught my eye in my peripheral vision. I turned around for a better view. And then I looked yet again, aghast.


It was a bunny. A baby bunny. In the air. A baby bunny being tossed from one Lab to another, with each one taking a big chomp and then hanging on until the other one came to wrestle it out of their mouth. Before I knew it, another baby bunny ran across the yard and Dee Dee, the fattest dog in the northern hemisphere, nailed it as it scurried. I had no idea she could move that fast for anything that didn't involve Milk Bones. Now I had two dogs tossing two bunnies, and I, who can take indescribable grossness in humans and yet cannot stand it in animals, was screaming for the kids to stay inside. (I feel that I have to point out that The Most Perfect Dog in The Universe was in the house for the entire episode. Gee. Like I'm surprised. Hello. Perfect).


And as I stood there , after the fact, shoveling dead bunnies into the trash with kids shrieking at dogs who were truly only following their instinct, I regretted my quick refusal of help. Because I've gotta tell you...I could have used it.