They're Not Called Bunny's Best Friend for a Reason

A few weeks ago, hubby almost mowed over three baby bunnies that were in a nest burrowed into our backyard. He came into the house telling me about his find and that he’d almost taken their lives on a sunny Saturday afternoon. Upon hearing the lawnmower, one of the bunnies jumped out of the hole and made itself known. “Yo, buddy! What the frig? We’re like 5 days old. Cut the freakin’ mower already,” the bunny seemed to say. This bunny was clearly born in NJ.

Hubby reassured me that the bunnies were all fine and we took Monkey Man out into the yard for a real-life lesson in bunnies living in our backyard. Whatever that means. How the hell do you take care of wild bunnies?

We stayed out in the backyard for a while with the bunnies, as the three siblings curled into one another. Even though we had no clue what to do for them, we enjoyed sharing the time with Monkey Man and letting him experience a little piece of nature in sub-plot suburbia. Each time we visited over the next 2 days, we never let our dog, Walt, out with us so that we did not draw his attention to their nest.

On Monday, I arrived home from work to a frantic Monkey Man yelling to me from the backyard. He was in the yard with hubby’s parents and Walt. Hubby’s parents and Walt, all huddled near the nest.

“MOMMMMMMYYYY! Walt’s eating the bunny! He’s got one in his mouth!”

I started screaming at Walt to drop the bunny. No yelling in the world would make Walt drop that poor, sweet rabbit. That bunny was to Walt what the chocolate variety is to me on Easter morning. Ain’t no letting go of the bunny. He practically swallowed him whole. As I stood far away gagging and convulsing (I can’t even see road kill on the street, I begin to shake and I even close my eyes while driving the car) my father-in-law proceeded to tell me in front of Monkey Man that Walt ate all of the bunnies.

Now, Monkey Man was only clued in to the assault and murder of one bunny. I “shushed” my FIL so as to protect Monkey Man from the evil, heinous crimes of his dog. Wasn’t it enough that he already knew that Walt chewed the life out of one? Did he really have to know that the dog was a serial killer and his M.O. was clearly cute, infantile rabbits with velveteen fur?

“Mommy, there are no more bunnies in the nest,” Monkey Man stated matter-of-fact, blue eyes wide waiting for me to give him an explanation.

I delivered. My brilliant reply, so as to protect my child from the harsh realities of life and the cruelty of his wild dog that sleeps in our house, was “The other two hopped away. They got scared and got the hell out of Dodge before Cujo here could enjoy them for dessert.”

Really, Walt. Enough with the life lessons.