Hello from Holly.
Listen, I have friends, and then I have friends. You know the italics kind–the kind you text during dinner on the weekend, and they respond, “I’ll be right over.” One of those during dinner texts happened just this past weekend when all my deepest fears came true.
In case it’s unclear, that is a baby rabbit. A bunny, to many, but I prefer not to refer to it in the diminutive, lest I impose any more sympathy for the creature than I already (shamefully) have.
If you read my post last week, you might remember but probably not so let’s review that the beans, both green and lima, were beginning to show signs of rabbit infestation. There were chomp marks, large swaths of openness in the middle of once-full beds, and also tiny little vegetal voices calling, “Help us!” in the middle of the night. (My kids watch plenty of cartoons where the produce talks so clearly I did not make this up.)
On Saturday I put on a podcast, downed the Gatorade, and began to clear out the green bean bed in preparation for fall planting. I worked for almost the full length of a Pop Culture Happy Hour before baby bean eater made the slightest of hops from his hiding spot, catching my attention out of the corner of an eye.
Like I said: this took almost an hour before the offender appeared. This is either proof that Pop Culture Happy Hour is an excellent programme (shout-out Harry Styles–way to land Dunkirk–hope this showbiz thing works out for you) or that this is indeed a very, very small bunny so recently born that perhaps it was not the one responsible for noshing on all the beans as feeding it might still be the responsibility of mama-rabbit if you know what I mean. Yes, this was likely a mere babe of a
Which explains perfectly why I squealed like a grade-schooler and ran inside shouting for my husband.
(Since when do gardening and nature have to cohabitate, I ask? Why does this have to be, like, a thing?)
David played the man card, puffed up his chest, and got close enough to take some pictures of the rabbit for my benefit (and for yours–you owe him BIG), and shooed the little fella out of the yard.
Time passed like sands through the hourglass, we went on about our Saturday business, and hours later I remembered I wanted to put down some fertilizer over the newly planted beds. (Side note… you should know I was totally going to make this post all about fall planting…the rabbits want to take away everything, I tell you.)
There he was. Back again. At the shed. Or likely he never left.
And he was much more still this time, which reinforced the theory that he was likely a very newborn little thing indeed and potentially dehydrated in our heat. Also, since when do I have sympathy for things that eat my whole garden just because they are small? Hello, norovirus, please have your way with my family. You’re welcome here because you are tiny.
It was time to call in reinforcements.
So back to my friend, let’s call her Jessica Rabbit because wouldn’t that be hysterical if her name really was Jessica and she let her kids keep rabbits. HYSTERICAL, I tell you. This friend has four lovely girls who say things like “please” and “ma’am” and “no thank you, I don’t care for a cookie, ” and maybe David and I should ask if they teach parenting classes. BUT, this friend has one flaw: she actually lets her girls keep rabbits.
I’ll reenact the call for you:
Me: EHRMAGERSH YOU HAVE TO GET OVER HERE QUICK THERE’S A RABBIT IN MY YARD AND I CAN’T GET IT OUT AND IT’S GOING TO DIE AND I CANT LET THAT HAPPEN ON MY WATCH EVEN THOUGH I HATE RABBITS AND SORT OF WANT IT BUT I CANT BE THAT TYPE OF HORRIBLE PERSON, AND ALSO IT IS TINY.
Jessica: We were bored anyway and (kid name) has been wanting another rabbit so is now a good time?
Me: NOW IS GREAT AND I WILL CHECK ON IT EVERY THREE MINUTES UNTIL YOU GET HERE AND WHAT IF IT DIES ON YOUR WAY OVER AND I GAVE IT SOME CARROTS AND WATER, BUT IT WOULDN’T TOUCH THEM AND IS THAT REALLY A THING WHERE THEY EAT CARROTS AND DO YOU THINK THE MOTHER IS DISTRESSED AND WHO AM I I HARDLY RECOGNIZE MYSELF.
Friends to the rescue.
Then this happened at their house, and I kind of can’t talk about it:
They named him Gus-Gus.
To wrap up this incredibly uneventful and unnecessarily long story, after much research on Jessica Rabbit’s part he has now been returned to the wild and is frolicking among his other wild bunny friends, doing the things that only wild bunnies do. Heaven help us all. Just keep the successive generations on your side of town.
(If you made it all the way to the end of this I think you should get a cookie. Want one? I have plenty left over since Jessica Rabbit’s kids didn’t eat them.)