The rabbit died.
No, not that rabbit. Old Peter Cottontail crawled up next to our woodpile on the fence line and croaked.
In the heat of the sultry southern Indiana summer, Rabbit stiffened up and began to stink when Husband discovered him.
Husband came inside to tell me of Bugs’ departure from this earth.
Bugs and his friends had been bothering us all summer. A fraternity of bunnies squished and ate our pink geraniums, much to our dismay but to the delight of our 3-year-old son. Son liked to stalk the bunnies in the backyard.
But this was a dead bunny and Husband was not about to move Thumper to his final resting place.
Neither was I.
Because I’m a hospital worker, Husband thought I should throw Flopsy over the fence, deeming it a more clinical experience. That’s a stretch – I work in marketing not surgical intensive care.
Husband said, “Let’s call M.D. for a ruling.”
Our most ardent feminist friend, M.D. has a strong opinion on all issues related to male-female relationships.
She said, “Whoever discovered the dead rabbit in the yard is responsible for removal. It is not a gender issue.”
While Husband and I continued to argue about the disposal, Roger Rabbit was fermenting and ever ready for removal.
Finally husband agreed and removed the body. With all the ceremony a large shovel can signify, he threw that wascally wabbit over the fence into the woods.
Calm returned to the heartland. We finished our Saturday chores and readied ourselves for a night of cable television.
Flipping channels, we found “Night of the Lepus” on TNT. Jackrabbits, multiplying in droves, take over a Texas town.
Shudder to think: are there others?
Written in August 1993, unpublished until now.