Bunny
Battles
For my
name's sake will I defer mine anger,
and for my
praise will I refrain for thee,
that I cut
thee not off.
-- Isaiah 48:9
One year in early June, my beloved
said he didn't know what to get me for my upcoming birthday. But I knew! I went
out and got it myself: a GUN. Why? Because I was just so mad, I wanted to BLOW 'EM
ALL AWAY!!!! Yeah! THAT'S what I was going to do.
Don't worry; not people! My targets would be all
those pesky WABBITS that kept destroying my precious, expensive, hybrid hosta
plants in the back yard.
Whoever told you gardening was a
nonviolent hobby? Hunh.
I'd tried brushing our furry dog and putting dog
hair out there all the time. I tried sprinkling cayenne pepper on the leaves.
But minor detail: we have a sprinkling system, and it does rain occasionally in
spring and summer. Like, constantly! Those solutions were nullified within
minutes of application.
I tried an expensive repellent spray from the
garden store, walking back into the house cackling, "Nyahh ahh ahhhhh! THAT'll
teach 'em" . . . but the next time I looked outside, there was a bunny
absent-mindedly chewing on the very plant I'd sprayed minutes before.
The hardware store offered a live trap. But
then, from an ethical, love-thy-neighbor standpoint, I would have just been
transferring my problem to somebody else wherever I would release the critter.
Plus, how could I keep up with as many bunnies as we seemed to have around?
Older, wiser gardeners said the only thing you
can really do is put up chicken wire fencing. What did I want, though: a
stalag? Or a pastoral back yard?
It came down to putting up with them, or taking
them out, Rambo-style.
So I got the pellet gun and took target practice
on an orange juice can. Got pretty good at it. Deadeye, in fact! So, on the
fateful day, at dusk, their primeau garden-destruction time, I went out on the
back porch to lay in wait.
Aha! Here came a fat, furry rodent,
munching with guiltless gusto on a (sob!) specially variegated hosta. Frowning
face set like flint, I took aim.
But I couldn't shoot. My wrist
wobbled. I curled my lip and tried. But I couldn't do it.
Was it because he was so cute?
Nooooo.
Was it because my husband had
helpfully commented, "You'll probably just . . . YOU know . . . WOUND him. Then
you'll have to go right up to him and . . . YOU know . . . take a hold of him
by the ears, and . . . (demonstrating ultra-grotesque neck-wringing action)."
Ewwwwww!!!!!!!
But no. What stopped my murderous rampage was
this worry:
What would my CHILDREN think?
We all know we should be kind to
animals. Show them mercy. Model tenderness for all of God's creatures. It's one
of the mandates of parenthood.
It gets tricky, though, when you're up against animals
that are causing you stress, especially four-legged terrorists in the garden.
But oh! do kids learn from how we treat animals. And that's good. Challenging,
but good. We have to model mercy . . . and mercy requires sacrifice.
The other day, our little Maddy found
a baby bunny in our back yard. My trigger finger itched as she loved him, cuddled
him, and begged to keep him. She named him "Jack Bunny."
Well!
(As the other Jack Bunny would say. . . .) I could only think about the other
42,000 brothers and sisters this little rabbit must have, all getting ready to
decimate my flowers in the near future. But oh, well. He WAS cute.
We eventually convinced her to put
him back, behind the iris, and kept our dog Sunny away. Next morning, Jack
Bunny was gone! Hooray!
Minutes later, I was on the phone on
an important call, and saw Sunny cavorting in the back yard . . . WITH A LIMP
AND LIFELESS JACK BUNNY IN HER MOUTH!!!! She shook him violently, back and
forth! She tossed him into the air and caught him! She rolled over on her back,
lazily munching on his mangled corpse!
On one hand: PAYBACK! YESSSSS!
But on the other hand: AAAIIIEEE!!!
If Maddy saw this. . . .
I zoomed outside . . . and whew! It
was only a fake squirrel, a dog toy. My plants may die, but Jack Bunny Lives!
Darn it. †
