Two Stories Involving Rabbits and Myself
(which you may have heard me tell, but you won't know til you read, will you, sucka.)
When I was a little kid, my next-door neighbor Erica was a classic Bad Example Friend. She was a year or two older than I was, and thus, she knew the answers to everything. Looking back, I'll surmise that I was probably her bitch. Erica and I went to different schools (Catholic School for her, as she needed more "discipline", while I was free to raise hell in public school), so after school and on weekends were the only times we hung out. One lovely sunny weekend, we're walking down our street to the playground when Erica spots something small and furry huddled up in the grass next to the sidewalk. She knew better than to attempt to pick up some strange animal, but hey, Dana's fair game, right? So she commands me: "it's a bunny! Pick it up!". Somewhere in my brain, the happy Disney Animals resided, and the logical thing for a Disney Animal to do when picked up by a happy little girl is to cuddle up to her and make her even happier. Logically, I then assume this is how all animals behave, and it's ok to pick them up.
But not this animal. Oh no.
This particular ball of fuzziness felt my little grubby hand touch it and SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!- out come the bat wings. The bat, upon being disturbed, smacked into my head and then probably flew off into some tree somewhere. I don't really know, because everything after the SCREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE is a blur of tears and freaking out and running home.
That ain't no bunny, Erica.
I used to babysit for a mortician's kid when his parents were at work. They had a English Springer Spaniel named Molly. Molly had her own doghouse and smallish dog-run in their backyard, next to the kid's swingset. (Oddly enough, I can remember the dog's name, but not the kid's. Oops.) I ususally let Molly out when we were playing outside. On this particular afternoon, as I unlatched Molly's gate, she went flying over past the swingset and over to the fence. She dug a bit at the ground, and "squeak", she picks something up and trots back over to me holding it. Now, the normal thing for Molly to have in her mouth and this point would be a squeaky toy (of which the yard had no shortage), but not on this day. This day, she'd plucked a tiny little baby bunny from its nest, probably killing it immediately, and wanted to show me. Eew. The kid is standing next to me with a confused look on his little face, wondering what the hell's going on. I was not about to wrest a dead bunny from the mouth of a spaniel, so I just shut her back in the cage rather quickly and hoped that the mortician and his wife wouldn't find out of my crime against the Cute Defenseless Animal.