Kill the Wabbit

Mark has a thing about bunnies, and I'm not talking Playboy.  Er, at least I don't think I am.  Anyway, where was I?

Oh, yeah.  Mark and bunnies.

I'm pretty sure Mark was born with his mom's gardening gene, because, ever since I've known him, he has had a thing about plants.  And, peripherally, bunnies.  Specifically, bunnies that eat his plants.

"A story of frustration and defeat and despair.  Of dreams dashed."  These are Mark's words, spoken just now, as he asked what I was blogging about.  (Now I'm starting to think that maybe he does have a thing about Playboy bunnies. . . . ) He also said I should quit calling them "bunnies."  "They're rabbits, just like a stomach is a stomach and not a 'widdle tummy'."

Whatever.

Mark's battle with Bugs and company took a turn for the worse a few summers ago when the two of us were enjoying a little crossword battle on the patio.  At one point, we both looked up from our papers (mine much more filled out than his, by the way, but who's keeping track?) just in time to see a towering  Loosestrife jerk madly back and forth.  And, just as suddenly, at the hands of a tiny lumberjack, one final "whack" from its bunnicular bicuspids and the whole plant just toppled down.  WHAM!  Right in front of us.

I swear to God I heard a whispered "timber!"

Since then, there have been wire cages, live traps (successful last year, considering there are now six relocated rabbits doing it like bunnies at Woods Park) and, last weekend, even talk of borrowing an air rifle, which I immediately pooh poohed, imagining backyard neighbors Wayne and Pam looking out to see Mark aiming in their general direction some morning.  Our reputation is shaky enough without going all Duck Dynasty on them.

For some reason this year, the trap is basically worthless, acting more like a Kwik Shop where young rabbits pop in for a cheap snack and a pack of Winstons. And the cages are like highway on-ramps to the latest produce stand. As for the gun?  Thank goodness the gun is still at our friend's house.

And the bunnies--er, rabbits? Well, it's like a Bacchanalia back there--a mammalian frat-house party, complete with dancers and debauchery.  They cannot cram the plants down their gullets fast enough.  I'll be surprised if we aren't labeled a party house by the cops pretty soon.

Where's Elmer Fudd when you need him?!