The monsters are in my garden right now, nibbling the roses, happily munching on tender shoots, chewing everything they can get their dirty little paws on–their ravenous teeth clicking, clicking.
They chew, they smirk, they fix me with their evil rabbit eyes.
They’re so arrogant they stuff themselves until their bellies hang out and it’s time for a snooze. I’m lucky that I don’t have a hammock. They’d probably slap me around, kick me out and take over, weakling that I’ve become.
Last year, you might remember that I proudly told you how I brained one–inadvertently–with a long toss and a lump of clay. That kept the rest of their kind clear of my produce and flowers.
They didn’t have the guts to even think about trying it again.
Ahhh. It felt good to be a man. Friends called me McGregor. And I walked tall and proud.
When the newspaper was deluged with angry letters and messages from bunny lovers–“Loser. How’d you like to get hit with a lump of clay? Rabbit Killer! Loser!”–I laughed a hearty laugh and enjoyed my lettuce.
But now I’m as helpless as a cloistered nun at a NOW convention, as weak as a liberal in a stadium full of Promise Keepers. I can’t even open my mouth because I’ve been boxed in at home by a venomous witch named Beatrix Potter, propagandist and bunny-hugger.
If you’ve got little children, or if you’ve heard the story of Peter Rabbit, you might know of the vicious Victorian lady with her bedtime tales. She’s ruined my life.
Every time I see one of those furry beasts doing their worst and feel the urge to grab a rock, the mom and grandmother start telling the children about Flopsy and Mopsy. The women talk in sing-song voices to the kids about how much we should love the bunnies and all God’s creatures.
Then they snicker over their shoulders at me when the kids aren’t looking.
It happened again Sunday after church. We get the kids out of the car, and I spot two of the rodent ringleaders–too fat to run–calmly sauntering down the walkway into the garden. I looked around for a weapon, anything to throw.
The women cooed to the children.
“Benjamin Bunny and Peter Rabbit were afraid of the mean Mr. McGregor,” their mother said. “Let’s read the story when we get inside.”
“We love bunnies, don’t we? They have babies too. Who would want to hurt them?” grandmother chimed in, cynically using the children against me like a politician angling for a big tax increase.
The women laughed. And I stood dumb, a coward, as the Mongol hordes crossed into civilized lands bent on destruction, with Beatrix Potter urging them on.
There’s no road open to me now. Speak up for the truth, take righteous action and it’s the gulag for me. If I brain another rabbit, no matter if it’s an accident, I can call the basement my home. That’s a wifely edict. And grandma threatens blackmail.
But if I keep my mouth shut, the rabbits will continue to pillage like the thugs they are, destroying my work, chewing and chewing and staring me down.
There are simple pleasures in life. White Sox baseball, a can of cold Hamm’s beer on a hot day, a good book, a thick steak, the occasional scotch, fishing. But there’s one other: gardening.
It was time to appeal to the wise man at the garden store. I thought he might suggest some alternatives: a border of marigolds or a plastic snake. My plea was for non-violent, limited escalation.
He gave me a look with cop’s eyes.
“Forget it. You’re not strong enough for gardening, not anymore,” he said, “You’re already broken and the weeds haven’t started popping. By July, you’ll be in a nut house. The rabbits have won. They’re in your head, man. They’re pushing you around. Don’t you see?
“They’re out there laughing at you, you’re talking marigolds like a wimp. And if you don’t have the will to do what must be done, stop now and save yourself some misery. Try something easy, pal. Get a goldfish.”
Other gardeners within earshot laughed or looked away. A lady with impatiens offered a weak smile of pity. The guy with the onion sets curled his lip in contempt.
I hung my head in gardener shame. It got worse when I got home. My sister-in-law called to brag that her husband Ed was in his own backyard with a slingshot. I slammed down the phone, unable to listen. But at least there’s one man left in the family.
Once, the rabbits ran in fear.
Now they laugh and get fat, their eyes full of ridicule.
Oh, the pain.
