In Which Mama Does Not Know BestBunnies, which I have resisted having as pets since Bubba was trying to shove one down my throat every other day. Bunnies, which I have zero idea of how to care for and who scare me a bit with their sharp bunny teeth. Not to mention the fact that I’m not really an animal person despite owning two Labs, one cat, 3 guinea pigs, two fish and one fateful bunny. Yes, a bunny, which my cat, who fancies herself a baby lion and kills at a rate that would frighten me if I considered it too much, was trying to have for dinner a few nights back. The cat, officially Chewbacca Rosalina, (alternately known as Chewy, ChewChew, Damn Cat and Vicious Killer) was batting around the poor bunny like David Beckham and hissing at me every time I got within ten feet. “Get me the broom,” (the ever trusty broom that was an instant solution to any and all animals running amok) I said to the children who were taking turns sobbing over the bunny’s potential death by their formerly beloved pet. Hannah scurried off and I did my best to swat at Chewy with my shoe until she placed the broom in my hand. Chewy ran off when I poked her with it, turning when she was a safe distance away (out of my reach) to sit and sulk, licking her paws as she watched. The children and I knelt by the bunny, who was still and perhaps dead. I held my hand out to shush the wild lamenting of evil cats and dead bunnies. “If she is alive y’all are going to scare her to death with your carrying on.” Silence at that, small eyes intently on her, I could feel them willing her to be ok. Then, her leg twitched and she turned her head to look up at us. Perhaps thinking that Chewy was preferable to these children who would be inclined to dressing her up in doll clothes and pushing her down the street in a baby carriage. “She’s alive, Mama,” Georgie shouted. “Can we touch her?” “Can we keep her?” “Do you think she’s hurt?” “Hush for a minute,” I told them, running my fingers along her fur. Her heart pounding beneath them, she was intact other than her fear. “We’ll take her to Pet Smart tomorrow and see what they say.” I decided, delaying the decision of possession in hope that the Pet Smart employees would nix the idea. “For now, feed her some guinea hay and get some water. We’ll keep her in the cat carrier.” If they didn’t give her a heart attack with their noise, the smell of cat sure would. But there wasn’t much choice. “Clean the carrier out good first!” She survived the night, despite the smell of her tormentor and constant attention from her guardians which made her cower in a corner. “Can I hold the cage in the car? I saw her first.” “Mama, did you know bunnies can be trained to use the litter box?” “That lady down the street lets her bunny hop around the house like a cat. She even lets it go out in the backyard to play.” “Hell no,” I thought, considering the damage from bunny teeth to LAMB purses and computer wires. “We’ll see,” I told them. We were in luck at Pet Smart, the small animal expert was in and agreed to look at Fluffy (Hoppy, Michelle or Cottontail depending on which child you asked). She hummed and hawed over her, stopping to look at us on occasion with what I could only characterize as barely concealed hatred. “You do know this is a wild animal,” she said, staring at me. “You shouldn’t have touched her. Wild creatures are always best left in the WILD.” I wondered if it was better to let the cat slaughter her but I kept my opinions to myself. “You’ll have to keep her now. Or take her to the animal rescue league.” “We want to keep her…Don’t we, Mama?” Georgie asked with so much enthusiasm that the small animal expert looked at me with something akin to sympathy. “In that case,” she sighed, “Mama will have to feed her every three hours. None of you must touch her for an entire week. You must be quiet around her or you’ll give her a heart attack and she’ll die. And if she isn’t eating by tomorrow evening, take her to the shelter.” “We will,” they agreed. “We’ll be quiet and good. She’ll be so happy.” I sincerely doubted she’d make it the night but four against one, she was ours. At home later on the couch, I nursed her with the tiniest bottle and felt almost optimistic. She was sweet and what could it hurt, really. Back in the cage, belly full, hopping around a bit until a war ensued over the remote. It didn’t even cross my mind about the bunny until Nick called out. “Mama, I think something is wrong with the bunny and it doesn’t look good.” Sure enough, there she was…limp and quite dead and the children crying rivers of guilt stained tears. “We killed her…” “You shouldn’t have let us keep her, Mama,” Georgie cried. And for once, I think she was right. | 
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