We have a, um, situation with bunnies in our neck of the backwoods burbs.
There are TONS of them, and they breed like, well, like bunnies.
They aren’t shy about coming into yards, and they love a good planter for snacking.
They also eat grass. This made them the arch nemisis in the comic book-like tale of The Mr’s adventures in yard care.
It hasn’t been uncommon for him to drop off midsentance and go shooting out of whatever door is closest, waving his arms and shouting “GET OUT!! DAMN RABBITS!” when he spoted one of the furballs on the lawn.
His arsenal includes pepper spray (spray on plants, not at bun buns, we aren’t those people, ) and a vat of coyote pee the size of a pony keg, among other things.
He has been in the trenches against Bugs’ brethren like his life depended on defending every blade of grass.
Until last week. Then I got the picture above from him on my phone.
And another.
And another.
This is “Grayton” (according to The Mr,)
the little bunny who divides his time between our drain pipe and that infamous ugly bush in our front yard.
He is now my husband’s favorite topic.
First thing in the morning, The Mr goes to the front door an searches for the bunny.
Don’t know where my husband is? Try the front yard, he is probably watching Grayton snacking on the grass in the shade.
I caught him leaving a portion of carrot by the drain pipe.
😐
Stockholm syndrome much?
We are going to be running the G rated version of The Bunny Ranch by next year.
I need a lock for my produce drawer.
Reluctantly Suburban 