The bunny

The Easter Bunny lives with us. It turns out he lives in a den beneath the deck that was the former residence of the groundhog, also known as Winston the Whistle Pig, who had zero consideration for my morning meditations on the patio last summer. What a racket.

I have learned a few things about the Easter Bunny. He’s not as shy as you’d think. He makes spontaneous appearances at all hours of the day and night, as if to remind us that he likes the place but has no interest in chipping in for his portion of the rent, so there.

He doesn’t carry around a basket of chocolate, which is quite disappointing. I feel like I could forgive a lot of misgivings, like not paying rent, if chocolate was involved. Some Cadbury Creme Eggs would go a long way, just saying.

It appears the Easter Bunny is single, too. His snowy footprints indicate he is enjoying the comfort of a bachelor pad beneath the deck. It probably has video games, a flat screen and a Denver Broncos team flag on the wall, with an ugly couch left behind by Winston, who left in a hurry when he overheard the Carpenter and I discuss an unpleasant eviction plan. Good riddance, Winston.

As a child, I was convinced the Easter Bunny wore a sharp tweed sport jacket with leather patched sleeves over a fine collared shirt, and a stylish cap with holes for his beautiful, tall brown ears. I didn’t question why he didn’t wear pants (I’ll take that up with my future therapist). I believed he was a dapper fellow, distinguished with etiquette and elegance. A jolly lad. Educated in the Ivy Leporidae Leagues, he spoke with sharp consonants and rolling vowels; a storyteller of the finest order. 

In my imagination, the Easter Bunny was polite and agreeable to all. The twinkle in his eyes reflected a playfulness that made everyone want to be around him. He always had a basket of chocolate treats and coloured candy eggs. His hop was more of a skip, because he seemed to almost dance as he moved about. Gosh, he was a swell guy.

The rabbit under my deck is clearly a distant relative of my childhood version of the Easter Bunny. It’s hard to believe they are in the same gene pool, really. Either that, or my adult imagination is lacking the creativity to see the diamond in the rough.

All I know is, this bunny hops about like he’s been hitting Winston’s moonshine. It won’t be long until he starts canvassing for lady bunnies, but he looks like a lover-and-leaver type. I’m thinking of posting a sign outside his abode that declares that he is a freeloader. The girl bunnies will still love him, because they’ll think they can fix him, but at least I’ll know I warned them.

It’s not that I don’t like this new version of the Easter Bunny. I’m sure he’s an alright guy. If he continues to sublet Winston’s apartment, I’m confident of a quieter summer at least. I am just disappointed that he’s not as sophisticated as I envisioned. And no chocolate. Guys, I cannot stress this enough. 

For Easter, I’ll make an effort to get to know him. We’ll have tea together on the porch steps. But if he doesn’t bring chocolate, I’m posting an eviction notice. 

Cadbury Creme Eggs or hit the road, Jack. It’s that simple.

WriteOut of Her Mind