Having a bunny is interesting, hilarious, patience-building and fun. Last night I came home to find that the bun had escaped it's cage (which is, until this evening when my cage gets delivered, actually a big laundry basket). We haven't been able to catch it since, but it runs into and out of the basket by jumping up on picture boxes my son put there for stairs. Very intelligent. A co-worker suggested I get a large butterfly net until little NinnyMuggins gets easier to catch. But his/her/it's cage comes tonight, so maybe I can lure it in there and quietly close the door...
Having a bunny seems to be affecting my husband, too. Behold the genius conversation we had last evening:
Hubby (singing): Little Bunny Foo Foo Hopping through the forest, picking up the field mice and bopping them on the head.
Me: Why would he do that?
Me: Why would the rabbit bop field mice on the head?
Hubby: I don't know, he was just playing
Me: Well, it's not very nice.
There are so many things wrong with that converstion, I hardly know where to begin.
1. My 6'1", 220 pound hillbilly husband singing Little Bunny Foo-Foo
2. Same husband not only answering my stupid question, but defending Bunny Foo-Foo by making up the fact that he was "just playing."
3. Me taking the motherly approach and wanting Bunny Foo-Foo to play nicely...
I've said it a hundred times: If there was someone outside our window listening to half the conversations that go on in our house, they would have us committed.
Fifty Years is a long time
15 hours ago