Bunnies are soft

It is winter time. A time to frolic in the snow. A time to look out the window and see soft warm bunnies leaving footprints in said snow and nibbling on grass.

It got super cold for a week or so. At least it seemed super cold to the kid that lived 20 years in Phoenix and is still adjusting to a Northern climate and a season called winter. That is Winter with a capital W. 10F, snow on the ground and the wind tearing through you. Beyond cold. Heavy ski jacket and sweaters and hats and gloves and scarves and eyes watering and nose running and teeth chattering and still cold. The only time you leave your house is to commute to the office and back home. The locals like to say, this is not so bad, wait until it goes below 0. I can hardly wait.

Bunnies have fur. Lucky little critters, they can hop around and not feel a thing.

I enjoyed waking up and seeing the bunny tracks. I would call over the young children to catch a glimpse of Peter Rabbit while we all sipped our hot cocoa and prepared to tackle another day.

The fire was roaring, the furnace was blowing, the bunny was frolicking, all was well with the world.

Time slipped on. I had not seen the bunny for a while, maybe he had found a nicer neighborhood to hop around in.

It warmed up. Just a little. Into the 40s. Now I understood. When the locals told me that 40F would feel like a heat wave, I finally comprehended what they meant. It was cold, but not AS cold, and now I understand Einstein and his theory of relativity. Relatively speaking, it was not that cold. And this my friend makes all the difference as to whether you stay indoors or venture outdoors.

With the youngster in tow we went outside. The snow had melted. The air was crisp. The sun was shining. I only needed a light jacket. Compared to the week before, it felt almost tropical. Under the deck, we caught a glimpse of our bunny friend, he was taking a nap and enjoying the warmth.

I told the 3 year old to go closer, but be careful, don't scare the bunny - the bunny might run away.

We crept toward the bunny. He did not stir. Was he sleeping?

No. Of course not. It really was bitter cold the week before. Colder than I had realized. Bunny fur apparently cannot do that much against the onslaught of mother nature.

The bunny was dead.

The 3 year old was sad.

I got a garbage bag. And a shovel.

The bunny was frozen solid. The only angle available to me to try to pull the bunny from underneath the deck with the shovel was not working. This meant that attempting to pick him up in that manner was futile. I would have to risk contaminating my obsessively compulsively clean hands with dead bunny goo.

Using the garbage bag as a dead bunny cooties prophylactic, I reached underneath the deck, and pulled out the carcass. He was soft and furry. And stiff and unyielding.

As I gazed into his open bunny eyes that bored into mine, I kept waiting for him to start scratching at me and run off to his bunny home. His eyes accused me, asking me why could I have been so cruel? Why didn't I give him some bunny shelter and some bunny food? Didn't I know that it was cold outside?

I stuffed him into the trash bag and into the trash container. I thought about burying him, but I think a hefty bag and a landfill is a happier ending to his happy bunny life.

Who knows. I may be reading a post shortly that was authored by my garbage man, where he recounts his story of finding the thawed bunny remains in the trash bin and how they affected his life.