Today did not go as planned. But really—do they ever?
I had the whole day mapped out. I even called Teri and told her I’d swing by later. Ha! Future Me should’ve laughed right then and there. Because the sun finally remembered that Buffalo exists, and I decided to take advantage of this rare cosmic event by doing a little yard work. You know, clear out the plant beds, feel productive, pretend like I’m the kind of person who “gardens.”
I started in one corner, got into a decent rhythm, and then—scurry. SCURRY. Something darted to the other side of the plant box like it had somewhere better to be. Naturally, I levitated six feet in the air, did the Ninja Spider Dance, and shrieked, “Mice!”
So I did the logical thing: kicked the side of the plant box a few times. Not hard! Just enough to ... encourage ... relocation. Then I went back to weeding. That’s when the real scurrying started. Plural. Movement in every direction. And as I again jumped like I was without the benefit gravity I thought, “Oh fantastic, it’s not a mouse—it’s a whole extended family of long-tailed nightmares.”
But then I saw them.
Tiny, trembling, absolutely adorable baby bunnies.
Not mice. Not rats. Not chaos incarnate. Just the fluffiest little panic nuggets to ever be born in a raised plant bed.
I panicked (obviously) and tried to cover them back up with the weeds I’d just yanked out. Like that would undo the trauma I’d just inflicted. Then I backed away like a polite houseguest who opened the wrong door at a party and accidentally walked in on something sacred.
Here’s the thing: I am now deeply worried that I scared off Mama Bunny. Will she come back? Or did I just commit accidental bunny manslaughter via misplaced yardwork?
So now I’m here staring out my kitchen window looking at the half weeded garden bed with a spiraling sense of guilt. Isn't gardening fun?
Heavy sigh.
