Jan 25, 2011

Following Directions, Part 2: Bunny-Petting

For those of you who have read this blog before, you may have been wondering why a) I haven't been writing, and b) why there was a blog in July entitled "Following Directions, part 1," and there has  been no part two.  In reference to question a) the grade schoolers are sucking the very life from my veins, and in reference to question 2) here you go.  HA!  Caught you!  Pay attention!  That was supposed to be b), not 2).

Now, being Foreign, my family has always had a strange relationship with our pets, such as eating them in a stew, for example, as was the case with our pet bunnies when I was a wee lass back in the old country.  Needless to say, it was quite devastating and I have spent years trying to make up for this by being a Friend to Rabbits.

You may remember the epic beginning of my relationship with Ernesto.  I'm sad to say things did not improve from there on out.  After our hot date to a hospital in a cornfield, we decided to stick to a hee-haw theme by going to the County Fair, which is just about my favorite place in the world because I can eat funnel cakes, pat pigs, and go feed baby goats (who usually end up trying to eat my hair) all in one afternoon.

Ernesto and I wanted a romantic afternoon of gazing into each others' eyes and patting cute farmland mammals while whispering sweet nothings into each others' ears over the dull roar of large people in spandex and denim combinations shoving food into their mouths and buying cowboy boots to look more westernish.  It was going to be awesome.

Okay.  This is actually a very short story that I am dragging out because teaching grade school has changed my idea of what is funny from actually funny stuff to fart jokes.  Nevertheless, what is coming up is not a fart joke.

Ernesto and I walked into the rabbit and goose tent, where I was instantly drawn to the rabbits.  I have always felt a sense of kinship with the rabbits, since, you know, I ate my rabbit half-brothers and essentially made them part of me.  Ew.  I raced around between the cages, making cooing noises which are supposed to lead guys I am dating to believe that I have kind maternal instincts and am not the type to, say, eat my pets.

We arrived in front of the cage of a particularly handsome specimen of rabbit, which had a silky gray coat and very soft, velvety-looking ears.  He looked at me through the bars, communicating with me with his liquid brown eyes.

I felt as though I were a Wabbit Whisperer.  I knew his soul.  I knew that I must reach between those bars and give him the love he so richly deserved.

Well.  Clearly this was an unfortunate and unexpected turn of events, but I was not one to let obstacles stand between me and my rabbit-kin.

I surreptitiously stuck my fingers between the bars and buried them deeply into my rabbit-hermanito's coat, mentally changing my name to "Dances With Rabbits," and thumping my hind leg in a sort of bonding ritualistic dance.

Yeah.  Let me tell you something about rabbits.  Apparently, someone neglected to tell me that when they are frightened and unneutered, as, incidentally, this one was, they are well-equipped with a self-defense mechanism.

They can apparently power-blast their urine.

No, I am not making this up.  And on this 95 degree afternoon, while wearing a thin white shirt, I became the victim of rabbit urine-blasting.  My brother-rabbit turned around in a tight circle, aimed his rear end at me, and sprayed me with so much pee that I one could logically assume I'd been the victim of a drive-by horse power-peeing instead.

The next moments were unbearably pathetic.  I shudder to recount them, even now ten years later.  I burst into tears, standing there in a dripping yellowed shirt, shoulders heaving. 

The guys who owned the rabbits simultaneously burst into hysterical laughter, and one of them kindly procured a 4" by 4" wet wipe, which he handed to me and laughed even more loudly as I tried to use it to wipe down my shirt front.  Stupid 4-H kids.  Pillars of the community, future farmers of America, my rear end.  

Those kids are bad eggs.

Bring on the stewpot.

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